by Jette Harris
She fell still under his hand, tears streaming down her face. Z’s movements became weaker. Rhodes wasn’t paying attention to him; His eyes were fixed on the crying girl.
“I did it,” she sobbed. “It was me. Kill me. Leave him alone.”
Rhodes abandoned the boy. As soon as Z was free, he rolled onto his side and heaved a shocking amount of blood onto the white carpet. Heather tensed as Rhodes knelt by her side, but forced herself to relax, making an offering of herself. He wiped the tears from her face and pointed at the person-sized hole in the wall.
“I should kill you for this. I’ve killed others for less,” he whispered. Heather nodded, closing her eyes. “But I don’t think I will. I need you to keep Z in line.” He smoothed down her mussed hair. “And I know how to keep you in line.”
35
Usually when Rhodes came to the door, he was just wearing jeans, some blue-and-white striped pajama pants, or an ironically fluffy, blue terrycloth robe. Sometimes he would come naked. When he did, he was the stuff of nightmares.
Heather was confused when he opened the door to her closet the day after their escape attempt, and he was fully dressed in jeans and a faded Dark Side of the Moon t-shirt. He still looked scruffy: His hair was a mess, his eyes puffy, he had not shaved.
“Hello, sweetheart.” He tilted his head so he could look her in the eye from where she lay. “It’s time for a field trip.”
“No.” Her neck was still stiff from the litany of abuse. She did not like the idea of moving.
Rhodes’s mouth twitched. “That’s cute.” He smiled. “You think you have a choice.” He reached down to grab her arms. She lashed out at him. What was left of her nails caught his cheek. He grabbed her wrists and hoisted her up to his shoulder. She writhed and struck, but he was unfazed. In her malnourished state, she tired quickly.
He wrinkled his nose. “Fuck, woman, it’s time for you to take a shower.”
It was true: Monica mentioned washing when she was taken to the bathroom and showering in the Bedroom. Heather had not bothered with hygiene. She had washed the sticky blood from her hands and face, but her hair was still matted with it. She was pretty certain there was still rabbit-vomit sticking in there as well. She had hoped her unwashed state would act as a repellent, but so far, it proved inefficient.
Heather expected him to carry her into the Bedroom, but he didn’t. He entered another door: also a bedroom, but plainer. This one contained a bed and a chair. The bed didn’t have any covers on it, just a fitted sheet and pillows. She expected to be thrown on the mattress, as before, but she wasn’t. He lowered her to her feet. She stumbled and he put a steadying hand on her shoulder.
“Shower.” He nodded toward a bathroom.
“Go to Hell.”
Pursing his lips, he shoved her into the bathroom and forced her face into the sink. He turned on the faucet and pulled the drain shut, then held her head as the water rose. He used his free hand to work off her robe. Heather stopped struggling, praying this time he would let her die. Waiting for the sink to fill was tedious. She fought the urge to take a deep breath when the water touched her nose. Then she had to fight the urge to fight as the water covered her face. She lost control. Drowning was not like in her dream, not the same as being strangled: It was far more painful.
Heather opened her mouth to scream. Rhodes yanked her up. She fell to the floor, gasping and shivering. Cold water ran down her naked back and shoulders.
“Still thirsty?”
Heather shook her head.
“Good.” He nodded toward the shower. “Shower time.”
She nodded. He turned on the showerhead and checked the temperature. When he was satisfied, he flicked the water at her.
“I’ll give you some privacy,” he told her, “but don’t make me come in here to get you.” He left the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
Unlike the other bathroom, which was barren except for a couple of towels and had padlocks on the cabinets, this one was fully stocked with both men’s and women’s products: washcloths, a loofa, toothbrushes, disposable razors, even the special coconut oil Monica used in her hair. The razors were the wire-wrapped kind pre-teen girls use when they want to go through the motions of shaving without the risk of nicking themselves. She attempted to open one of them, to get to the blade, but only succeeded in cutting her fingers.
