The beams of light were extinguished above the treetops. White streaks appeared in her hair, as if transferred from the sun.
“Do you like it?” she asked, seemingly in answer to his thoughts again. He didn’t need to speak.
Then, with the liquid grace of water poured on the forest floor, she disappeared.
Ethan found himself alone as the forest grew dark. The wind picked up. The lofty trees swayed overhead, gnarling their branches together like cutlery, as if preparing for a feast. The trunks seemed to groan as they rubbed against each other, restrained to the ground. A deer passed close by, seemingly unaware of his presence, moving gracefully. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Ethan was soon unable to move, forced to watch as gusts of wind, each more powerful than the last, took down one tree after another. The cracking of the massive trunks was terrifying—an act of God’s almighty hand. The ground shook as each tree fell so loudly that he closed his eyes amid nature’s grand symphony.
The wind howled through the trees, whipping the tops around like giant dusters. Distracted by the violence above, he didn’t see the approach of the collie that appeared out of nowhere. It stopped beside him and barked.
The dog’s dark eyes stared into his.
“Don’t be afraid.”
Ethan heard the words. The dog rotated its head as if trying to comprehend. He reached out to pet the dog. He could move again. The dog’s sable coat was soft in his hand.
“Follow me.”
He heard the words whispered in his ears, as if the forest were speaking to him through the ferocious wind.
The dog looked at him again. “Don’t be afraid,” its eyes seemed to repeat.
With the powerful storm surrounding them, the collie started away. Reluctant to move, thinking it best to stay put, Ethan decided to follow. Dog was man’s best friend; the animal wouldn’t intentionally mislead him.
The ground was strewn with the forest’s debris. Plants, leaves, twisted limbs, and fallen branches were everywhere. As they moved, more was scattered in their midst. He heard the air-splitting crack of another tree trunk as a pine tree of enormous girth broke in front of him, snapping like a matchstick, falling in slow motion, and crashing to the forest floor with such force that Ethan thought the ground beneath him would split open. The dog ran under the fallen tree, following an unseen line of twists and turns. Ethan could not see a path but followed the collie as he might have followed the red taillights of a car through a winter blizzard.
Ethan fell behind, unable to keep up with the speed of his faster four-legged friend. He tried to call out, but the dog took no notice, no doubt unable to hear his voice, if he even had one. The wind continued its terrifying howl. A whirlwind encircled him in an upheaval of leaves, bark, and snarled branches. His arms rose to protect his head as a thorny vine cut across his face, stinging his skin. The forest was out of control. He had to find cover; otherwise, being lost would cease to matter. It was difficult to see as the forest was hurled around him. At a fallen tree, he crouched and moved to his left. Feeling along the deep crevices in the bark like a blind man, he hoped to guide himself to a safe refuge.
He crept along beside the trunk through the raging wind. As the fallen tree narrowed, a small lean-to came into sight. Something flashed beside it. Relief filled him as he saw his furry friend ahead. Rounding the side of the shelter, he was shocked to see a head of brown hair through the spaces between the branches of the shelter wall. He froze, seeing that it wasn’t the dog but another person, and before he could think more, he saw her.
“Hurry!” Christa shouted, the cords in her neck prominent, her face expressing an intensity he hadn’t known. He could hear but a whisper.
He looked for an opening and, in the wind’s raging torment, lost sight of her. Through an unseen opening, she grabbed his arm and pulled him inside. Inside, Ethan was amazed at how the forest’s upheaval vanished. It was warm and cozy, with shadowy light provided by a small lantern that hung from the slanted roof. Christa was sitting on a bed of pine needles with her legs together at her side. The lantern cast shadows across her face, highlighting her gold earrings. Lines on her forehead showed concern.
