by Sue Clifton
“Changing the subject…talk about a productive stop at Lester’s! Funny how things always seem to fall in place.” As soon as Harri made the remark, they looked at each other and laughed.
“Yep, just one more of a million coincidences in our lives.” Cayce settled into her favorite driving position—left foot on tip of seat, hands at bottom of steering wheel. “Now, on to Bar None and whatever awaits us. Lester said it isn’t far to the gravel road where we turn. He also said we need to be careful. I assume he was talking about the road.”
Cayce found a service station for Harri just before they turned onto Difficult Road. She got the exact mileage from the cashier and asked about the missing bikers when she saw the same flyer taped to the counter.
“Nope. We never saw ’em, but everybody’s talking about it. It’s still on the news. They’re dead, for sure.” The cashier, a young pimple-faced guy with a black T-shirt embossed with a skimpily clad, buxom blonde and the words “Bronc riders do it with spurs” written underneath, made the remark matter-of-factly with no sign of concern.
Cayce left the station shaking her head at the dispassionate attitude of the young man. “Either his daddy owns the station, or cheap labor is mighty hard to come by in the wilderness.”
A few minutes later, Cayce knew how Difficult Road got its name. She could hardly hold the wheel on the bumpy gravel road, and it became even more winding and narrow the farther they got.
“Holy Tallahatchie! This is as curvy as a ‘toe sack full of chicken snakes,’ as granddaddy Zeke used to say. What do we do if we meet someone?” Harri held tight to the door handle and the seat, and Cayce could tell her sister had her brakes on.
“Be careful, Harri. You know this floorboard is pretty old. You might just push a foot right through to the gravel.”
As soon as Cayce got the words out of her mouth, she had to hug the nonexistent shoulder to keep from hitting a bright-yellow pickup truck that blasted around the curve. The man at the wheel grimaced when he saw them.
“Remember that truck. If that’s one of Joshua’s work crew, I’m giving him a what-for when I see him.” Cayce looked at Harri, who had turned around to get a good look at the pickup.
Harri bit her lower lip. “The color would make forgetting it impossible. I think it’s a Dodge, newer model. It’s covered in dust, so it’s hard to tell. Should be easy to spot; he has “Cowboy Up” in big dusty letters across his back window.”
“Could be worse. My ex had “Kick Ass” on his back window. Another reason the viper is an ex.”
Cayce made no attempt to pull onto the road. “I’m shaking so bad I can hardly hold on to the steering wheel. I think I’ll just sit here a minute until I can hear over my heartbeat.”
“We need chocolate!” Harri held up the white box and smiled, what their pop would have referred to as a shit-eatin’ grin. “But I think you better at least move up to that little pull-off, in case some other idiot comes along.”
“Oh, my gosh! Harri, you have to get this recipe.” Cayce pulled over and became lost in the fudge. She took small bites and chewed slowly, savoring the yin/yang of rich, dark chocolate and sweet, tart huckleberries.
“Umm,” was Harri’s only comment as she hurriedly finished off her piece and reached for another.
Cayce slapped her hand and grabbed the box away from her. “We each get one. Remember? This is our bribe to get Teesh to talk to us.” She pulled back onto the road.
Harri pretended to pout. “Well, she better have something good to tell us for this sacrifice. I wonder when Janie will make more.”
“I don’t know, but I think I see Teesh’s cabin ahead.”
Chapter Three
Billie awoke startled and sat up in pitch black. Disoriented, she suffered the same terrifying nightmare as every night. But it was not a nightmare; it was reality. She pulled up her legs and rested her head on her knees while hugging them tight. As a reflex, she brushed her finger over her ear as if getting her hair out of her face, something she had done all her life until now. She rubbed her scalp, feeling the prickly beginnings of new growth. The sore spot on the back of her head had finally healed with the aid of the salve the Keeper had provided each day for the first week, but she could feel ridges and knew there would be scars.
