Betrayed

“Oh god!” she cried, her heart slamming painfully in her chest. Adrenaline surged through her in an electric wave. “Please don’t cut off my feet. Oh god, oh god! Please don’t!”

He wiped a rag across the bottom of one foot and it exploded in pain. Showing her the cloth, he said, “Look.”

It was covered with bright red blood and sickly yellow pus. She screamed again and he thrust the soiled rag roughly into her open mouth. Tossing her head from side to side, she gagged on the slimy mess.

“Oh, come on,” Lance cajoled. “It’s no big deal. You’d think I was going to cut off both your legs, for chrissake. It’s just your feet. Don’t be such a crybaby.' He smacked his lips. “Hey, I've got a great idea! I’ll add them to the stew! I never waste a good piece of meat.”

He howled in glee, and shook his head, tossing his long hair around like a madman.

“I just love this part,” he cackled as he lifted the knife. “It’s what I do best.”

Chapter 24

Brook came awake with a scream, startling Lance who stood at the table, buttering a piece of bread.

“Brooklyn?” Lance moved towards her, still carrying the knife.

“NO!” Brook screamed hysterically. “NO! Don’t cut off my feet!”

Lance stopped several feet from the bed. “What? What are you talking about? I have no intentions of cutting off your feet.” He stared at her for a minute in confusion and then relaxed. “You must have been having a nightmare, probably triggered by the earlier episode when I treated your feet. You’re fine!”

Brook’s breathing slowed; she realized that her legs weren’t tied down and that the knife Lance was wielding was a butter knife still smeared with some of the yellow substance. “Oh my god! What a horrid dream. It was terrible. Terrible! I don’t even want to think about it.” The dream had been so real, she was shaking.

Brook struggled into a sitting position, moving her purse to her side. Lance went to the kitchen area and traded the knife for a cup of water. He placed it into her hands and she lifted it to her lips. I’m so thirsty! I’ve never been so thirsty in my life. She downed the contents in a few gulps.

“More please?” She held the cup out to him, her hand trembling slightly.

“In a minute.” He gazed at her and she involuntarily shrank back.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he said in a quiet voice.

“I’m not,” she lied. A dizzy spell hit her. Holding very still, she waited for the feeling to pass. Lance kept staring at her, making her uncomfortable.

“I’d like you to take a pill for me,” he said. “It’s almost midnight and I need to get some sleep. I’d worry less about you if I knew you weren’t suffering. Now will you take this pill for me?”

What choice do I have? Brook thought bitterly. He could overpower her and force it on her whether she wanted it or not. Maybe it was poison and would kill her. Maybe she wanted to die anyway. Better to die of an overdose than slashed to bloody pieces like his last victim. Maybe he would kill her in her sleep and she wouldn’t have to feel the pain of dying. She spoke none of these thoughts, merely nodded.

He went to the kitchen area and came back with half a pill and more water for her to wash it down. The cup shook in her hand, but she drank it dry before handing it back to him. He took the mug then hesitated, standing over her. She tried to ignore him as she settled back into the soft mattress.

The next thing she knew, the man was back at her bedside, raising her head from the pillow. She didn’t remember falling to sleep, but she must have.

“Can you sit up?”

“Yes,” she said as he helped her into a sitting position. “Is it morning?”

“Very early in the morning,” he answered. “Not even light out yet.”

Brook felt a wave of self-pity at her situation, her pain, and her frailty. It was so strong it brought new tears to the surface. She tried to swallow past the lump in her throat.

“I want you to take some broth,” he told her. “It’ll help you get your strength back.” He sat on the edge of the mattress and reached to the bedside table for a mug.

“No!” she cried, not wanting him close and not wanting whatever he was offering. She remembered with horror the dream about her feet. Then, worried that she might anger him, she continued with what she felt was a logical argument, “I don’t know what’s in it.”

“Just broth,” he replied, his eyes sympathetic. “Regular old homemade chicken soup minus the noodles. Water, chicken, a few vegetables, and some seasonings. I’ll take a sip first so you’ll know it’s alright.”

He filled the spoon from the cup and tipped it over his upturned mouth. She felt herself salivate at the mere sight of the golden liquid.

“See?” he said. “It’s good.”

She nodded, and he began spooning broth into her mouth. The experience was almost an orgasm of taste to her tongue; she was hungrier than she knew. The rich warm broth with its salty flavor and appetizing smell was better than the finest meal she had ever eaten.

“I can try to feed myself, if you don’t mind,” she ventured tentatively.

“Okay, good.” He placed the mug in her hands. Her arms felt weak and sore, but the trembling had subsided. She took a few spoonfuls of the delicious concoction, then laid the spoon aside and drank the rest from the thick rounded edge of the heavy mug. And still, he sat there on the edge of the bed. She wished he would move.

Handing the cup back to him, she lay down again and pulled the covers up to her shoulders. Finally, he got up and carried the dishes into the kitchen area. She breathed a sigh of relief and rolled painfully to her side, facing the room. She didn’t want him sneaking up on her. Her eyelids grew heavy and she drifted off again, the warm cozy sound of a crackling fire mingling with her dreams.

Chapter 25

Unwilling to take any chances with this hunt, Lance opted for his rifle instead of his usual crossbow. He pulled on a coat and trooped out into the snow. As he made his way to the clearing he watched the snow-covered ground for tracks, but the flakes were coming down with ferocity now and would cover any traces of his prey. Thick snow hung heavy from drooping branches and a wet chill permeated the air. The sky was gray as lead.

Lance took up a position behind a fallen log with a clear view of the area where he’d left the organs from his goat. The organs themselves were buried under the snow. He hoped this wasn’t an exercise in futility, but something sparked inside him. Anticipation, a knowing of sorts that he couldn’t name. As he waited, he wondered about Brooklyn, hoped she wouldn’t wake up frightened to be alone. Oh, hell, who was he kidding? She’d probably be relieved to find him gone.

Thoughts of Ellen had been plaguing him since he had found the woman. Not at all because Brooklyn reminded him of Ellen. No, they couldn’t be more physically different from each other. It was just the nearness of a woman again. A woman who was not well. A woman in close proximity, relying on him, needing his care. Whether she wanted it or not was another matter.

He always tried to repress memories of Ellen. His grief had not been as intense since coming to the mountain. It had been muted, pushed far into the background. Now, with Brooklyn’s presence, the images kept flooding back over the dam of resistance he had so carefully built. Ellen’s dark eyes flashing at him over some joke. Ellen’s feet in sandals, with her crooked little toe and silly purple nail polish. Ellen tossing their nephews into the water at the lake, their squeals of joy breaking her face into a wide smile. And then again, Ellen, weak, frail, and unresponsive under white sheets.

Lance shoved aside these painful thoughts and focused on the clearing in front of him. Low and slinky, the cat made her wary approach, head turning side to side. He moved his eye to the sight and took a bead on her head.

The shot split the air with a loud crack and the cat dropped. Lance stood slowly and watched it for a few