She poured a cup of coffee for Emma and another one for herself. She crossed the room and handed Emma her cup, then sat down and closed her eyes. The story was so hard to tell. Every time she told it she felt the same way, as if all of it had happened only the day before. The pain of the beatings, the cool handcuffs against her wrist, the emptiness of the lies, and the dreaded fear of nighttime—all of it came rushing back at her. God, give me the strength. You know how hard this is for me. . . .
I am with you, daughter. My Spirit is in you, leading you even now.
Mary opened her eyes and took a sip of coffee. The warmth felt good. "Sometimes if I hurt my wrist on purpose, the pain would give me a distraction. A reason not to feel the pain of my life, I guess."
Emma ran her hands over her forearms. "I've . . . felt that way before."
That's when Mary noticed something she hadn't before. Along Emma's arms were tiny scars and a few scabs. Classic signs that she, too, had found a way of manifesting the pain into something tangible. Emma hadn't tried to free herself of handcuffs, but clearly she had an issue. "What's that, Emma?" she asked gently. "What happened to your arms?"
Tears filled her eyes. "Sometimes . . . after Charlie hits me, I ... I cut myself." Emma shrugged. "It takes away the other pain for a few minutes."
Mary could feel her heart breaking. No wonder God had brought Emma to her. They had even more in common than she'd thought. "I understand."
"Sometimes I'll be cutting my arm, and all of a sudden I'll realize what I'm doing." Emma wiped the back of her hand across her damp cheek. "It's like I can't help myself."
Mary felt the burden of the young woman's pain. "The horrors that come with abuse are not always explainable. It's bondage."
And it was. As strong as if Emma, too, were in handcuffs.
* * *
Chapter 9
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They were too far into the story for Mary to stop.
Emma settled farther back into her seat and nodded. "Continue, please. You were saying . . . something about one night when you were fifteen."
Mary could still see it all vividly. "It was evening, and I was already afraid of the nightmares, wondering which one would come and how long I could stay awake so it wouldn't happen." She took another sip of her coffee and set the cup down. "For some reason, that night I started thinking about God."
***
Mary still had the little red-beaded purse. But she hadn't gone to it or opened it in a very long time. What was the point? What sort of God would let a child be chained up in a basement?
As usual, Mary had no answers, but she had something that didn't make any sense at all. Deep inside, where the tiny trickle of life still flowed in the underground caverns of her heart, she had hope. She knew because that night when she thought about God, there was still the flicker of a thought that maybe—just maybe—He really did have plans for her. But the hope God brought was so slight that Mary let it pass.
Besides it was a hope that didn't make sense. Obviously God was finished with her, and He certainly didn't love her. No one did. Sure, once in a while the men would tell her they loved her. Their whispered words made her sick. But at least they acted like they loved her. And sometimes it was enough to convince herself that—for a short while—they really did. Or maybe love was just another lie, like the ones she told everyone Jimbo sent down the stairs.
Mary rolled onto her side. She had furniture now. A dresser and a nightstand. Pretty clothes in a cardboard closet Jimbo had built for her. The clothes were all see-through and silky, and the underwear was lacy and colorful. Mary figured any girl her age would be thrilled to have such pretty things.
She had something else too. She had the memories of her mama and her grandma Peggy.
She'd thought about her poor mama and her sweet, loving grandma every day since she'd been kidnapped by Jimbo and Lou. A few weeks after they brought her here she understood what had happened. Her mother was dead—Jimbo said so. If it was true, then she wasn't coming back for her. Mary didn't hope much about seeing her again. And she didn't pay much heed to God either. Because God had let Jimbo and Lou bring her here.
But Grandma Peggy ...
Her grandma would do whatever she could to bring Mary home to live with her. She'd promised that, right? That even if her mama left or ran off or died, her grandma would take care of her forever. All she had to do was find her, and the two of them could be together always.
