by Lonni Lees
On the opposite wall from where she lay, there was a small window. Outside the window stood a tall pine, its branches creaking in prophetic moans against the wind—as if they knew that death—or something worse—lay in wait. Yellow-white bolts stabbed downward, their light flickering across the room.
Then she saw him.
He was standing next to a fireplace. Watching her.
It was Charlie.
(Nobody fucks with Charlie Blackhawk, he’d said.)
She remembered.
She fought desperately against her restraints as his tall, dark form walked over to where she lay. He leaned down, exhaling his sour breath. She tried to turn away. The ropes abraded her skin as she fought them. Savage pain shot through her every nerve. She tried to scream but couldn’t. She turned her face to the window, preferring the thunderous storm to the terror who hovered over her.
“I’ll remove the tape,” he was saying. “You can scream if you want, but nobody can hear you. There ain’t nobody here for miles except for you and me.”
She turned and looked into his eyes. She knew that no one would hear her screams—and she knew that Charlie Blackhawk had taken her to the edge of a dark world where no one dwelled but the two of them.
“You promise to be good now,” he said, ripping the silver duct tape from her mouth. It stung like blazes but she refused to react.
She took a deep breath.
“Cretin!”
He reacted as if she had slapped him—hard, but he said nothing.
“When my father finds us you’ll be dead meat,” she threatened, unable to come up with anything better to say.
“You have no father, Lucy Mae. No father and no mother—you only have your Charlie, and he’ll take good care of you.”
“I don’t want you to take care of me. I want to go home.” She pulled at her restraints, then spit on him, spraying his face with her saliva. Slowly, Charlie raised his hand to his face, wiping off her spittle…then put his hand in his mouth. He sucked the saliva from his fingers and smiled at her. He wasn’t at all like the quiet, polite cowboy from out of town that her mother had invited to her birthday party. Meggie had asked him to their home out of kindness, but it was as if this stranger had turned into somebody else. Someone evil. He was creepy, nuts…deranged.
Sabrina sensed that defiance would be useless against her captor. This time she wasn’t just mouthing off to the Magic Man on the safety of a busy Hollywood street corner—it was easy to be brave there. She was facing a madman on his own turf and didn’t even know where that was. Or how far away she was from the safety of her home. Or what he wanted with her. They were sequestered in a dark corner of nowhere and they were the last two people on earth.
Outside the storm raged.
Sabrina had never considered the idea that twelve-year-old girls could die. Not like this. Not until now. A child’s innocent fantasy sees the world as a forever kind of place and they see themselves as indestructible. But they can fall out of trees or get cancer or get hit by cars—or cross paths with the likes of Charlie Blackhawk. Sabrina’s heart pounded as she realized that, before this nightmare could end, one of them would have to die. Either Roboscout or the bedbug. It was just a matter of odds—and those odds weighed heavily in Charlie’s favor. He was huge and he was strong. Much stronger than she could ever be. And he also had the advantage of knowing where he was—and what his plans were. It wasn’t much of a contest and she was scared.
Buddy, she thought.
“Will you be a good girl now?” Charlie asked.
“Yes, Charlie,” she answered. “I’ll be a good girl now.”
The rain pecked out a solemn eulogy against the window.
The dream awoke Amy Hamill. She was surprised to be in her own bed. Daddy must have put her there but she did not remember. The room was dark. As she slipped from the bed, she noticed that she was still in her play clothes.
Amy left her bedroom and went downstairs.
Her father was in the study, going over legal documents. Amy stood in the doorway. Jerry smiled tenderly at his daughter. “Come over here,” he said, setting his work aside. She walked over to him and climbed up onto the safety of his lap. She hoped that his hugs would erase the nightmare, but they didn’t.
“The bad man has her and it’s dark and there are bugs.”
“It was only a dream.”
An overpowering sadness slipped through Amy. She relaxed her arms, allowing them to fall onto her lap.
“Yes, “ she said. “It was only a dream.”
