Outside, gravel popped under tires and the truck roared away. Ruth struggled to her feet. As soon as her injured leg took weight, she yelped and fell against the table. Her bound arms flopped helplessly behind her. God, I have to be able to walk to get out of here.
Holding her breath, she stood on her good leg, pivoted, and grabbed the nearest chair. No way could she hop like she’d done coming out of the bedroom. With her hands tied behind her, she had to do this in reverse. Chris the creep sure didn’t make things easy. Hands gripping the wooden chair back, she balanced enough to shuffle-hop backward toward the door. Lift chair. Hop. Lift. Hop.
The muscles in her good leg were on fire by the time she reached the door. With the front of the chair pressed against the door, she leaned her hips against the backrest and stretched her arms until her fingers brushed the cool metal of the deadbolt. As soon as it clicked into place, she twisted around to collapse in the chair. Ruth’s racing heart shook her whole frame.
Ruth tried to focus. There was no other sound in the cottage. Harry must still be sick. She should be safe for now. She’d ice her knee, rest it, and pray it’d let her walk out of here after dark when the web cams wouldn’t pick her up.
When she caught her breath, Ruth chair-hopped to the counter and inched along it until her fingers reached the block of knives. She pulled one out and angled it behind her back until she could see it by craning her neck. Straight edge. She tried again until she found one with a serrated blade.
She twisted to sit in the chair before her leg gave out. Sweat trickled along her spine. With small, careful movements, she brought the knife handle between her palms and slid the blade between her wrists, serrations toward the rope. Without good leverage, it took a lot of sawing, and Ruth’s forearms were shaking when her bonds finally snapped.
The knife clattered to the floor. Ruth heaved a sigh, then hissed at the pain in her wrists. Bringing them around to see the damage triggered aches in her shoulders too. But she'd freed her hands. Now where was that knife?
There it was, under the chair where she couldn’t reach it. Still sitting, she scooted the chair sideways and rotated it until her foot touched the knife. She dragged it nearer and toppled over to pick it up.
“Might as well stay down here.” Cutting the rope came much easier when she could see what she was doing and had full range of motion.
Ruth let the ropes lay where they fell and flexed her ankles to get the blood moving again. No wonder it felt so hot in here—she still had her coat on. Her purse strap crossed from one shoulder to the opposite hip. She lifted it off and shrugged out of the coat, looking down at her clothes. Her crisp print blouse was rumpled and sticky with perspiration from her hike. Her favourite pants, once a deep, navy blue, were mud-stained and ruined.
Ruth sucked a deep breath, the flat taste of fear strong in her mouth. What if the silence didn’t mean Harry was still unconscious? He could be sleeping it off, or maybe he really had gone looking for her. She had to know.
A broom propped in the corner behind the door might help keep weight off her throbbing knee. She stood on her good leg and used the chair to cross the room. The angled broom head wedged nicely under her arm to make a crutch. It wasn’t a perfect height, but at least she could get around.
As she turned toward the living room, one of the polished copper pots on the wall threw back a distorted reflection of her face. Her short brown curls stuck out in clumps in every direction. Streaks of mud ran through her hair and caked her face. The twisted shape the pot bottom gave to her face made the picture look worse.
Was she ugly enough to scare Harry now? Please, God, don’t let me have to find out. First, she’d check on Harry, make sure he was still unconscious. Then maybe she could grab something to eat before finding something to ice her knee. Her stomach growled, right on cue. The clock on the microwave said 9:15. She’d gone almost twenty-four hours without food.
Trembling, Ruth navigated with her makeshift crutch into the living room. Harry lay sprawled on the couch. The sound of his laboured breathing filled the room.
She risked sneaking a little nearer. He shivered, tried to roll over, and flopped back into his spot. Sweat stood out on his brow. Ruth eyed his pockets. No lump from a cell phone. It must be in his back pocket. Under him.
His colour didn’t seem any better, but it was hard to say in the dim light. He looked terrible. The man wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry.