The first day of her captivity, she had awakened from her drowsy state to the sound of loud buzzing. She swatted at bees she dreamed were swarming around her head as she rode on the back of Johnny’s Harley. When she finally regained full consciousness, she realized the buzzing had been her head being shaved. From the bad sore spot on her head, it appeared she had been cut in the process. Her screaming had been interrupted by a synthesized voice.
“And when thou art spoiled, what wilt thou do? Though thou clothest thyself with crimson, though thou deckest thee with ornaments of gold, though thou rentest thy face with painting, in vain shalt thou make thyself fair. Repent of your vanity, Billie. Thirst after righteousness, or ye will burn in hell. I am the Keeper. Heed my words.”
The sermons continued every morning, followed by organ music blasting over some type of speaker system with surround sound. Billie always covered her ears with her hands and rolled into fetal position on her mattress as soon as the sermon ended, in anticipation of the music that threatened to burst her eardrums.
Her prison cell was large compared to her small bedroom at home, and it seemed to be a scantily furnished cave with rock walls on three sides. The floor was concrete, and the only wall not part of the cave was made from concrete blocks. A heavy door, the only way out, was always locked. The room smelled a little musty, but not as unbearable as a regular cave with no heat. A row of fluorescent lights attached to a high ceiling provided the only source of light.
Billie longed for home—the home she’d hated when she left it over a month ago. Then, all she’d thought about was getting as far away from her parents as possible. Being with Johnny was all that had been important to her—something her parents opposed. She had just graduated from high school and was a free adult until the home pregnancy test jolted her back to reality. Now, she had the added responsibility of her unborn child.
Billie’s mind replayed over and over the circumstances surrounding her being here, until she thought she would go insane. She’d tried to convince Johnny they should move away and become the perfect little family, but her plan never materialized. Instead of going to a justice of the peace or to one of those romantic, quaint little chapels set up for quick weddings, like she had seen in Red Lodge, Johnny drove the Harley across Montana into Idaho, pulling up at an abortion clinic two days after they left Hardin.
Billie thought back to their argument that day when she realized where they were. In the end, Johnny had convinced her to at least see what the clinic offered. The doctor there told her she was only eight weeks pregnant, a good, safe time for terminating a pregnancy. They gave her a packet of information to read over and told her to consider her options before making a decision.
She left the clinic more confused than comforted. Yes, it would be easier to go on with her life without a baby—especially since she had not told her parents, or anyone, she was pregnant—but Billie loved Johnny and wanted to do what was right for their baby. She wondered if she and a child could settle Johnny down. Deep down, Billie knew if she had to make a choice, she would choose her baby over Johnny. It was the moral and responsible choice. Johnny was too independent, a wanderer who had drifted into her life the last semester of high school. He lived in a fancy RV on the Big Horn River, spending days fly fishing and nights at the local bars and casinos, except for the time he spent with her.
Billie lay on the mattress, remembering Johnny. She wanted to cry, but her tears had dried up with the realization Johnny was gone. The first few days, she’d been traumatized, and refused the healthy food offered three times a day. She would not speak and tried not to listen to the horrifying voice of the Keeper. He always used a synthesizer to preach to her about her sins, demanding repenta
nce and warning her of hell. The voice reminded her of the horror movies she’d once loved, rather than of Mrs. Wilson, her favorite Sunday school teacher.
Billie knew how long she had been held captive. Once she had come to her senses, she used the Bible, her only source of entertainment allowed for passing time, to keep up with her days in captivity. She started with Genesis four after estimating the number of days she had passed in a zombie-like state, and read a chapter each day, with little comprehension of the verses she read aloud. What was important to her was the chapter number. For forty-five days, she had been a captive.
Billie was smart, valedictorian of her class, and was physically fit because of being a competitive cheerleader and a track star for four years of high school. Soon she realized what she had to do to save herself and the unborn child she had refused to abort at the clinic.
It seems an eternity ago when I told Johnny I needed time to think, to figure out what was the right thing for me to do.