Jerry looked down at his daughter. It was then that he saw the welts on her wrists. He lifted her hands, turned them over. “What are these marks?” he asked.
Amy looked at them, bewildered.
“It was only a dream,” she repeated.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
It was well after midnight when Meg Stinson pulled into her driveway. She had tried to change her flight to that night, but was unable to get one until tomorrow. She had tried to call Betty several times earlier in the evening, but there had been no answer. Betty must have hit a movie or something after taking Sabrina to the airport. Meg had wanted Betty to join her at a little jazz club on Ventura Boulevard. It would have been more fun in the company of her best friend. After four futile phone calls trying to reach her, she gave up. The music was good and so were the drinks and her sense of time just got away from her.
The sky was dark with no stars. There rarely were in the city, for a million temporal lights extinguished them. Meg thought about Connecticut. She remembered the night sky that belonged to her as a girl, shimmering jewels tossed recklessly across a black velvet backdrop, glittering white, silver, blue, red—each one a distant sun in a faraway universe, reminding her that she was no more than a speck, but a miracle all the same. Tomorrow she would fly back to her yesterday—to see the sky and inhale the fresh air. And to share it all with Sabrina. She would reunite with her past and try to erase the worst of the interim years. Could there ever be forgiveness without apologies? Betty had said never to apologize.
Meg turned off the engine. The house was unlit. Betty’s car was there and she always left a light on but just this once she must have forgotten. Meg walked to the door and heard the telephone ringing, ringing, ringing. She ran into the house, through the darkness and into the kitchen. She fumbled blindly for the phone and picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“You should have told me that you changed your plans.”
“Mother? Is that you?”
“I’ve been waiting here at the airport for hours. This is just too inconvenient, Mary Margaret. The plane arrived on time and she wasn’t on it. You should have told me.”
“Of course she was on the plane,” Meg said. “You just didn’t recognize her. Have her paged….”
“I did. Several times.”
“This doesn’t make any….” As Meg shifted her weight her foot slid out from under her. She fell to the floor with a painful thud, the receiver dropping as she fell. “Oh shit!” she said, fumbling for the cord.
“Mary Margaret, are you there?” Her mother’s voice bubbled, as though surfacing through deep water.
Meg leaned on one hand, pushed up from the floor, regained her balance, then slipped again. “Shit,” she repeated. The floor felt wet and sticky. Betty or Sabrina had spilled something and had neglected to clean up the mess. What the hell was it? Ketchup? Pancake syrup? She tried again to regain her footing, pulled herself up—
“Mary Margaret?”
—fumbled through the darkness for the telephone cord, found it—
“Are you there?” Her mother’s voice cracked through the wires.
—reeled in the cord, clutched the receiver, held the phone to her ear.
“I’m sorry, mother. Are you still there? I fell. It’s dark in here. Sabrina was on the flight, you must have just….”
“I’m telling you that she was not!”
“Hold on a minute so I
can turn on the light. Maybe you’ll make more sense if I turn on the light.” The flat of Meg’s hand swept along the smooth surface of the wall, searching for the switch. She found it, clicked it on. Light blazed through the room like a flare. Meg blinked—focused—saw Betty on the floor. Just sitting there. Staring at nothing.
The knife,
and the blood!
And her own bloodied hand clutching the phone. She dropped it. The receiver swung on the end of the cord, knocking against the wall in a frantic heartbeat. Meg ran through the house, turning on lights, searching for her daughter.
Meg screamed Sabrina’s name, over and over.
The house was empty.
Dead.
She raced back to the kitchen—the phone—incomprehensible, confused words.
She hung up and dialed 911. More disconnected phrases. Hung up.
The phone rang again.
The telephone was still ringing when the police arrived. They found Meg sitting on the kitchen floor. Her head was tilted to one side, nestled against the dead woman’s breast, her hair matted with blood. She was holding her friend, comforting her, and gently and sweetly rocking her in her arms.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Daybreak had arrived with a cover of mammoth clouds that soon dissipated. Blue jays scolded the new day. Liquid sunshine stained the sky, filtering through the copse of pines outside the cabin.