Heather used all the hot water trying to alleviate the soreness in her neck. She managed to wash the blood and vomit out of her hair without re-opening any of her injuries. She rubbed her skin raw trying to wash away the past several days, but the bruises and bite marks would not disappear. She finally gave up when the water became icy.
She wrapped a towel around her. It was comforting to cover herself in something more shielding than that robe. As she was brushing her teeth, she leaned close to the mirror to inspect her bleeding gums. She was surprised to glance up and find her scalp was not scabbed over: It was stitched. The stitches were so small among the blood-matted hair, she had not been able to distinguish them from a scab. She only had a moment to puzzle over this before the door opened.
“You’re taking your sweet time.” Rhodes crossed behind her. He stepped up and perched on top of the toilet tank. He tapped something on the lid, indicating she should sit. Heather was startled until she realized he was holding a comb.
“I had a hard time washing the blood out of my hair,” she explained. She rinsed out her mouth and obediently sat between his legs. He took a handful of hair and worked the comb through it. He started at the bottom of each lock, just like her mother had taught her. A cold fear crept up her neck that he had learned this for a daughter. The thought was so unimaginable, she blocked it out.
Heather tried to sit patiently as Rhodes worked out her tangles. Although she knew better, she wondered idly if Rhodes were really two different men: the vicious beast that had raped her, and the chatty man who had fed her the omelet. She wondered which one was currently sitting behind her, combing her hair. Or this nurturing attention could be some kind of apology for the savage behavior that had driven them to attempt to escape. As if to answer, Rhodes hummed softly, a tune that tugged at her memory.
“What are you humming?”
“Stairway to Heaven.”
Of course, she thought, you should have known that. She recalled the morning they had sat on the floor, talking about their dreams as if he had never given her cause for fear. She wondered if that had been an apology for garroting her. She wasn’t going to let her guard down again. She braced herself for any possible reaction as she mustered the courage to ask another question.
“Did you kill Dr. Creighton?”
“No,” he replied. “Dr. Creighton came down with a mysterious 48-hour case of food poisoning.”
She twisted to look at his face, to see if he were joking. He grabbed the top of her head and faced her forward again. “But he’s OK?” She could not hide the relief in her voice.
Rhodes shrugged. “He’s lost a few pounds.”
Heather suppressed a chuckle. Dr. Creighton would have benefitted from losing some weight. “How did you do that? Make him sick?”
“If I told you, I would have to kill you.”
The joke killed her amusement. “I thought you were going to kill me anyway?”
“Not while we’re having such a good time.”
He grabbed a towel to pat the excess water from her hair and wipe it off her shoulders. The cloth against her skin made her shudder. She was silent for a long time, biting her lip. After everything he had done to her—to all of them—it was surreal to sit here with this man as he played with her hair.
“Avery…” It felt strange to say his name while not screaming or crying. “Why did you bring us here?”
Rhodes’s movements slowed. She couldn’t tell if he was considering her question, or if he was surprised she had asked. “Have you ever ridden a horse, Just Heather?” The question was so unexpected, she attempted to turn her head to look at
him, but he forced her to face forward once more.
Heather closed her eyes and remembered. “I used to go ride with my parents every Fall.”
“Have you ever seen someone break a horse?”
“I can’t say that I have.”
“It’s a beautiful thing,” he told her. “Bending something wild to your will, making it do anything you choose…” His voice was hollow, like his mind was elsewhere. The sound of it scared her. He placed a hand on her neck and ran his fingers down to her shoulder. She wondered if he was imagining stroking a horse. The thought made her shudder again. Rhodes’s hand stopped. He was back in the bathroom. “Which gives me an idea.”
“Oh, God.” Expecting him to assault her, she jumped up.
“No, no.” He grabbed her wrist and pulled her back down. “I’m not hurting you.” To her great surprise, he began to braid her hair. She sat in silence, stunned and nervous, and gathered the courage for one more question.