“Ethan,” she whispered, raising her index finger, which was tipped with a golden fingernail, to pursed lips. Her brown eyes, rimmed in black and gold, watched in the light of the lantern’s fire. They followed something behind him. He didn’t dare speak. Her soft fingers touched his bare arm and pointed. Looking through the branches, he saw a giant black bear lumber past; it was easily the size of a Holstein cow. With each step, the bear’s heavy coat shimmered. Ethan was immobilized. Fear and awe held him still. To speak was impossible but unnecessary. The bear continued its course, seemingly unperturbed by the inhabitants of the forest shelter or the tremendous gusts of wind whipping past it. Ethan could feel its shambling presence as the ground shook and the air moved. Unknowingly, Ethan held his breath, anxious for the brazen animal to move on.
“He’s here to protect you,” Christa whispered. “He won’t bother us.”
Ethan turned and looked into her brown eyes. She seemed able to read his thoughts and respond in ways that made him want her even more. Her fingertips touched his cheek. He missed her touch and touching her. In the dim light cast by the lantern, he saw her gold eyelids close as he moved to kiss her crimson lips. He moved slowly, savoring the kiss and the warm touch of her skin. She wore a luminescent white gown that flowed like a cascading waterfall to the pine-needle floor. It was open. His hand moved to her warm bare shoulder. She moved with him to his rhythm; he hoped the moment would last but knew the impossibility of such a wish.
“I will find you again,” she whispered, turning to him. “Don’t lose hope. I will. I promise.”
His hand slid down her side. More than anything, he wanted her. His hand moved along the smoothness of her thigh and slid between her legs; his fingertips moved with familiarity, wanting to please her. She acquiesced. His beating heart not only desired her but also craved to give her all he could. His hunger grew, as if charged by the intensity of the tempest that had brought them together. His lips searched hers as if discovering them for the first time. Her hand found him. His fingers found her.
“Please,” she whispered, the tip of her tongue slipping along the curve of his earlobe. “Oh, please.”
She guided him with the ease of perfect love. With no resistance and no reserve, they moved in unison.
He rolled, his hand on her side, looking at her. He could have looked into her brown eyes and died happy.
Something moved behind her. He heard snorting and a thud on the forest floor beneath them. The bear was back. It would be seconds before it found them and broke their lovers’ bond.
The bear was not there to protect him.
The heavy black snout heaved through the branches with the pungent smell of sweet rot. Christa was gone from his arms, replaced by the bear’s huge head and gnashing teeth dripping with saliva. The sharp claws were on him, tearing and pulling at his crotch viciously; pain quickly replaced the ecstasy of moments before.
The head of the bear rose enormous above him. In weak defense, he tried to lift his arms to protect his head, a gesture that would be all but futile against such massive power. The bear’s jaws opened, revealing colossal yellow teeth ready to crush his skull and sever his head; Ethan’s terror resigned to death.
But the bear did not attack his head. Instead, its claws and head pressed painfully into his groin, squashing him and turning his stomach into agony.
“Yes, Ethan!” screamed the voice from the bear’s open mouth. “Yeah, baby, come to me.”
CHAPTER 77
Eyes Open—Sixth Time—Forest to Doom
He recognized the face with such revulsion that he couldn’t hold back his nausea. Acidic bile filled his mouth. Brown liquid squirted from the opening in the tape and dribbled down his chin onto his soi
led T-shirt. He could do nothing to control or stop it. The Madonna’s rubber face was in his nightmare. It moved back, seeming to pay little attention to the disgusting scene it was in.
“Wow, you’re really into this.”
The Madonna mask’s statement was so matter-of-fact that it made Ethan’s disgust even greater.
“I suppose you’re gonna crap on the chair too?” its electronic voice added, shifting to its announcer’s tone. “Attention, Ethan: what you do on the chair, you’re gonna eat. I’m not cleaning up after your doggy doo. But if you’re good, maybe I’ll let you have mine.”
The music seemed louder. Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s “Relax” was pounding out its rhythm.
The eyes behind the mask, which he was sure he recognized, gleamed with a mania Ethan could only associate with insanity. His wrists and ankles were still bound. He wore only the soiled T-shirt he’d been wearing since the night he’d been taken. He was still on the chair. The Madonna was on its knees in front of him with a death-grip hold on his genitals, squeezing. His stomach curdled painfully.