But here the sunlight held no promise.
Charlie Blackhawk stood in the cabin’s kitchen, coiled in frustration, cursing as he surveyed the food supply. The cheese was molding. The bread was stale. He had forgotten to pay the utilities. He opened the kitchen door and hurled the loaf outside. Birds squawked and scattered, their wings beating a frantic retreat upward to the safety of the sky. He slammed the door.
Charlie stood, staring at the food, then began humming. Nothing would ruin this day. He was fixing his little sister her ‘welcome home’ breakfast and he was happy. He removed a dirty steak knife from the sink, wiped the blade across his jeans, then dug mold spots from the cheese, absent-mindedly popping the green pieces into his mouth and eating them. He placed a handful of crackers on a plate, topping them with perfectly cubed cheese squares. He smiled, proud of his handy work—Lucy Mae would be pleased.
Sabrina had slept fitfully. Despite the lit fireplace, the night was cold. Her bones ached. Her lower back ached. Sleep came hard with bound wrists and ankles. It had been impossible to relax while Charlie Blackhawk paced in the darkness. The storm had passed sometime during the night, but the blackness remained—the dark, evil presence of the man who had brought her here. She looked around the room and the room was her prison. She made a mental note of every detail…the stone fireplace, the window to its left, the pine branch scraping mournfully against the dirty window pane. Mottled patches of sunlight clung to the walls. An old Girl Scout calendar hung on the wall held by a rusty nail. The girl in the calendar photo had Sabrina’s red hair but she stood in the sunshine, free and smiling. Sabrina was not free nor was she smiling. She was being held hostage in an unknown prison. On her left was a heavy door and another small window to the left of that, its view smothered by carelessly tacked newspapers, brittle with time. What secrets was he hiding here that he felt the need to block the window? He had said there was no one for miles. What was he afraid of? Could he really be afraid of anything? She doubted it.
Sabrina lowered her eyes to the bare and worn wood floor. To the right of the fireplace was the straight-backed chair where Charlie had sat, and beyond that she could see into a cramped kitchen. The room where Sabrina lay smelled of dust and dirt and decomposition. There was little furniture in the room, just the basics. A chair, the sofa bed, an end table and a dresser. To her right was a narrow door, which she hoped led to a bathroom.
She had to pee and she had to escape.
Charlie entered the room and walked over to Sabrina. With a prideful grin he pushed the plate toward her, waiting for his praise. She turned away. “You have to eat,” he said. “I made it special for you.”
“I have to pee, that’s what I have to do.”
He stood over her, confused. He looked at the plate, then at the bathroom door, then at the ropes which bound her. He blinked.
“You’ll try to trick me again.”
“Damn it, I’ve got to go to the bathroom!”
He sat down the plate on the end table and walked over to the bathroom. He opened the door and studied the tiny room. The small window above the toilet was not large enough for her to fit through. She couldn’t escape from there. There was a shower stall. He removed the packet of razor blades from the shelf above the sink and put them in his pocket.
Sabrina watched from where she lay bound on the sofa bed.
“I can’t let you go in there,” he said. “Not alone, I can’t.”
“What do you think I’m going to do, turn into a mouse to get through that dinky window? Get real.”
“Not alone,” he repeated.
“Like hell, not alone! Now untie me before I have an accident.”
“Little girls ain’t supposed to cuss,” he said, then walked back to the bathroom. He grabbed the small hook on the door molding and twisted until it broke free from the wood. He put it in his pocket, shut the door, then reopened it, looking again at the tiny window.
Charlie walked over to the sofa bed and untied Sabrina’s ankles, then her wrists. “No funny stuff,” he kept repeating as he untied her. She rubbed her reddened skin in an effort to ease the pain. She rose to a sitting position and turned, letting her feet touch the floor. She walked the short distance to the bathroom and closed the door.
