"You won't hurt us?" I asked, well aware that he could do exactly as he pleased. He had about as much integrity as a suicide bomber, and I had about as much negotiating power as a bug on a windshield.
"Not a hair on your head."
I had no choice. I peered down to the snow-laden ground, ten feet below. The lion paced along the fence, waiting and watching.
And I jumped.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
As I climbed to my feet, Dillon clamped his hand on my arm and helpfully jerked me up to standing. With the other, he grabbed Virginia and propelled us both inside.
He maneuvered Virginia over to a dining room chair, sat her down, and started tying her arms to the rests. Virginia’s eyes were wide with fear, but she did not struggle. It seemed as if she was used to the procedure and knew what was coming.
I hadn't been allowed out of the Dungeon since the day I’d dumped Ben. But now with some time to look around, I noticed with dismay, that the overall state of the house had slipped into further chaos and filth.
I'd heard once that a house reflects the interior state of the occupant’s mind. I looked around at the piles of dirty dishes emanating rotten smells, the overflowing trash cans, and hypodermic needles lying on the floor and realized we were dealing with a madman.
I had only a few seconds alone without Dillon's cold penetrating gaze on me. A few seconds to shift the balance of life or death back to our favor. I glanced around the kitchen, looking for my dearly beloved. There it lay, resting on a bloodied chopping board. The Prankster, I thought, nearly tearing up with relief.
Tired of struggling with my pot roasts, I'd splurged on the butcher’s knife at a specialty online store, much to Virginia's amusement. It was a heavy rectangular knife that could easily chop through a beef joint. It had a clown red handle made of silicone that gave slightly when I squeezed it, molding to the compression of my fingers, ready for any demanding task at hand.
After a few practical jokes, whereby Virginia had popped out of the pantry wielding the knife, we started calling it The Prankster. I had a thing with good kitchen knives, just like a had a thing with good pens. Thankfully, my thing with knives was about to pay off.
Dillon worked diligently to secure Virginia's arms, seemingly unconcerned about my whereabouts. And rightfully so. As far as he knew, I was about as brave as a field mouse.
He assumed that I would just watch as he tore off a piece of grey duct tape and pressed it against my sister's mouth. He assumed I would sit there silently, as he slid into the adjacent chair and started rifling through a plastic baggie filled with my stolen Demerol pills. He assumed I would stand there as docile as a lamb, while he mixed the powder with water in the bowl of a bent spoon.
But that was where he went wrong. He assumed.
Mom's voice broke into my reverie. And what happens when you assume things?
I'd spent my time in the upstairs Dungeon steeling myself for this very moment. I'd heard his agonized screams in my head, and I'd hardened myself against them. Over the tenure of my captivity, his animal shrieks became music to my ears, a special soundtrack that I played over and over again in my mind as I wrote my scenes. When I lay in bed, looking up at the exposed fiberglass, I lustily imagined him begging for her life.
While he worked on the mound of powder, watching it slowly melt into cloudy liquid, I stepped to The Prankster, grabbed it, and dropped my hand down by my side, out of sight, should Dillon trouble himself to turn around. But he didn’t. Why would he?
Virginia's gaze slid to me. Her eyes, filled with terror-stricken tears, begged for help. I met her gaze, communicating my intent. She blinked a few times rapidly and squeezed her eyes shut.
"You're gonna get a double dose tonight for being so naughty," Dillon said. "You know I don't like naughty girls. Dirty, loudmouthed, trashy girls. That's what you are, Virginia. You and your sister. You're both . . ."
The Prankster came alive under my quickening pulse. I tightened my hand. Its red grippy handle pressed against my palm in solidarity. I crossed the kitchen, treading as silent as the lion, driven by a singular animal drive to kill. I watched his head bent studiously over his handiwork as he continued his monologue.
". . . dirty, trashy girls that don't know from right from wrong." He inserted the needle into the liquefied mound and siphoned up the dome. "That makes me mad. Do you know what happens when I get mad? Hm? Do you?"