“Why are you doing this?”
“You already asked that.”
“No, I mean my hair. Why are you braiding my hair?”
Rhodes chuckled. The sound unnerved her. He worked his way to the tips, then pushed her up. “Let me show you.” He sounded like a mischievous kid. With hands on her shoulders, he led her into the bedroom. “Look around.”
Heather glanced around the room. Her stomach dropped. “Oh, God.” She took a step back, colliding with Rhodes. Mounted in two corners of the room, and another on the far side of the headboard, were small, grey boxes: cameras. “No,” she said. He clapped his hands back on her shoulders and forced her to sit down on the edge of the bed. It now made sense why there were no covers.
“Yes,” he told her. “You’re going to put on a little show for me.”
“No.” She shook her head.
“You keep saying that, but I keep winning,” he pointed out. “You really should stop saying that.”
Heather opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her throat was too tight. She turned away, squeezing her eyes shut. She steeled herself against the emotions raging in her head.
“Now,” Rhodes instructed, “I’m going to bring one of the others in here, and you two are going to perform for me.”
She shook her head. “Who?” Her voice came out harsher than was prudent.
Rhodes scowled, but chose to ignore her tone. “That’s a surprise,” he said. “But you’ll do what I want with whom I want, or I will be very, very angry. And you don’t want to see me angry again.” He stroked her cheek.
As soon as the door closed, Heather was on her feet. The bedroom had a large, single-pane window on the far wall. She inspected it, pushing to see how sturdy it was. You could break it, she thought, with the chair. Before she could turn her thoughts into actions, she heard footsteps approaching. She returned to where she had been sitting on the bed. Her heart pounded as the door opened. She stood, but her knees buckled, making her sit back down. She covered her mouth, fighting a relieved smile, as Rhodes led Monica into the room.
“Monica!” Heather cried, pulling her away from Rhodes and into a tight hug. Monica buried her face in Heather’s shoulder, starting to cry.
“You two won’t have any trouble playing nice,” Rhodes told them. Heather shook her head, tightening her embrace. He winked at her and closed the door.
“Did he give you any kind of instructions?” she asked hesitantly, not wanting to know the answer.
Monica shook her head. “He doesn’t usually, unless we don’t do anything.”
“You’ve done this before?”
Sniffling, Monica nodded. “With Witt, and…” She trailed off. Her eyes filled with tears again. She didn’t want to admit having sex with Z, even forced. Heather found it easy to swallow her envy. She stroked Monica’s curly hair, trying to comfort her.
“It’s OK,” she whispered. “It’s OK.” She hugged her again, rocking her and stroking her hair.
“If we don’t—If we don’t do what he wants—” Monica stammered, choking on her tears, “he’s going to come in here and—and—and—”
Heather pulled away, looking Monica in the eye. Her racing heart began to slow. She was able to breathe easier. She had to be strong for Monica, for all of them. She shook her head. “That’s not going to happen,” she assured the crying girl, still stroking her hair. “We’re not going to give him any reason to come in here, and if he does…” She was not sure what lengths she would go to. “Everything’s going to be OK,” she promised.
Feeding off of Heather’s courage, Monica took a deep, broken breath. She nodded, smirking. “For old time’s sake, right?” Somehow she managed to keep her voice even.
The thought made Heather break a little. She couldn’t decide if she was laughing or sobbing. Perhaps it was a little of both. Before losing her resolve, she took Monica’s face in her hands and kissed her.
36
Monica did not move as Rhodes finished stitching Heather’s forehead. He lifted her limp body gently off the table to signal he was done.
“Open the door.”
She hurried to obey him. He carried the unconscious girl through the great room. Monica hesitated.
“Turn off the light, then go ahead—through those doors and up the stairs.” He nodded his head toward the French doors. They opened into a library.