Sitting on the toilet, she studied the room. The window was too small. She pulled up her panties and smoothed her uniform, then stood on the toilet seat to see outside. There was nothing in her line of vision but trees—giant evergreens, western Juniper, Ponderosa pine. She could see no cabins or houses or even a road. Just trees and mountains. Where was she?
She stepped down, flushed the toilet, opened the door. Charlie was standing on the other side, listening and waiting. How gross, she thought. Had he been listening to her pee? How sick is that? She brushed past him and sat on the bed.
“Okay? You happy now?”
“I didn’t want to lose you.”
“Well, big whooping surprise! I’m still here.”
“I made this for you,” he said, handing her the plate. Sabrina wanted to refuse it but she was famished. She’d eat, because she was hungry, but she’d be damned if she’d enjoy it—or thank him. She ate in silence as Charlie watched her and waited for her to voice her approval. He was disappointed that it didn’t come.
“I’m thirsty,” she finally said, breaking the silence.
He went to the kitchen, never letting her out of his sight, and returned with an empty glass and a can of Budweiser. He apologized that there was nothing else to drink. (Tap water hadn’t entered his mind.) He pulled the tab and poured half into a glass for Sabrina. She raised the glass to her lips. It tasted warm and bitter. While she drank, he chugged down the rest from the can.
She wondered why adults drank that stuff. It tasted nasty and just half a glass had made her feel light-headed.
“I have to tie you up now,” he said.
“The ropes hurt me.”
“I’m sorry, Lucy Mae.” (What was all this Lucy Mae shit? she thought.) “But I have to…until you remember.” He rebound her ankles and wrists. She tried to identify what knots he was using, but he moved too fast. If she could figure out the knots, just maybe, she could untie them. But once again she was bound and helpless. Now he’s going to rape me, she thought. Feed me, then rape me, then kill me. It was the only thing that made any kind of sense.
Instead, Charlie went over to the chair and sat. She sighed. But it’s just a matter of time, she told herself. Her captor stared at her with chilling intensity as her mind reeled.
“Are you holding me for ransom? My mother doesn’t have an
y money. We’ve got less than no money. You saw our house!”
But he was silent.
Think Sabrina, she told herself. Think!
But the beer had made her groggy and she closed her eyes.
When Sabrina woke up she felt something on her leg. Opening her eyes, she saw that Charlie had hoisted her Girl Scout dress up around her hips and was running his hand along her thigh. She screamed as she threw her body away from him.
“Don’t touch me you creepy perv!”
“Gotta. Momma says I gotta, Lucy, Momma says.”
Sabrina sobbed as she squirmed, in an attempt to escape his searching hands. He abruptly stopped, stood up and began pacing the room, screaming: “Can’t make me Momma, no, she’s my Lucy! (So that was it, Sabrina thought as she watched in disbelief.) Can’t make me, please don’t make me, I don’t wanna make Lucy cry. I don’t want her to go away again. No, Momma!” Then in a taunting, feminine voice: “If thy hand offend thee, Charlie, if thy hand offend thee.” He yelled at his demon, “Not this time, no!” Back and forth he paced, laughing, crying, pacing, laughing. Finally, he sat down, head in hands, shoulders drooped.
The room had gone from pandemonium to the stillness of a morgue. Sabrina watched, unsure if he was breathing—afraid to breathe herself.
“Charlie?”
His eyes were glazed as he looked up.
“Charlie, I’m your sister, right?”
“Of course you are, you know that.”
“And I came back, right?”
He nodded.
“Where have I been?”
“Dead.”
The calmness of his tone sent shivers up her spine. He’d killed his own sister, she thought, and now he’s going to kill me.
“But you came back,” he smiled, “and now everything is going to be okay.”
“And Momma, Charlie, where’s Momma?”
“Momma was bad and Momma let you die.” His lip quivered.
Sabrina knew that to survive, she’d damn well better BE this Lucy Mae. She had no choice. She had to buy time. Roboscout in disguise. Yeah, she could do that. This was a maniacal game created by a madman and she didn’t know the rules. But she was good at games.