Tears streamed down Virginia's face. She mumbled something, moving her mouth, the tape pulling her cheeks up and down. Dillon looked at her, expectantly waiting for the answer, even though he'd taped her mouth shut. That was when he caught me in his periphery, but it was too late.
And what happens when you assume things?
Dillon turned to me.
I looked over the flushed terrain of his face.
It makes an ass outta you and me.
And down came The Prankster on his chiseled cheekbone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
There was blood. A great gushing wall opened up on the left side of his face, a deep crevasse rimmed with a flap of skin. His cheekbone shone white in the gully of the wound.
He sat there, stunned. Me too. He lifted the flap of skin with shaking fingers and pressed it back into place. I gripped The Prankster, breathing hard. Blood squished between my fingers, bringing me back to the task at hand. Clumsily, I brought it down again, aiming for the dead center of his skull.
But he jumped up suddenly, his chair toppling over, arms raised against another flashing downward swing. With the other, he backhanded me, a solid sideswipe that caught me by the temple, and The Prankster clattered to the floor.
I stumbled backwards and fell. While Dillon leapt for the knife, I scrambled furiously to release Virginia. She made frantic muffled sounds and puffed out her cheeks, eyes bulging.
It was a square knot, a knot that could be easily overcome, the only useful thing I'd learned about in the Girl Scout program. I grabbed the spoon and jammed the handle into the center. It budged.
I jammed it in again and wrenched the handle upwards, loosening the entire knot. Then I scrambled over to her other arm, my heart beating so hard I couldn't see straight. My hands shook. My fingers turned to rubber. The spoon slipped out of my grip.
All told, it probably took about fifteen seconds to loosen both ties, but with The Prankster falling into Dillon’s frightening grip, it seemed like fifteen long years.
I looked up. Dillon held a kitchen towel against his gaping cheek. In the other hand, he gripped The Prankster, watching us, amused almost, none too concerned.
Finally, I freed Virginia. She stumbled back from the chair, ripped off the tape, and together, we backed away.
"Sit down, Virginia," he said, waving The Prankster negligently at the chair she'd just vacated.
"No. I won't."
Dillon watched her. She watched him.
"You'll have to kill me," Virginia said, at last, taking ahold of my hand. "Me and my sister both."
I didn't dare cast a questioning glance her way, thus breaking the sense of unity, but I intended to get us out of here alive, not in a body bag.
Dillon laughed and flipped The Prankster up in the air, catching it by the handle. The Prankster, beholden only to its handler, flashed in the light, the blade sullied by his own blood.
"Frankly, that would solve all of my problems," he said.
"Except the problem of Amy Mathews," I cut in. "Without us, you have nothing."
He peeled the dishcloth away from his cheek and examined the dark stain. "This whole Amy Mathews thing is really starting to piss me off. You’ve been producing piles of shit, shit that David keeps sending back for revisions."
I glanced at Virginia for a quick fact check. Her face was blank.
"The royalty checks take ages to finally arrive. Checks that are getting smaller and smaller, I might add. I think Amy Mathews is better off self-publishing. That way I can track all the sales and collect the money. Eliminate the midd
le man."
"We don't own the rights to any Amy Mathews books," Virginia said. "You can't publish something unless you own the rights. Book three and four are also tied up on contract."
"I'll make you a deal." He waved The Prankster at me. "You're going to write a new book. Virginia is going to slap her ugly mug on it, and I'm going to collect all the money. How's that sound?"
Nobody replied.
I felt like we were back at the very beginning of my upstairs tenure. Back when Dillon refused to leave the house, back when he revealed his grand master plan of locking me up, while I happily produce book after book, and he kindly helps me reach my "full potential."
My mind raced, trying to think of something to say, something sufficiently reasonable that would break through his deranged thinking. But I realized with a sinking heart that there was nothing I could say to him, not a single word in the known English language that would deter him from this new plan.
I glanced over at the intercom box close to the kitchen and noted with dismay that the metal box was locked, the panic button far out of reach. Once again, our only hope lay in feigned resignation and eventual escape.
