Her heart flipped suddenly. The memory of the man outside the door howling over a dead body came rushing back to her with chilling clarity. She had to leave this place! The man in the next room was a killer! Maybe he was even part of the gang that had kidnapped her. For all she knew, he could be their ringleader, the man they answered to. Either way, he was dangerous. She had seen with her own eyes the result of his violence. A sob caught in her throat as she thought of the poor victim, bloody and slashed apart by this vicious stranger. She could be next! Her long nightmarish ordeal was not over. Like a horror movie, it had merely changed locations and actors. She was still not safe.
Brook fought with the baggy sweat pants and managed to pull them up while sitting by lifting first one side of her rear and then the other. Her sore muscles reminded her of the strain she had endured. She tried to stand and was immediately punished with a blinding hurt that shot from the bottoms of her feet up through her thighs. She cried out.
“Hello? Are you alright?” the man called from the other side of the door.
“I’m okay,” she answered, biting her bottom lip. Her heart raced weakly, and she panted from fear and from the sheer effort required not to weep. She had no choice. She would have to play along until she found a chance to escape.
“I can’t figure out how to flush,” she said, trying for a diversion to buy time. She didn’t know what followed the incident in the forest after she saw him cradling the dead body. Try as she might, she could not recall what happened next. She simply woke up here in this man’s house.
“It’s a composting toilet.”
Silence.
“I’m coming in to get you,” he said. Hearing no protest, he opened the door. Brook stared at him like a frightened doe. “You don’t flush.” Showing her the bucket of peat moss, he explained how the composting toilet worked.
He picked her up and carried her back to the bed. Her arms were around his shoulders and she couldn’t help but to inhale his clean musky scent. She had been wrong about his hair, she thought. It was long and wild, but not dirty. The closeness made her uncomfortable and she looked away, but not before she noticed the shiner he was sporting. He must be a real rabble-rouser, or maybe his last victim fought back. The thought sent a chill up her neck.
“What happened to your eye?” she asked, trying for a casual tone.
“You,” he stated simply. “You socked me.”
“Me?” She wondered if he was angry with her. If so, he didn’t show it. She could hardly believe his words. “I’m sorry; I don’t remember doing that.”
“You were scared. Don’t worry about it. It’s no big deal.” Gently, he sat her on the bed and she pulled her arms away.
“Who are you?” Brook asked in a small voice.
“My name is Lance.”
“I thought your name was Gilbert,” she blurted. Now, where had that come from?
His laughter made her cringe. “No, no. Gilbert’s my goat. I’m Lance.”
“Oh. Well, I heard…something…I don’t know.” Her thoughts were muddled. Then feeling an odd need for courtesy, she continued, “Thank you, Lance. My name is…”
“Brooklyn. I know,” he interrupted her. His smile was there and gone almost before she saw it. “Brooklyn from Denver. I took a peek inside your purse. I wasn’t snooping, by the way; I just wanted to find out who you are.”
“That’s okay,” she said, not sure she believed him and not really comfortable with him going through her purse. But what could she do about it? Nothing. Maybe he had been looking for the money and credit cards Jase had taken.
Her arms shook as she eased herself back against the mattress. She hated being so helpless. She hated even more the weariness that fell over her once her head hit the pillow for it left her vulnerable. “Can I have my purse back?” she asked timidly, raising her head. It became critical that she have the bag with her, a need that bordered on desperation.
“Of course,” he said. He retrieved the purse from a shelf and placed it into her hands. She clutched it to her chest like a baby. Lance pulled the blankets up over her, covering the purse also. She sighed her relief and relaxed a little.
“I want to go home,” she said as waves of drowsiness threatened to engulf her. “Please let me go.”
“I wish I could do that,” Lance said, pity softening his voice. “But we’ve got nearly a foot of snow outside and it’s still coming down. We won’t be going anywhere for a while.”