“Ain’t this what you wanted, big fella?” the voice shouted in his face. “Sure sounded like it.”
Ethan screamed.
“Oh, come on!” the voice yelled, its hand moving as if it were squishing a giant turkey baster. “Ya gotta, man. For Mila.”
Mila?
Hearing Mila’s name struck Ethan as if something suddenly broke open in his head. He could feel himself drifting; the heavy door was now open. He’d stepped inside. The immensity of what was before him was no longer coherent. There was no room to pray or do anything else; his brain was bursting with revelation.
“Come on, Ethan,” the Madonna pleaded, thrusting its hand at Ethan’s chest, insanity on a mission. “I know you have it in you. Do it for Mila, in her memory.”
Its manic eyes left Ethan’s and looked down at its hands. On the edge, Ethan knew where he was going. He closed his eyes. There was nothing left. He had reached the point where it was unbearable.
“So this is what it was like for Mila,” it hissed.
Ethan’s stomach cramped and seemed about to split open. His eyes opened. The Madonna mask’s eyes looked blank in madness.
“Mila would be proud, Ethan—and jealous.”
The titter-cackle fractured the air as his captor stood up.
What he saw eclipsed everything else in his mind. The rape was overwhelming, no matter how powerless he’d been to do anything about it. He asked Mila, and prayed to God, for forgiveness, unable to explain why; his participation had not been voluntary. He was the incarcerated victim of crazy and outside what his mind could comprehend—a grotesque scene of humanity.
With his arms chained to the wall, his head slumped forward, incapable of thought.
“No one will ever know, Ethan,” the voice said, chuckling.
Ethan didn’t need to see behind the rubber face to know the malevolent smirk that was there. He’d seen it enough in their dorm room. He knew. Robbie. He just didn’t know how it was possible.
“Our secret is safe with us. I mean me.”
Hesitating, the voice paused as if to consider something it was about to say.
“Because you will never see another person,” it said, the electronic voice louder, coming closer. “Remember, I am the hope, the fear, and the truth for you, Ethan. That will never change in what’s left of your life.”
CHAPTER 78
Eyes Open—Again
Ethan woke but didn’t open his eyes; he only listened and thought. The number twenty-seven came into his head before anything else. He added one without thinking—twenty-eight. He’d counted the times he’d become conscious. It was his only measure of time passing. He heard Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama” playing and pictured the position he was in, because he still could. His head hung down, his chin nearly on his chest. He imagined what he might see upon opening his eyes. His arms were extended behind him, chained to the wall. Though he couldn’t see them, he knew. There was no feeling in his arms; he felt only their weight on his shoulders. He didn’t move or do anything that might bring attention to his consciousness. He would be in the wood chair, his ankles still bound by metal cuffs to the chair legs. In front of him were the bed, the toilet, and the night table. He knew from memory. He had no idea how long he’d been out.
He hoped, as he did each time he came back, that none of it was true. Though his hope was close to zero, it was still hope.
Slowly, with what had become practiced care to avoid detection, he opened his eyes. He felt more hope in managing that task.
What he opened his eyes to see was difficult to believe. He saw naked legs. They must have been someone else’s. He knew his own legs looked stronger than the ones he now looked at. Practice had taught him not to move when shocked or alarmed, but he felt both as he looked at the thinness of his legs. Nakedness no longer caused him bother, but his weight loss did.
He wondered whether he’d become as emaciated as the starving Jews imprisoned in the notorious Nazi death camps he’d seen in old black-and-white photographs in textbooks.
Shut that thought down.
Would he survive another day, another hour, or even another minute?
Can’t think that way, Ethan.
He thought of Christa and being with her. He could rebuild his body, but death was final.
As far as he could tell, he hadn’t moved. He hadn’t raised his head, turned his neck, or shifted in the least. But would that be enough for the voice?
Madonna mask?
