I touch the edge of the end table in homage to the victims who came before me, the victims who are in heaven. Bowing my head in prayer, I say, “Help me. Be my guardian angels. Let me do this. Let me do this for you. For us.”
Breathing deep, I feel the presence of the others around me. I stay just as I am, head bowed, hand on the end table. Holding on to the feeling, I do nothing but take in the sensation that I am not alone, that they are going to help me, that they are going to be with me. The feeling passes, and my eyes focus on the rough wood floor of the cabin.
There’s a line cut through the boards.
It isn’t easy, tied up as I am, but I follow the line, scraping away the trash with my foot. The line meets up with another, then another, then another. There is a four-by-four square cut into this floor, cut to provide access to the ground below.
I tap the table. “You’re down there, aren’t you?”
It feels as though someone says yes.
I tap the table one more time.
Now.
Time to act.
I pivot toward the kitchen. I need a knife to cut these ropes. As I waddle forward, it occurs to me Wolfman might think I’m younger than seventeen, because I’m so small. He is used to dealing with terrified children who can’t defend themselves. Why else would he not tie me to the couch? Unless it’s a trap. He could be on the other side of a window watching me. Ready to punish me.
It’s a risk I have to take. My hope is that he’s become over-confident preying on children. He’s about to find out I’m no child. Even so, the fear that he might come upon me, the fear that this is a trap, makes my hand tremble as I open kitchen drawers, searching for a knife.
I look out a window and listen. No sign of Wolfman or his truck. More drawers reveal nothing useful. Then, somewhere far, far away, a sound. My imagination? Maybe. Or maybe a chain saw miles away. But all the same the sound sends a shot of adrenaline into me.
More drawers, more nothing. Cabinets, now, but there’s nothing I can use to free myself of this mummy rope.
The sound of the old truck’s engine reaches my ears. It’s him. Driving slowly on these mountain paths, but maybe not slowly enough.
Time to get back on the couch, act like I never moved. I quickstep as fast as I can, knowing that a fall would leave me exposed, vulnerable to punishment.
The truck door slams shut.
He’s almost here.
I lie down on the couch, find the position he left me in, just as he unlocks the door. Turning my face toward the floor, I pretend to be asleep.
I pray he doesn’t notice anything out of place.
Wolfman shuffles around the cabin. It’s hard to tell what he’s doing, but if he finds something infuriating—a drawer or a cabinet door left open—I’ll hear about it pretty quick. As I cringe and wait like a beaten dog, my promise to the previous victims returns to me.
I will not be a victim. I will not think like a victim. I am going to avenge all those little girls. I am going to win.
More shuffling from Wolfman. I open one eye, the one closer to the couch. On the floor are several hunting magazines. And there, in the corner of each of them, a label with his name and address. I set about memorizing the information and hope to God I get a chance to use it.
Five Years Ago
ALL THE GIRL WANTS IS for her parents to stop fighting and leave. Once they leave, she can call the boy who is like the other half of herself. It’s been that way ever since he moved into the trailer on the Carver property. At first it was a whole family. A mom, a dad, two daughters, and a son. Then the dad left and the boy changed. He grew up in a hurry, becoming more of a man than his daddy ever was. The girl misses the free spirit the boy used to be, but at moments like this, she’s grateful for his seriousness.
The girl is still in her horse’s stall, still hiding from her parents. The fight stops. The clicking of cowboy boots on concrete announces the departure of her father.
“Ruth, I’m going to the show office.” Her mom sounds tired, angry. “God knows it’s five miles from here, so it’ll be a while.”
“Okay,” the girl says, trying to sound normal.
She pulls her phone out of her back pocket. Her hand is shaking, and she feels betrayed by her own body. She never shakes like this. It takes two tries before she successfully calls the boy. The phone rings, and her throat closes up on her. What if she cries? The thought is horrifying. No one hears Ruth Carver cry. Not ever. Not even him.
“Hello?” He sounds concerned, as though he already knows something is wrong.
She can’t say anything.
“Ruthie?”
Forcing a deep breath, she says, “Yes.” Except she doesn’t. It comes out as a gasp for air, a metallic hiss.
The boy’s voice lowers. “Are they fighting?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I guess it’s the same old, same old.”
All she can do is nod.
“Ruthie, what’s the matter?”
“I can’t speak,” she whispers.
The boy is quiet, trying to figure out what has her this upset. “Is it worse than usual?”