The night grew darker and Mary shifted, restless. The handcuff was cold on her wrist, and the cuts there never quite healed. Over time she got used to sleeping with one wrist locked to the bedpost, but it was never comfortable, never like it should be. She reached with her free hand and soothed her fingers over the cuts.
Maybe this was normal, this life she lived. Maybe being chained to a bedpost and having men visit her throughout the week was what any girl her age might go through. Not every girl, but lots of girls.
Jimbo had explained it to her many times. "God made women so that men could have their needs met and everyone could get along just dandy."
These thoughts of how her life must be at least somewhat normal were lulling her into sleep when suddenly there was the sound of cars on the gravel drive outside the basement window. Mary opened her eyes, fully awake. How many cars were there? Three or four? And why were they here so late? She didn't have a clock, but it had been dark for a long time. Jimbo had left her hours ago, and usually after he attached the handcuff she was finished for the day.
She lay still,- her heart beat so loudly she could hear it. Outside came the crunching sounds of people walking over the rocky drive, heading for the front door. Mary's chest rose and fell faster than before, leant breathe. . . help me breathe.
There was a crash, and in the same instant she heard a man shout, "Police . . . freeze!"
Police? Panic hit hard. What had Jimbo always told her about the police? That if they ever came, they'd haul all of them to jail and throw away the key. Wasn't that it?
Mary turned over and jerked her wrist, the one cuffed to the bedpost. "Come on!" She pulled at it some more, yanking her hand hard against the metal until her wrist throbbed from the pain. A familiar warm sticky wetness ran down her arm. She was bleeding again, and somehow the feeling was freeing. It gave her somewhere to focus her fears.
Upstairs she heard Jimbo yell a bunch of cusswords and a few threats at the officers. "Where's your search warrant?" There was pounding across the floor above her. Probably Jimbo, moving toward the policemen. "You can't do this without a—"
An explosion rocked the house, and Mary jumped up. They were shooting! Jimbo must've run at the police, and they'd shot him and killed him. Lou would be next and then her. She rolled off the bed and cried out when her bloody wrist twisted in the cuff.
The cement was cold on her bare legs, but she didn't care. They could come for her, but she wasn't going to give up without a fight. She cowered beside the bed, hidden except for her one wrist still chained to the post. She looked fast and hard around the room. There had to be a way out—there had to be.
Someone kicked the basement door. "What's down here?"
"I don't have to tell you nothin'." The voice belonged to Jimbo. He wasn't dead after all. Maybe they'd only used the gun to wound him, knock him down, and keep him from fighting.
For the first time in her life, she was pulling for Jimbo. Fight at them, come on! Get them out of the house! Jail terrified her, made her sick with fear. They would take her and lock her up, and she'd never see daylight again, never find Grandma Peggy. Fight, Jimbo. Come on! Fight for all of—
The door burst open, and two officers stood at the top of the stairs, both shining flashlights. "It's a basement," one of the men said. "This where you keep the drugs, Jimbo?"
Mary yanked at the cuff on her wrist again and again, and when she looked up, in the light streaming down the stairs she saw that the blood was running down her arm. She pulled one more time, but the cu
ff wouldn't budge. All she could do was keep low and hope the officers didn't see her hand.
One of the cops flipped on the light, and two sets of footsteps sounded slowly down the stairs, stopping partway down. From her hiding place, Mary could barely see them. They were looking at the bed, staring at it in confusion and then in a surprised and angry sort of way.
"Who's there?" The taller officer took the rest of the stairs, his gun drawn.
Mary was trembling so hard she was sure the bed was moving. They're going to kill me. I'll make one move, and they'll shoot me or catch me and send me to jail. Please. . . not jail. Please.
"You ... by the bed." The short officer had black hair and a mustache. He fell in beside his partner and shone the flashlight on her hand that was cuffed to the post. His tone was gentler than before. "Get up and tell us your name."