She glanced toward the windows for confirmation, but they were covered by heavy interior shutters. He was probably lying to her, trying to trick her. Confusion still fumbled around in her brain, skewing her perceptions.
“I just can’t think why I’m here,” she said sleepily. “How I got here.”
“It’s possible you have a concussion,” he replied. “It’s going to take some time to get your thoughts organized. That’s the way it is with a head injury. You’ve been badly hurt.”
“Did you hurt me?”
Shocked that she would think such a thing, the denial formed on his lips. But before he could answer her, she slipped away into slumber again. He tucked the blanket around her and pushed her dirty hair away from her forehead. He would need to wash that hair soon, he thought. For now, it was time to clean and dress her wounds again. He went to the stove to stir the stew, and then gathered his first-aid items.
Nursemaid Lance, he thought wryly. Poor woman. I feel so sorry for her. But, damn, I sure wish she wasn’t here. How am I going to get rid of her without drawing attention to myself?
Chapter 23
Brook inhaled the savory aroma of food simmering. She was warm and comfortable, her familiar aches and pains dulled to the point of disappearing. Looking down, she was surprised to see Lance at the end of the bed tying each of her legs to a sturdy wooden bedpost. The rope was scratchy and chafed against her skin. She tried to sit up but felt as if heavy weights were holding her down. She realized she was bound at the wrists, and a rope stretched across her chest pinning her to the bed. Panic struck her and she struggled against her restraints. Her body was unresponsive, her cries faraway and faint to her ears.
“What are you doing?” Her words were slurred; her mouth would not cooperate. She was drugged.
“Oh, just making sure you can’t move,” Lance said in a friendly voice. “Those feet are infected. They’re going to have to come off.” He reached down to the floor and held up an impossibly large hunting knife. It glinted from the glow of the lantern on the bedside table.
Lance ran a finger along the length of the blade, testing its sharpness. “Probably should use an ax, or a saw, but I don’t feel like going out to the shed, so I think we’ll just make do with this. It’ll take a little longer, but just bear with me. We’ll get through it.”
“Oh god!” she cried, her heart slamming painfully in her chest. Adrenaline surged through her in an electric wave. “Please don’t cut off my feet. Oh god, oh god! Please don’t!”
He wiped a rag across the bottom of one foot and it exploded in pain. Showing her the cloth, he said, “Look.”
It was covered with bright red blood and sickly yellow pus. She screamed again and he thrust the soiled rag roughly into her open mouth. Tossing her head from side to side, she gagged on the slimy mess.
“Oh, come on,” Lance cajoled. “It’s no big deal. You’d think I was going to cut off both your legs, for chrissake. It’s just your feet. Don’t be such a crybaby." He smacked his lips. “Hey, I've got a great idea! I’ll add them to the stew! I never waste a good piece of meat.”
He howled in glee, and shook his head, tossing his long hair around like a madman.
“I just love this part,” he cackled as he lifted the knife. “It’s what I do best.”
Chapter 24
Brook came awake with a scream, startling Lance who stood at the table, buttering a piece of bread.
“Brooklyn?” Lance moved towards her, still carrying the knife.
“NO!” Brook s
creamed hysterically. “NO! Don’t cut off my feet!”
Lance stopped several feet from the bed. “What? What are you talking about? I have no intentions of cutting off your feet.” He stared at her for a minute in confusion and then relaxed. “You must have been having a nightmare, probably triggered by the earlier episode when I treated your feet. You’re fine!”
Brook’s breathing slowed; she realized that her legs weren’t tied down and that the knife Lance was wielding was a butter knife still smeared with some of the yellow substance. “Oh my god! What a horrid dream. It was terrible. Terrible! I don’t even want to think about it.” The dream had been so real, she was shaking.
Brook struggled into a sitting position, moving her purse to her side. Lance went to the kitchen area and traded the knife for a cup of water. He placed it into her hands and she lifted it to her lips. I’m so thirsty! I’ve never been so thirsty in my life. She downed the contents in a few gulps.