The syringe that he had so carefully prepared sat on the Hermes kitchen table, loaded. Dillon held onto the back of a chair. Weakened? I wasn’t sure. I knew I wouldn't be able to get to the panic button, but if I could get to the syringe . . .
Visions of the needle sticking out of his neck rose to the forefront of my mind. I saw him groping at the emptied syringe with increasing sluggishness, until he sank onto his knees and slipped off to Never Neverland, where he'd just tried to send Virginia.
I could see it all so clearly. Dillon lying face down on the floor. Virginia and I working the box off the wall. Pushing the panic button. I even felt a surge of relief wash over me as I depressed the imaginary button.
"I said," he repeated, resting the blunt edge of The Prankster on his shoulder like Paul Bunyan. "How does that sound."
"It sounds really good, Dillon," I said, trying not to look at the syringe resting so casually on the table: my last bastion of hope. "Sounds great. I'll do it, if it saves me and my sister. And you know what? I have just the book. Virginia never wanted me to write it,"—a little dash of sibling rivalry, a little departure from our solidarity, a whiff of treason might be enough to lend credibility—hey! hey! hey!—"she wanted me to focus on the series. But I've already written another manuscript. It's unagented. I own all the rights . . . I mean, you. You can have the rights. I don't care."
I paused, gauging my progress. Had I gone too far with that last line? His eyes were still flashing, but he seemed to ease off of his fancy handling of The Prankster. One well-intentioned downward hack would split my skull into two. Finally, he pulled out a chair and sank down heavily on the seat.
"You're bleeding," Virginia said, softly. "Here. Let me help you."
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
I looked at The Prankster resting underneath Dillon's elbow, while Virginia carefully removed the dishrag from his face and assessed the damage. The flap of skin had already sealed into place, leaving a crooked red crescent wound on his face.
He'd have a nice scar from my ministrations. But it wouldn't be fatal, sadly.
He addressed Virginia. "One move from Piss Drinker over there and I'll sink this blade into her neck. Or maybe yours."
We exchanged glances. "She won't move," Virginia said. "Right, Genie?"
"Not a muscle," I replied, eyeing the hypodermic needle laying on the table. "In fact,"—I raised my hands up in the air, like a good surrendering soldier—"I’m going to sit down on that chair. So you can watch me." I nodded toward the chair that Virginia had just vacated, one arm-tie dangling from the arm rest.
Slowly, I moved toward my destination and eased myself down onto the chair. I reached down, grabbed the seat, and scooted a few inches closer to the edge of the table, within reach of the syringe.
Once I arrived, I lifted my hands again, signaling my peaceable intentions, and rested both elbows on the arm rests.
Virginia dabbed at the wound, then bent down to inspect it. "I need to get a little water to clean it up," she said with admirable calmness. "I'm just going to go into the kitchen and get some. Is that okay?"
Dillon nodded sullenly, watching me, elbow still resting on The Prankster.
Virginia returned with a bowl of water and a rag and set to work cleaning the pulpy wound. After a few minutes, Dillon's attention to me started to wane. His gaze drifted away, and he stared morosely at the far curtains. He hissed occasionally. Virginia apologized.
He was coming to the end of her doctoring. My window of opportunity was closing. But I needed to wait for the right moment. Virginia tilted Dillon’s head to the side. He closed his eyes for one whole second, hissing in pain as Virginia diligently scrubbed some dried blood from the cut. This is it! My heart thundered in my chest. Do it now!
And I pounced.
I grabbed the syringe and brought my fist down on Dillon’s upper arm, plunging the needle into his shoulder. But he jerked away, the untapped syringe poking out of his arm. Virginia made a grab for the plunger and made a brief connection. It sank incrementally, but only long interminable minutes would reveal the full scope of her success.
Dillon jumped up to his feet and tore at his right arm, pulling the syringe out. It dropped to the ground.