She wanted to think him mean, but there was nothing mean about his eyes. They reminded her of someone from a long time ago. And then in a flash she remembered where she'd seen eyes like that before. They were like Grandma Peggy's eyes. Kind and warm and safe. But that didn't make sense, because he was a cop, and cops would only hurt her. Jimbo had always said so.
The tall officer crept around the foot of the bed, and when he could see her fully, he stopped, lowered his gun, and whispered, "Dear God . . . what have they done?"
His partner came up and saw her too. "Sweetheart. . ." His voice cracked. He shone the flashlight on the wall beside the bed, the one she was cowering against. Then he found the light switch. He turned it on, flicked off his flashlight, and took another step toward her. "Everything's okay." Another step.
"No!" She shook her head, letting her wild mass of loose curls fall over her eyes. An awkwardness came over her. Maybe the see-through nightgown she was wearing was somehow not right, not the sort of thing a fifteen-year-old should wear. She bent over her knees and lay as flat as she could. Stop shaking, she ordered herself. "Leave me alone! Don't take me to jail!"
The tall officer held out his hand and stopped his partner. Then he cupped his hands over his mouth and turned back toward the stairs. "There's a victim down here. We need backup."
"No!" Mary screamed. "Leave me alone! Please!"
"Listen—" the voice belonged to the man with the mustache—"you haven't done anything wrong. You aren't going to jail." He breathed out and muttered something about not believing this. "Look at me."
She sorted through the things he'd just said. She hadn't done anything wrong, and she wasn't going to jail. Was that the truth? She'd mistrusted police since she was a little girl, but now the police officers standing a few feet away sounded honest, like maybe they really were here to help her.
She lifted her head a few inches and looked at them. Was it possible? What had they called her? A victim, wasn't that it? Mary wasn't sure what a victim was, but it didn't sound like a bad thing.
"We're telling the truth." The tall cop took a small step closer. "We're here to help you." He paused and bit his lip. Horror and pain muddied his eyes, and again Mary felt ashamed at how she must look. "How long . . . how long have you been like this?"
Mary sat up a little more. Her wrist was throbbing, the blood still dripping down her arm. She had no reason to believe them, nothing to prove they were telling the truth. But she had no choice either. She crossed her chest with her free arm, covering herself as best she could. She thought about lying, but something told her that would only make things worse. "Since . . . since I was ten."
The officer with the mustache dropped down to the edge of the bed. He looked like he was about to cry, but he blinked a few times instead. "How old are you now?"
She kept her knees beneath her, her arm across her chest. "Fifteen." Her cheeks were hot from shame, hot in a way that they never were when Jimbo's friends came down the stairs.
The tall man moved slowly around to her arm. "Just a minute. Let me free you,- then we can talk." He took a ring of keys from his pocket, working them around until he found a small narrow one. He slid it into the handcuff, where only Jimbo's key ever worked, and the metal snapped off her wrist.
She pulled her hand to her chest and rubbed at the blood,-then she shrank back into the corner and waited. They weren't going to shoot her—she could tell that much. And if they were going to take her to jail, now was the time they'd make their move. She shook worse than before, and her stomach hurt.
The shorter man with the mustache looked around the basement until he spotted her cardboard closet. He went to it, flung it open, and grabbed a heavy silk robe. It was one of the only things she owned that wasn't sheer enough to see through. He brought it over and handed it to her. "Here."
She worked it over her shoulders, staying low to her knees so they couldn't see her. When the robe was on, she sat straighter. They weren't going to take her to jail. Otherwise they'd already have her halfway up the stairs.
And that could only mean one thing: Jimbo had lied; all the time she'd been living here he'd lied.
"Can you tell us your name?" The tall officer crouched down so he was eye level with her. His voice was soft, but not the sort of soft that most men had when they came to visit her. His was more like a daddy or a grandpa, like someone trying to help her.
"Mary." She brushed her long hair off her face and looked straight at him. The fear was leaving her. "My name's Mary."