“More please?” She held the cup out to him, her hand trembling slightly.
“In a minute.” He gazed at her and she involuntarily shrank back.
“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he said in a quiet voice.
“I’m not,” she lied. A dizzy spell hit her. Holding very still, she waited for the feeling to pass. Lance kept staring at her, making her uncomfortable.
“I’d like you to take a pill for me,” he said. “It’s almost midnight and I need to get some sleep. I’d worry less about you if I knew you weren’t suffering. Now will you take this pill for me?”
What choice do I have? Brook thought bitterly. He could overpower her and force it on her whether she wanted it or not. Maybe it was poison and would kill her. Maybe she wanted to die anyway. Better to die of an overdose than slashed to bloody pieces like his last victim. Maybe he would kill her in her sleep and she wouldn’t have to feel the pain of dying. She spoke none of these thoughts, merely nodded.
He went to the kitchen area and came back with half a pill and more water for her to wash it down. The cup shook in her hand, but she drank it dry before handing it back to him. He took the mug then hesitated, standing over her. She tried to ignore him as she settled back into the soft mattress.
The next thing she knew, the man was back at her bedside, raising her head from the pillow. She didn’t remember falling to sleep, but she must have.
“Can you sit up?”
“Yes,” she said as he helped her into a sitting position. “Is it morning?”
“Very early in the morning,” he answered. “Not even light out yet.”
Brook felt a wave of self-pity at her situation, her pain, and her frailty. It was so strong it brought new tears to the surface. She tried to swallow past the lump in her throat.
“I want you to take some broth,” he told her. “It’ll help you get your strength back.” He sat on the edge of the mattress and reached to the bedside table for a mug.
“No!” she cried, not wanting him close and not wanting whatever he was offering. She remembered with horror the dream about her feet. Then, worried that she might anger him, she continued with what she felt was a logical argument, “I don’t know what’s in it.”
“Just broth,” he replied, his eyes sympathetic. “Regular old homemade chicken soup minus the noodles. Water, chicken, a few vegetables, and some seasonings. I’ll take a sip first so you’ll know it’s alright.”
He filled the spoon from the cup and tipped it over his upturned mouth. She felt herself salivate at the mere sight of the golden liquid.
“See?” he said. “It’s good.”
She nodded, and he began spooning broth into her mouth. The experience was almost an orgasm of taste to her tongue; she was hungrier than she knew. The rich warm broth with its salty flavor and appetizing smell was better than the finest meal she had ever eaten.
“I can try to feed myself, if you don’t mind,” she ventured tentatively.
“Okay, good.” He placed the mug in her hands. Her arms felt weak and sore, but the trembling had subsided. She took a few spoonfuls of the delicious concoction, then laid the spoon aside and drank the rest from the thick rounded edge of the heavy mug. And still, he sat there on the edge of the bed. She wished he would move.
Handing the cup back to him, she lay down again and pulled the covers up to her shoulders. Finally, he got up and carried the dishes into the kitchen area. She breathed a sigh of relief and rolled painfully to her side, facing the room. She didn’t want him sneaking up on her. Her eyelids grew heavy and she drifted off again, the warm cozy sound of a crackling fire mingling with her dreams.
Chapter 25
Unwilling to take any chances with this hunt, Lance opted for his rifle instead of his usual crossbow. He pulled on a coat and trooped out into the snow. As he made his way to the clearing he watched the snow-covered ground for tracks, but the flakes were coming down with ferocity now and would cover any traces of his prey. Thick snow hung heavy from drooping branches and a wet chill permeated the air. The sky was gray as lead.
Lance took up a position behind a fallen log with a clear view of the area where he’d left the organs from his goat. The organs themselves were buried under the snow. He hoped this wasn’t an exercise in futility, but something sparked inside him. Anticipation, a knowing of sorts that he couldn’t name. As he waited, he wondered about Brooklyn, hoped she wouldn’t wake up frightened to be alone. Oh, hell, who was he kidding? She’d probably be relieved to find him gone.