Johnny had given her until the end of the week, but the end of the week never came for Johnny. Now her world was a mattress in a cave prison where her only pleasure was feeling the baby growing inside her.
I’ve got to pee again. It’s the worst part of being pregnant.
Billie lifted herself from the floor and touched the rough stone wall, feeling her way through the dark by holding rock outcroppings in order to get to the strange, stainless steel toilet standing in the corner. As she inched along in the dark, she hummed a lullaby her mother had sung to her as a young child. She convinced herself she hummed it for her unborn child, but in reality, she hummed to comfort herself, to lessen the terror.
No seat or handle was attached to the strange toilet, and no holding tank could be found. It automatically flushed twice a day, leaving only a trace of antiseptic liquid in its bowl.
Damn cold steel!
Billie stopped her humming long enough to silently curse the toilet, but then started again, humming louder. Shivering, she hummed in staccato and pulled her thin dress up over her arms trying to get warm. The dress was thick gray paper, hard to tear but possible. This was the only clothing she was given; no shoes, socks, or even panties were given to her. She received a new, clean paper dress every other day when the automatic shower by the toilet turned on for about three minutes. She ate her food with her hands. Not even plastic eating utensils were allowed. Billie’s logic told her the Keeper was afraid she would find a way to commit suicide if given any tools to assist—a thought that had come to her many times.
It was warm enough in her prison—a good thing, because she had no cover on her bed. Her furnishings consisted of a mattress on the floor, a small stainless steel chair made from one piece of steel, and a small one-person table made the same way.
Her urine sounded like a torrential downpour as it hit the sides of the empty stainless steel bowl.
What does he think? That I’ll drown myself in toilet bowl water?
She would have laughed, but humor could not be used to describe her situation. As she tore off a few sections of the toilet paper, rationed each day, she thought she heard a voice—a female voice so soft the words were not intelligible. Billie looked around the dark room, trying to figure out where it came from, and realized it was beneath her. She rose from the toilet and held up her dress. Kneeling beside the toilet, she lowered her head as far down inside as possible without touching the liquid. The smell of Pine Sol and urine threatened to suffocate her, so she pulled her loose dress up over her shoulders and covered her nose and mouth. With her head only an inch from the liquid, she listened.
“Help me! Is anyone there?”
The sound was muted, like someone speaking under water. The voice was so soft Billie could hardly make out the words. She had been blessed with very sensitive ears—something bothersome at Fourth of July celebrations and birthday parties with balloons popping, but now she counted it as a blessing.
I’m not alone.
Billie pulled her dress completely off, covered her mouth and nose with her hand, and stuck her face even farther into the toilet bowl. She covered her head and the toilet with her dress to muffle the sounds she was about to make.
“I’m here. Can you hear me?” Billie spoke just above a whisper, as loud as she dared, and prayed for a reply.
No reply came. Billie glanced from under her sound shield to make sure the red camera light was still off, as it was every night, and then put her head down in the toilet again. This time, she included one hand.
“Ew!” Billie thought as she poked her finger through the lukewarm liquid on the steel bottom. She jerked, surprised as the flap opened. All the liquid ran out.
Whoever she is, her voice is being carried through the pipes. We must share the same pipes, and she must have this flap open. Billie lowered her head to only an inch from the flap.
“I am Billie. Who are you?” She spoke tersely, trying to be understood.
“Lisa. My name is Lisa. I hurt. I think my baby is coming early.” The girl began to sob and moan softly.
“How long have you been here, Lisa?”
“Months. Don’t know. I’m scared. Can you help me?” The girl begged, but Billie could do nothing.
“I can’t get out. Scream for help, Lisa. The Keeper will come.”
“No!” The distraught girl yelled the quick reply. “He will kill me after my baby is born…like he did the other girl.”
“What?” When Billie whipped her head up, the flap snapped closed. She opened it again and asked, “How do you know?”
“…told me…cursed him…go to hell.” Not all of the girl’s words could be understood. She was crying hard now.
