screens loose, they wouldn’t budge. Screwed tight to the wall… all except the lower right-hand corner of the screen in the smaller bedroom. That one corner pulled out a half inch or so before the screw bound up and held it in place. If she could find something to use as a pry bar..
No tools of any kind in the kitchen, not even knives and forks. Locked up in one of two padlocked cabinets, probably, along with anything like a hammer or screwdriver. Dude didn’t take any chances, even if the only victims he’d brought here before were six-year-old girls.
One of the kitchen drawers yielded a saucepan and a frying pan with a fairly slender wooden handle. She took those into the smaller bedroom, went to work with the handle of the saucepan on the loose corner. Pretty soon the screw pulled a little more, widening the gap, but not enough to slip the frying pan handle between the frame and the wall. She kept at it, streaming sweat, the muscles in her arms tight and aching. Squeaking noise and the screw pulled a little more… but the saucepan handle had begun to bend and she couldn’t get any more leverage. Another try with the wooden handle. Almost got it wedged in… yank on the mesh with one hand, wiggle the handle with the other… there, eased the tip of it in, just like Horace the first time he Car sound outside. Lemoyne coming back.
She yanked the handle free, used the pan to shove the screw back in so that the corner was more or less flush again. Scrapes and gouges in the metal wall, but maybe he wouldn’t notice. Wouldn’t matter anyway if he didn’t leave her alone in here again…
She hurried out to the window next to the front door. Here he came, bouncing along the rutted track, the sun throwing up needle glints of light from the SUV’s hood and windshield. She could see him behind the glass, and the hate that surged into her throat almost choked her. Her fingers clenched around the handles of the saucepan and frying pan.
Frying pan. Heavy. Weapon.
The thought, sweet and hot, drew her lips in flat against her teeth. She watched the SUV rattle to a stop a few yards away, Lemoyne get out and walk around to the passenger side and open that door and lift out a couple of plastic sacks. Grocery store was where he’d gone. He carried both sacks in his left hand, a ring of keys dangled from his right.
She stepped over to the door, to the far side so she’d be behind it when it opened inward. Put the saucepan down and took a two-handed grip on the wooden handle of the frying pan, holding the pan close against her chest.
He was right outside the door now. Keys jingled; one of them rattled in the lock. She raised the pan above her head.
To, asshole, come and get it!
Only he didn’t open the door, didn’t walk inside.
His voice, loud, came through it instead. “It’s open, Dark Chocolate. Step out here where I can see you.”
She hesitated, frustration a sudden heavier weight than the frying pan, then slowly lowered her hands. Why the hell couldn’t he be stupid, careless, the way she’d been? Make one little mistake?
“Come on, hurry it up. Don’t get me pissed off.”
Nothing else she could do. She put both pans back where she’d found them, went on out to where Lemoyne stood waiting.
After lunch, he took Lauren away.
Not in the SUV-on foot into the woods.
He seemed to get the idea all at once. He was sitting in the only chair in the living room, a ratty recliner, not saying anything, just watching Tamara clean up in the kitchen. Slave girl: make sandwiches, cook soup, wash dishes, tend to the kid. Mammy Tammy. And all the time watching her, never letting her get closer than a couple of feet, specially when she had a bowl of hot soup in her hands. Watching Lauren, too, sometimes with that tenderness in his eyes, sometimes with a funny sort of speculative look as if he didn’t have any idea who she was. Child was still pale and feverish after her nap. Thirsty, but wouldn’t eat much. Lemoyne didn’t like that; he kept urging her to eat her soup and scowling when she said, “No, I don’t want any, I’m not hungry.” A couple of times he reached out and patted her in a kind of rough paternal way; both times she shrank away from him, and that made him scowl even harder.
Then all of a sudden he was on his feet. “You, Dark Chocolate. That’s enough in the kitchen. Take Angie into the bedroom, change her clothes.”
“Her clothes? What for?”
“We’re going for a walk.”
“She’s sick, man, she’s running a fever. Can’t you see that?”
“No. She’s all right, she just needs some fresh air. It’s hot in here.”
“I tell you, she’s sick. Feel her forehead, she’s burning up.”
“You have kids of your own?”
“What? No, but-”
“Then don’t try to tell me about my kid. Go on, pick her up, take her in the bedroom. Put her in those pink shorts she likes. And the white top with the little rabbits on it. She looks real cute in that outfit.”
Tamara felt the hair crawl on her neck. “It’s not warm enough outside for shorts.”
“Bullshit. Plenty warm enough.”
“Listen to me, man. She’s just a child, she’s only six years old.”
“So? You think I don’t know that?”
“You don’t want to hurt her… your own daughter.”
That pissed him off. His eyes got smoky; veins bulged in his neck. “Don’t say that to me, you bitch. Fucking bitch. Don’t ever say that to me.” The Saturday night special was shoved down in the front of his pants; he jerked it free and waved it at her. “You do what I told you, take her in there and get her dressed. And you keep your mouth shut while you’re doing it or you’ll be the one I hurt.”
Again, no choice. One thing to vow to protect the little girl, another to stand here helpless looking down the muzzle of a gun. He’d shoot her or start beating up on her if she didn’t do what he said. And what good would she be to Lauren then, dead or all busted up?
The girl moaned when Tamara picked her up, carried her into the smaller bedroom. Skin all hot, sweaty- temperature must be over a hundred now. Tight-mouthed, she shut the door behind them. It stayed that way; Lemoyne let them have that much privacy, at least.
The pink shorts and rabbit T-shirt were in one of the dresser drawers. Took some coaxing to get Lauren into them; she kept saying, “I don’t want to, I don’t feel good,” and when she was dressed she looked down at herself and started to cry again.
Tamara wiped away the tears. “Listen to me, Lauren. You have to go with him, have to keep pretending you’re Angie and he’s your daddy. Do whatever he tells you, no matter what. Don’t make him mad or he might hurt you bad. Okay? You understand?”
“Yes, Tamara.”
“Good girl.”
Hugged her, hard, then took her by the hand and opened the door and let the crazy son of a bitch have her.
She watched them from the front window, walking slow toward the barn, him pulling her along by the hand and Lauren stumbling on the uneven ground. When she couldn’t see them anymore she ran into the smaller bedroom, picked them out again from that window. And watched them vanish into the woods.
Quickly she retrieved the frying pan and managed to jam the handle between the wall and the loose corner of the window screen. Pried, yanked, wedged it in farther, slanting a look out the window every now and then at the place where they’d gone into the trees. Afraid the noise she was making was loud enough to carry and he’d hear and come running out. More afraid that he’d come walking out alone.
The screw wouldn’t tear loose. Her arms and shoulders began to cramp up. She mopped off sweat, did some upper body aerobics to loosen her muscles, and went at it again. And this time… starting to loosen a little? She yanked harder, twisting the pan. Yeah, it was starting to pull. She managed to wedge the pan in more tightly, yanked again Movement outside.
She caught it out of the corner of her eye. Quit rocking the pan and stood still, staring out through the window.