Virginia grabbed the dish towel and tried to choke Dillon with it, but her strength was no match against his. His face grew red for a two whole hope-filled seconds, but then he reached up and yanked the cloth away, sending Virginia stumbling to the floor.
Dillon turned on her, towering over her as she scrambled backwards. I turned to The Prankster, left unattended. Dillon also reached for the knife, but stumbled suddenly. He hovered there, bolstered against the countertop, the drug finally taking some affect.
I snatched The Prankster, squeezed my eyes shut, and brought the shining blade down in his general direction. There was some connection. There was more blood. There was screaming. But I could not hear it.
Blinded with rage and a single-minded focus to wipe the stain of Dillon off of the landscape of our lives, I hacked at him, wildly, desperately, without any plan or purpose, flying high on the singular hope that if I kept going—he would stop.
But he didn't stop. He became enraged. Hot rage rose up and galvanized his drugged body. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, he fought against the blade, fists swinging, until one caught me somewhere on the face and sent me falling—rushing into a dark, bleak, soft unconsciousness that I wanted to go to, that I wanted to fall into and never leave.
I felt a prick on my upper thigh. Then it was gone. A soft feminine voice floated around me, buzzing like a bee somewhere in the warm months of summer. Virginia’s? Then I heard screaming, grunting, and the dull sensation of sharp tugging somewhere down by my ankle.
But I was floating far above it all, far away from my body and the wraith attached to my leg. None of that mattered, whatever it was. I lay as helpless as a baby, relieved to be swaddled with numbness, glad to be floating above the hard crushing lines of reality.
It was so much better up here. A wonderful cosseted world of nothingness that shielded me from pain and hurt. So I fell into it, glad for it, tossing away all concerns whatsoever about life or limb. Those things didn't matter. Those were far inferior concerns. They were nothings. I smiled, stifling an inward giggle.
Nothings, dahlinks!
Nothings at all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Sunlight broke through my closed eyelids. Am I dead? I wondered distantly. Kind of hoping I was. But bright hard rays brought a crushing singular reminder: You are not dead. You are very much alive. And if you need any further evidence . . .
A specter of pain ghosted through the misty landscape of my mind, hiding amongst shrubbery and shrouded trees. I knew it was there, but every time I tried to find the source of the pain, it vanished again like the end of a rainbow.
/> There was a dull ache around my left ankle, an unusual heaviness that caused some stirrings of bewilderment. But then the wave of unconsciousness swelled again, drawing me asunder, and I went to it, grateful for it.
Sometime later, the specter returned, bolder now, and multiplying. I gritted my teeth and probed the shadowed forestlands of my mind. The underbrush crawled with movement, caped marauders of pain, assembling in the wooded perimeter, waiting patiently for my defenses to fall. The numbing mists slowly faded, revealing the true scale of the attack. I gritted my teeth and moaned.
I opened my eyes, slowly and reluctantly, and stared at the bleak interior of the Dungeon. How much time had passed since I'd been dumped up here again? I had absolutely no idea.
The marauders were back though, rolling over me in giant breaking waves. Sharp pain emanated from my left ankle. Slowly, I sat up. A wave of pain crashed upon me, dragging me far below its churning surface. I laid down again and rubbed my belly that threatened to empty its contents.
Once the nausea faded, I dared to look around. A Care Bear blanket had been thrown the top of me (another prank gift), covering both legs. Slowly, I lifted it off, scared to snag a protruding bone.
I pulled in a deep quivering breath and carefully lifted the blanket. There lay my two legs in what appeared to be perfect condition. There were no pools of blood or exposed jutting bones. What was the reason behind the terrible pain?
I brought both legs up to my chest. All fine and in good working order, except for the strange jolt of pain that raced up my left leg. Gently, I patted down both legs, starting from the thigh and moving down and far as I could reach. Again no sudden shot of blinding pain. Well, what is it? I wondered impatiently, swinging both legs to the side of the mattress. There was a twinge of sharp pain. Then it abated.
I Am The Lion: A Riveting Psychological Thriller Page 17