What if he woke for one last chance to hear God’s invitation? She’d better stay close, just in case. Her nightmare’s anguish flowed back full-strength.
Ruth shivered. “God, let me be gone before Harry wakes. If not, don’t let him get strong enough to move. To touch me. And please give me the words... the courage... to tell him about You. And give him the faith to believe. I can’t convince him. And help me get out of here.”
She took the green and gold afghan from the chair where she’d left it and leaned on her crutch to open it. Holding her breath, she draped the covering over Harry’s unconscious form.
He stirred again, and she sprang back. Arms windmilling, she dropped the broom and fell on her hands and rear. Ruth scrambled for her crutch and pushed to her feet. Had the clatter and thump woken Harry?
His eyelids fluttered as he groaned. She watched him, poised to duck and hide behind the end of the couch, but he fell back to sleep. Ruth pressed a hand against her erratic heartbeat. Deep, slow breaths. She had to get control of herself.
Harry didn’t look to be in immediate danger. She’d have time to clean up and get some food, but she wouldn’t leave him alone for long. If he woke... God, help me know if I’m to speak about You or run for it.
For now, he wasn’t a threat. Not like the men in that other cottage. She could still smell Denny’s beer and bacon. Feel his eyes on her. The way he’d touched her...
She studied Harry’s unconscious form, then made her decision. Breakfast, yes, but first she had to wash off the taint. And she’d want her comb, which meant going back to the kitchen first for her purse.
When she made it to the bathroom, with the door safely locked behind her, Ruth filled the sink with hot water. She’d kill for a shower—if there weren’t a literal killer on the other side of the door.
The man was too sick to hurt her. Worst case, he’d have to vomit again. He’d stagger into the locked door and probably leave a mess right there. He certainly wouldn’t be clear-headed enough to find something to work the safety feature on the doorknob’s privacy lock.
But just in case... no shower. Too vulnerable a position, and too noisy. If he made a sound, she wanted to hear it.
An idea struck her. Ruth unlocked the door, and hobbled to investigate the bureaus in the two bedrooms. The room where she’d slept only provided a man’s flannel shirt, but in the other room she found a denim skirt tucked in the bottom of a drawer under a pile of frilly lingerie which she brushed aside, thankful Harry hadn’t seen it. Ruth stood and measured the skirt against herself. She might have to hold her breath, but it would do.
A glance at Harry on the way back to the bathroom revealed no change. Behind the locked door, she soaped a washcloth and cleaned her face, her neck, any exposed skin. She didn’t feel safe to strip, so everything else had to be washed by shoving the cloth inside her clothes. Awkward, uncomfortable, but safe.
She bent forward and dipped her hair into the water, swishing to wet it through. A little squirt of soap, lather and dip back into the water should remove the worst of Denny’s scent. Ruth towelled her hair dry and listened at the door. No sound. She unbuttoned her blouse and swapped it for the clean top, then slipped from pants to skirt.
Ruth gave her hair a brisk rub with the towel and opened her purse to root for her comb. She found the comb, but even better, her fingers touched the pocket-sized Bible she’d taken to the prayer meeting.
Wasn’t the Bible called a sword? She seized it, and its solidity in her hand felt good. She wasn’t alone. She tucked it into her skirt pock
et and unlocked the bathroom door.
Harry hadn’t moved. Ruth rolled up her over-long sleeves and hobbled into the kitchen.
Chapter 18
Pain pounded a rivet gun in Harry’s head. He tried to open his eyes, but his head hurt too much. His mind wasn’t focusing very well anyway. Couldn’t figure how she was here, or where here was. It didn’t matter.
Her clothing rustled as she moved around the room. Harry relaxed, knowing she’d stay nearby until his sickness passed. Mothers were that way, he supposed. At least, his was. And now he knew where he was—in his bed, shivering under the covers. Buttons the dog whined from the doorway. Harry couldn’t see him, but he’d be lying on the threshold, big brown eyes watching protectively. Mom never let Buttons in the room with him or Carol when they were sick.