He blinked. The music playing was Blondie’s hit song “One Way or Another.”
A thought flashed through his head. Robbie had killed Mila. Right? And he’d likely killed Syd. Right? How was that possible?
“Good morning, old sport,” the Madonna said, touching Ethan’s head.
Something was different with his head. He felt the air move before the hand touched him. The tape over his mouth didn’t seem wrapped around his head anymore, only across his mouth and cheeks. But there was something else.
“Ah, yes,” the voice said in its sick, electronic sweetness.
Ethan didn’t move. The black boots that threatened pain moved closer in front of him. They weren’t to be trusted; the shiny boots were bad news.
“You’ve learned well. Better than I would expect of a thief.”
The boots moved out of Ethan’s sight on one side of the chair and reappeared on the other side.
“Yes, a thief!” it screamed, inches from Ethan’s left ear, and then it whispered, “A people thief of the worst order. The kind who steals girlfriends right from under your nose.”
The Madonna mask yelled the last two words, as if daring Ethan to move. But moving was a violation, and a violation meant punishment. He did everything he could to deny the voice’s apparent need to see pain.
“You look skinny,” the voice said, as if telling someone he or she looked tired despite being responsible for causing it. The tone sounded familiar. Ethan remembered the tone Robbie had had as he stood at the door to their apartment. “Trying to cut back?”
Apartment?
The titter-laugh followed. Ethan couldn’t remember ever hearing Robbie laugh in such a way. Ethan gave no indication he’d heard anything the voice had said. He had to follow the rules.
Robbie’s image returned. Apartment? No, it was our dorm room. Yes, but …
Ethan could recall an apartment. The apartment where Christa—no, the room where Mila lay. No, no. No!
That wasn’t right. He was getting mixed up.
You have to stop this, Ethan.
It was the music. The constant music was intended to confuse. He knew that, didn’t he? America’s “Horse with No Name” filled the air.
What day was it? He had no idea. It didn’t matter. Time was passing, as was
evident by his deteriorating body. He’d been conscious and out twenty-eight times, give or take a few he might have missed or forgotten. Going in and out maybe twice a day made fourteen days. Two weeks? Was that possible? By the look of his legs, it was. At fifteen, he’d been in the hospital for twenty days and had given up thirty pounds to a burst appendix. It was possible.
“You’re still alive, Ethan boy,” Madonna-Robbie said, speaking in the electronic tone Ethan had gotten used to. He tried to pick out something of Robbie in the voice. “You have some stamina, man. I’ll give you that. More than I would have guessed. Thirsty?”
Just the word made Ethan shiver. He wasn’t cold, but the thought of water made him shudder. Dehydration would kill him before the kicks and punches. His captor was somehow giving him just enough to stay alive, but by the look of his thinned legs, that wouldn’t be for much longer.
“How can you be cold?” Madonna-Robbie asked, sounding confused, as if it cared. It apparently had noticed his shiver.
A bent white straw appeared. His head was hanging. He didn’t move as the straw was inserted into a new hole in the new tape put there while he was out. There was no hesitation this time; instinct did not allow him to hold back. He sucked air until a bowl of clear fluid was held in front of him. Water, alcohol, or poison, it didn’t matter.
He drank.
It was water this time.
The liquid was ice cold, jetting into his mouth with its power to sustain life. Down his throat it went with no less pleasure. His ears seemed to take the brunt of the ice-cold liquid. They lit up, burning. Then his throat blew up into his mouth. The three—ears, throat, and mouth—seemed to gang up to blast his head. He imagined his brain crumbling from the force. The pain was unexpected. He shook as the inside of his head throbbed. Bright flares lit up behind his eyes. His arms locked in spasms, and his thighs cramped as if trying to move him off the chair.
He wanted to die.
“I’m sorry,” the Madonna thing said, sounding like a person concerned for his welfare even with the electronic distortion. It was speaking close to his right ear, which now seemed filled with something solid that dampened what he heard. “Did you say something?”
The Musician Page 39