Thoughts of Ellen had been plaguing him since he had found the woman. Not at all because Brooklyn reminded him of Ellen. No, they couldn’t be more physically different from each other. It was just the nearness of a woman again. A woman who was not well. A woman in close proximity, relying on him, needing his care. Whether she wanted it or not was another matter.
He always tried to repress memories of Ellen. His grief had not been as intense since coming to the mountain. It had been muted, pushed far into the background. Now, with Brooklyn’s presence, the images kept flooding back over the dam of resistance he had so carefully built. Ellen’s dark eyes flashing at him over some joke. Ellen’s feet in sandals, with her crooked little toe and silly purple nail polish. Ellen tossing their nephews into the water at the lake, their squeals of joy breaking her face into a wide smile. And then again, Ellen, weak, frail, and unresponsive under white sheets.
Lance shoved aside these painful thoughts and focused on the clearing in front of him. Low and slinky, the cat made her wary approach, head turning side to side. He moved his eye to the sight and took a bead on her head.
The shot split the air with a loud crack and the cat dropped. Lance stood slowly and watched it for a few minutes. Normally he would skin the animal, but today he wanted to get back to his cabin. That desire combined with his disgust for the cat’s destruction of his goat prompted Lance to do something out of character. He left the dead cat for the scavengers.
Chapter 26
Brook tiptoed down the aisle, shelves of dusty books on either side of her. The rows were long, and telescoped off into the distance. She looked to her side and through a gap in the books realized she could see into the next aisle. She must be very quiet. Two men were talking, their movements furtive, their voices hushed. One of the men shifted and turned toward her. It was Clark! She started to call to him, but something silenced her, some impulse. It was important for her to remain unseen. The other man looked up at Clark and with a gasp, she recognized Benny. Clark handed something to Benny, something small. Benny held it up to the light before pocketing it. It was a key. She backed away, inadvertently knocking several books off the shelf.
Both men turned to peer at her through the gap in the books.
“Brook, honey!” Clark said. “What are you doing here? I thought you were shopping.”
“That’s your wife?” Benny asked, an expression of exaggerated surprise on his face. “Then how come she’s not wearing a wedding ring?”
Brook turned to run, but her leg
s wouldn’t work.
“My rings!” Brooke mumbled.
Lance looked over at her from his chair by the fireplace. He had been working on something small, metal. It gleamed a little in the firelight. Laying the object on the end table, Lance rose and approached the bed.
“What?” he asked.
“It was a dream,” she answered, her head clearing. How many hours had she slept? She felt disoriented.
“Want to tell me about it?”
“I can’t remember.” She frowned. “But it was important. I wish I could remember.”
“Just relax and maybe it will come back to you,” Lance suggested, standing awkwardly beside the bed. “I think you said something about a ring, if that helps.”
“My rings. My wedding rings are gone,” she stated sadly.
“I didn’t take them, Brooklyn,” Lance said.
“I know you didn’t. They did.”
“Who?” His eyebrows were raised.
“Jase. Those men. The ones who had me.” She rolled over, turning her back on him.
“I’m sorry, Brooklyn. Is there anything I can do?”
“I just want to sleep.” Her voice was muffled. Lance stood for a moment, shifting from one foot to the other, not knowing what to do. Her breathing became regular and he realized she had dozed off again. So, she’s married. Why did he feel disappointed? It didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter less. He returned to his work.
Several times throughout the day, he roused her enough that she could take water or broth. She never seemed fully awake during these times, and fell almost immediately back to sleep. Before Lance went to bed that night, he carried her to the bathroom. She woke up enough at that point to take care of business, swallow a couple of aspirin, and drink a little juice with some broth. It was the longest she was able to stay awake thus far.
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