His mother bent over him, her sympathetic brown eyes so dark they almost matched the hue of her long, glossy black hair. To Harry, she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
She said he had a fever, and she kept trying to make him drink juice, but it burned his throat. She tucked Grandma’s old blue and white quilt higher around his shoulders and kissed his cheek.
Harry’s head hurt so badly, and he was starting to see things—spiders, monsters, nasty things his mom promised weren’t really there. He tried to act brave so she wouldn’t be so worried, but he felt shaky inside. Was he going to die?
One of the boys in first grade with him, Logan, said he talked to God, that God could hear him. Harry and his friends didn’t have much use for Logan and his ideas, but it might be worth a try. He tried to speak loudly in his mind without moving his lips. His mother would never laugh at him, but he didn’t think she’d understand. If she did, it would only scare her more.
Um, God? Logan says You can hear us. I’m too little to die, and I’m scared. Please, can You make me better? There. That was the best he could do. He hoped it would be enough.
~~~
Harry’s intestines clenched. Hand over his mouth, he staggered around the couch to the bathroom. His body knew the way, but his brain didn’t catch up until he flopped back onto his pillow with a terrible taste in his mouth.
Dreaming. He’d been dreaming. Funny he’d remember that childish prayer now. Of course he’d recovered—it was only a virus.
He rolled onto his side and drew his knees tight against his middle. Whatever had him by the guts this time wasn’t letting go. He’d do anything to ease the pain.
He gritted his teeth. Anything but pray. He had no use for God—and the feeling was mutual.
He kept his eyes closed, longing for release. Sleep, death, anything but this white-hot band of fire crushing his skull and poisoning his stomach. Uneasiness nagged him, but his pain-drugged mind couldn’t pin it down.
A woman looking after him. Not his mother... but it didn’t matter. He drifted off again.
His fevered dream-memories shifted to the summer he turned nine. The year his father had put in so much overtime while one of the other mechanics was in the hospital, so his boss gave the family a week’s use of his cottage.
Harry and his sister Carol had never been out of the city, and giant Lake Simcoe frightened him at first. He was used to crowds of kids, though, and it didn’t take long to make some new friends. The boy two cottages over, Colin, offered to teach Harry and Carol to swim. Colin was 13, just older than Carol, and he knew all sorts of games and jokes.
One day Colin’s parents invited the family to hear a visiting preacher. Harry’s dad had gone fishing with another of their neighbours. From the pucker of his mom’s brow, Harry knew she was searching for a nice way to say no. “I’m not sure what my husband would say...”
Carol’s cheeks had gone blotchy red. She grasped her mother’s hand. “Please. Colin’s going.”
Mom raised her eyebrows at Harry and turned to Colin’s parents. “I guess it wouldn’t do any harm, but I don’t drive. Is there room in your car?”
After an early lunch of sandwiches and leftover potato salad, they squeezed into the back seat of their new friends’ station wagon. Harry wished he’d gone fishing with his dad, but it was too late now. Colin was cool, but Carol was already getting on Harry’s nerves with her sudden chatter and giggles. Girls, oh man.
The preacher droned on and on, and it didn’t make much sense to Harry. But the stuffy, tightly packed tent felt full of power, and it prickled the hairs on the back of his neck. The air grew heavy as if it might thunder, and the crowd hushed.
Tears streaming, his mom walked forward to the podium with the others in response to the preacher’s invitation. Harry and Carol clung to her, feeling something even if they didn’t know what.
His dad was cleaning fresh fish in the kitchen of the borrowed cabin when they returned. Harry listened as his mother tried to explain her decision. He wasn’t sure he understood what had happened in the tent. She’d been crying, and that was bad, but now she smiled, and that was good.
She said Jesus had changed her, but she didn’t look different. She said He’d forgiven her sins, but Harry had never seen her do anything wrong.
Harry was intent on his mother’s words, not his father’s reaction. Suddenly Dad stabbed the boning knife into the fish, grabbed the new Bible from her hands and ripped it down the spine.
Children and mother stood wide-eyed as he ordered them to pack their things. He threw the fish, knife and all, into the garbage, hauled out the cooler and started filling it with the food they’d brought.