“Who told you that, Lisa?” Billie spoke too loud and knew she had to control her voice.
“The Keeper. Oh!” The girl’s muffled moans grew louder.
“Be brave, Lisa!” Billie’s head dipped so close her nose touched the stainless steel. Then she heard the girl scream, a high-pitched cry shortened by a snap. Lisa had let go of the flap, ending all conversation.
“Lisa! Lisa!” Billie whispered as loud as she dared, but no answer came.
Billie shook so hard she could barely pull on her dress, and then she backed away.
My cell and Lisa’s must share common water and drain pipes. Lisa must be just behind this wall.
Billie frantically felt all over the wall of stone behind the toilet, running her fingers over every inch of the rocky outcrops from the ground up as high as she could reach, but she could distinguish no possible opening. She put her ear to the wall every few inches, but heard nothing. It was useless. She couldn’t get to Lisa.
Billie retraced her steps, allowing her body to fall onto the mattress. Once again, she curled into fetal position, numbed by the magnitude of what Lisa told her and numbed with fears of what lay ahead for her. The young woman was so distraught she popped her thumb into her mouth, succumbing to the self-soothing she’d used as a child, a habit she had been forced to break when she entered first grade.
After several minutes of trembling, Billie left the mattress, felt her way across the concrete floor, and lifted the steel chair up over her head. She continued what had become her nightly routine until her arms and hands grew shaky. Then she jogged in place while counting slowly to one hundred, concentrating hard not to lose count. Following this would be crunches, side bends, stretching movements, jumping jacks, and many other exercises she needed to increase her strength and stamina. She exercised for what seemed hours, stopping to rest every few minutes. She wanted to become exhausted so she could sleep through the next long, endless day. In her mind, she could hear her Grammar’s voice.
Good girl, Billie! You can do this. Don’t give up.
With motivation born of a new sense of urgency, Billie decided to add to her exercise ritual. Feeling along and up the wall as far as she could reach, she pinpointed each narrow rock ledge in her mind, used the lowest stones for footholds, and began climbing. The ceiling in the room was high,
but she would not go too high for fear of falling and hurting herself and her baby. The goal was to strengthen her grip, something that would come in handy with the escape attempt she knew would come. Reaching, feeling along each side and higher, she moved her hands and feet until her arms and legs trembled. Fearing she would cramp up, she retraced her climbing path downward.
Exhausted, Billie lay back on her mattress. She gently rubbed her belly and mentally made an oath to herself and her child.
We may die, Baby, but not without fighting to live!
Eyes watched and ears listened until the girl slept. Then the watcher replaced the loose stone in the hole and backed away into darkness.
Chapter Four
Cayce slowed, turning into the dirt trail leading to a quaint log cabin trimmed in red. The flowerbeds in the front were outlined with old, weathered railroad ties, and Cayce figured these were likely leftovers from the railroad track to nowhere.
“Looks like Teesh still lives in the old days. This should be fun.” Harri picked up the box of candies and followed Cayce to the porch slanted with age and ground-settling. A huge black cat materialized from nowhere and stopped them on the steps. Her body sprawled out full-length on the second step, blocking their path as if she was the old lady’s personal guardian.
Harri reached down to pet the cat, but it proved to be anything but friendly. Hissing, it raised one paw and scratched in the air at Harri. Harri jerked her hand back.
“Well, Missy, I guess you don’t know my sister here is a real animal lover. You be nice, you hear?” Cayce put her hands on her hips and stared down at the cat. “Where’s your mama? We really want to see her. Lester sent us, so I promise we’re okay.”
As if understanding every word Cayce said, the cat rose and arched her back into an elongated stretch so she looked like she needed to be sitting on the tail end of a broom. She ambled toward the front door and scratched, making the screen door bump with each swipe. Footfalls could be heard inside the cabin, and within seconds, the wooden front door creaked open just enough to open the screen door and let the cat in.