She led, frequently glancing back. His manner was different from what it had been when he had carelessly pulled Heather from the Jeep: He cradled her head against his shoulder, careful not to knock her into anything as he carried her up the spiral staircase.
Monica hesitated at the top of the stairs. Several doors lined the second-floor landing. She thought she could hear a shuffling or shuddering beyond the door on her left, but she couldn’t divine what it was.
“All the way around,” Rhodes instructed, “to the last door.”
Taking a deep breath, Monica went to the door and pushed it open to find a plain white wall. The room was not a room exactly, but opened onto a T-shaped passage. It was well-lit and white, with two louvered doors on each side of the passage. Three of the doors stood open. She peered inside the first room, finding nothing. It wasn’t even really a room, more like a dressing room.
“Move.” Rhodes pushed past her. He carried Heather into the closet and laid her on the floor. Placing a hand on her face, he studied her for a moment. He took her nose between his hands and wrenched it. The unconscious girl whimpered, but fell still again. Rhodes rolled her onto her side. Blood flowed from her nose to spread across the white carpet. He shut her in.
“What are you going to do with us?” Monica tried to look brave, but a rustling from the corner made her jump. Rhodes turned toward the sound, then back to her.
“Moné-sha, you—”
Her eyes narrowed. She shook her head, about to protest, but thought better of it.
“Take off your clothes,” he demanded.
“What? No!”
Rhodes pulled a black bar from his pocket. She thought it was a small flashlight. With a flick of his wrist, it extended with a thnk! that made her flinch. It was the telescoping baton.
Monica began to cry as she pulled off her shirt.
37
The girls gave Rhodes no excuse to intrude on them. Heather had not intended to fall asleep, but she did. They used their robes as covers. Heather kept her arms around Monica’s little body, trying to maintain the illusion she could protect her.
Heather found herself back in Dr. Creighton’s classroom. He was standing in the front of the class, going over the main blood vessels of the human body.
This is good! You know this! Turning, she wanted to see if anyone else appeared as confident as she felt.
All the other students were staring at their desks, hands in their laps. All except Monica, Witt, and Z. They were staring straight ahead. They were making an effort not to look at her—their eyes were fixed on the air in front of them, their necks rigid. She frowned.
“Don’t worry, Monica
,” she whispered. “I can help you.”
Without looking at her, Monica shook her head. Tears were running down her face. Twisting around, Heather looked at Z. His eyes shone. He kept clenching and unclenching his jaw. Witt looked off in the distance, his gaze bitter. When Heather turned back to Monica, all of the other students had disappeared. Dr. Creighton continued his lecture as if nothing were amiss.
“Dr. Creighton,” Heather called, “I think something’s wrong.” Dr. Creighton stopped speaking. Without turning to her, he walked around his desk, then out the door. “Dr. Creighton?” Her voice cracked with fear. A sense of betrayal rose in her throat. He was a teacher—wasn’t he supposed to protect you? She turned to look back at the boys, to see their reactions, but they were gone. She looked around the classroom, but no one else was there but Monica.
“We’re getting out of here.” Heather stood up and leaned under the desk to grab her book bag. When she straightened, Monica was gone. Heather froze. Her voice stuck in her throat. She turned to see if they had gone out into the hall. The hallway was as black as pitch.
His form loomed out of the darkness: Tall, fearsome, with his black eyes. He walked into the doorway and paused, watching her. He was waiting for something. Swallowing, she lowered her head. Her feet were bare. Blood dripped onto the floor next to her foot. Reaching up, her hair felt wet by her right temple. She found where it was coming from: there was a hole in her head, just above her right ear. Blood began to flood from it, running down her face, raining onto her feet.
Heather jerked awake, fighting a scream. Just enough moonlight shone into the room for her to see his silhouette, sitting in the chair in the corner. He watched her silently. Pulling the robe up to her shoulder, she laid back down with her arm around Monica.
“What is it?” she murmured, still asleep.