Mom touched his arm. “I don’t understand.”
“Am I not enough for you anymore?” Dad’s face was grey, his mouth pinched.
“Enough for me? I love you.”
“Then don’t ask me to share you with God. I—I’ll lose you.” His face crumpled.
Harry had never seen his father cry. He reached for Carol’s hand.
“Matt, this is for all of us. Jesus loves you too.”
Harry’s dad muttered a curse and threw more food into the cooler. His mom faced the children with a wobbly smile, her eyes too bright. “You heard your father. Get your things together.”
Within half an hour they were on the road back to the city. In the back seat of their creaky old Plymouth, Harry wished they’d never left home.
They arrived after dark, tired and hungry. As they unloaded the car in silence, Harry’s father spoke for the first time since the argument. “There will be no Bibles, no church of any kind, no mention of God. We’re going to forget this foolishness and go back to normal. Understood?”
Three heads bobbed in unison, and nobody made eye contact. Harry thought he heard a sniffle from his sister.
One evening a few weeks later, as they finished dessert, his mom cleared her throat. “Matt, the Walker boy down the street got picked up by the police again today. I worry about Carol and Harry, with all the pressures and temptations. That boy’s parents are good-living people, but I guess what’s taught at home isn’t enough anymore.”
She set her spoon beside her bowl, fingers lining it up parallel with the edge of her place mat. “Maybe... maybe we should find a church... for the children.”
Harry looked at his father, more worried about an explosion than about being made to sit in some kind of religion class.
His mother kept talking. “If we’re there as a family, you can see for yourself that it’s safe.”
Dad’s throat worked convulsively as if his apple crisp were fighting back. He swallowed with an audible gulp and slammed his fist into the table hard enough to spill his coffee. Even in profile his face made Harry shiver. “No. And don’t make me say it again.”
He stalked from the room. Before anyone else could speak, the front door slammed. Harry glanced at the tears in his mother’s eyes, her tight but quivering lips, and jumped up to clear the table. He ran hot water for the dishes. It wasn’t his turn, but if he couldn’t help with the real problem, he could at least do something.
Mom didn’t suggest church again. Instead, she found a Bible s
tudy run by an inner-city mission on Thursday afternoons. She made Harry and Carol promise not to tell their father. “He’s a fine man, but he’s wrong about this. I need to learn more about God. I need... support. I feel so alone.”
Harry felt guilty, but his mother was right. There was no other choice. He kind of admired her. She’d never stood up to his father before, even if this was a hidden stand.
Harry felt the change at home, the tension nobody talked about. His dad stayed later at work, or stopped at the bar with one of the other mechanics. He never staggered in, and he drove home without accidents, but he acted different, almost dangerous.
One summer night a month or so after their aborted vacation, Harry woke to his father’s angry voice. He tried to shut it out and go back to sleep, but he was thirsty. He grabbed a drink of water from the bathroom and was headed back to bed when a loud smack echoed from the kitchen.
Harry sneaked down the hall and peered around the corner. His parents stood in the middle of the room, like a still from a movie. Slowly Dad’s left hand dropped to his side. Tears mingled with the blood trickling from the cut on Mom’s cheekbone.
The hurt on her face, and the realization of what had happened, set Harry trembling. He wanted to launch through the doorway, attack his father, scream at him, but shame for his mother made him sneak back to bed.
In the morning he couldn’t meet his mother’s eyes. He was glad his father was already at work. Harry didn’t know what to do, where to turn. Why couldn’t everything go back the way it had been?
Dad came home on time for supper that night, with a bouquet of pink carnations and a gentler tone. Harry’s insides began to un-knot. His father wasn’t one to talk about his feelings, but his actions made a clear apology. Maybe he’d scared some sense into himself and things would be okay now.
It didn’t last. And as Dad’s anger grew, so did his violence. Harry’s heart tore. One part of his mind wished he were big enough to thrash his dad, while another blamed his mother for bringing God—and trouble—into their home.
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