"Mary what?" The cop with the mustache pulled a pad of paper out of his back pocket. "Do you know your other name?"
Her other name? Yes, she knew it. Jimbo called her by that name all the time. "Mary Margaret."
"Margaret?" The officer wrote something on his pad. "That's your last name?"
Mary felt another wave of shame. "I think so. I . . . can't remember." Her head was spinning, and her heart beat fast inside her.
The tall officer leaned against the wall and ran his fingers hard through his hair. "We need to ask you a few questions, Mary, but first let's take care of that wrist." The muscles in his jaw flexed as he gently wrapped his clean handkerchief around her bloody wrist. "These questions might not be easy," he warned her.
"Okay." She pulled the robe tighter around her waist.
He nodded at his partner, then looked back at her. "Has anyone ever hurt you while you've been living down here?"
Hurt her? The question was harder than she thought, not because it made her sad, but because she wasn't sure how to answer him. "Jimbo, you mean?" Her voice was quiet, timid.
"Yes. Him or anyone else."
Mary sucked at the inside of her cheek. Without thinking about it, she brought her hand to her face and rubbed her cheek. "Sometimes Jimbo hits me." She jerked back, because in that instant she could picture him raising his hand to strike her. Her eyes closed for a moment, and when she opened them, she could feel the strangest thing. They were wet and blurry. She was crying—something she hadn't done since her first year here. She nodded. "Yes, he hurts me."
The tall man kept asking the questions, and the one with the mustache wrote things down—her answers probably. He leaned over and pulled in a long breath, as if it were hard asking her questions and learning about her life. "I'm sorry, Mary." He gritted his teeth as he straightened. "Jimbo will never hit you again." He looked at her, and again his eyes were sad. "How 'bout anyone else? Does anyone else hurt you?"
Mary lowered her chin to her chest. "The customers do once in a while. Jimbo's friends." After so many years of lying, it felt good to tell the truth.
The officer with the mustache lowered the pad and pencil to his sides. He looked from his partner to Mary. "The customers?"
Surely they knew about the customers. They were men, and all men had needs. Wasn't it obvious that's why she was here? To meet the needs of men? But the look in the eyes of both officers told her that whatever needs men had, this was not a normal way for them to be met. She swallowed hard. "Jimbo takes the money, and he sends the customers down here for visits. It's not a lot of men. Fifteen, maybe. The same ones come all the time."
Mary lifted one shoulder and felt it poke through the opening in her robe. She pulled the ends tight once more. A realization hit her. None of this must be normal. Otherwise the officers wouldn't look so surprised, so shaken. She looked up at the ceiling, and some of the wetness in her eyes slid down her cheeks. "Since I first came here. When I was ten."
"Every day?" The tall officer didn't have to say so,- it was obvious how he felt about her having customers since she was ten. He was disgusted.
"No." Her voice faded some. "Most days, though."
The one with the mustache was writing notes again. Twice he rubbed his eyes with the back of his fist. Was he crying? Was her story that sad and broken that a police officer would cry? He made a fist around his pencil and pressed it to his lips. He whispered, "I'm gonna kill that guy."
"Wait—" the other officer shook his head at his partner— "not in front of the girl."
And in that moment, no one had to tell Mary what victim meant. She knew what it was because she felt it deep down to her soul. A victim didn't have any choice about the things that were done to her, and the things done to her were the most awful things of all.
The officer with the mustache relaxed his hand and looked at her. "I'm sorry, Mary. No one—" he clenched his teeth, and the words sounded trapped between his lips—"no one will ever hurt you again. I promise you."
He was about to say something else, but there was the sound of more cars pulling into the driveway. Cars and something else, something in the sky.
She pressed herself farther back into the corner. "What's that?"
"Great." The man with the mustache lowered his notepad again. "Backup's here and the media with 'em. They must've heard the call and come for the news."
The media? Did that mean the television people? Mary wanted to hide under the bed until everyone went away.
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