This was much louder. Not only louder, the music echoed off the walls. It reverberated. The rhythm rattled her bones.
When the music first started—hours ago, it seemed—she screamed at the top of her lungs, but the music drowned her out. Her voice had been lost behind Pink Floyd, then Janis Joplin, followed by a dozen other bands she recognized but didn’t know by name. She screamed anyway, the anger, hatred, and fear burning within her and needing a way out. She screamed until her throat went raw, and she was sure her voice was gone, whether she could hear it or not. She screamed until her tongue turned into sandpaper and a migraine sliced at the back of her eyes.
Emory tried to bury her head between her knees and that helped for a little while, but now her right shoulder burned from the awkward angle. She pulled at the handcuffs in frustration, but they only cut further into her wrist. She wanted to cry but had run out of tears hours earlier.
She was so cold.
Against her naked body, every surface felt damp and chilled.
“Mom?” Although she spoke the word aloud, she didn’t hear it. It vanished behind the theme song from CSI by the Who. Or the What . . . “Are you still there, Mom?”
She lifted her head from between her knees and looked up. The music came from somewhere far above her. Over the hours, Emory’s eyes had adjusted slightly to the darkness. Although still almost absolute, she could discern subtle shapes. She saw the legs of the gurney, the ones near her anyway. She could make out her hand above her cuffed to the railing, and even a little of the railing itself. She tried sliding the cuffs from one end to the other, hoping the strand would slip off the end, but instead it just rounded a slight corner before clanking against another bar, which crisscrossed it, blocking the cuff from moving any more. Then she—
Something scurried over her foot and Emory screeched, pulling her legs in close.
What was it? A roach?
No. It was too big to be a roach. Maybe a mouse or a—
Please don’t let it be a rat. She hated rats. She saw them sometimes poking out of the sewers. Beady little eyes and sharp yellow teeth clattering with hunger as they scurried out to back-alley dumpsters in search of food. They would eat anything. She’d heard they sometimes attacked the homeless people in herds or packs, only that wasn’t what they were called. She knew the term; it had been on a science test a few years ago. A mischief. That was it. A group of rats was called a mischief. It sounded like a silly name to her then and seemed even more ridiculous now, but there it was. The only thing worse than one rat was more than one rat. A mischief.
“Mom?”
Something brushed against her thigh, and she jumped up, banging her head on the gurney. Please no, not rats. They could see in the dark, probably really well. She pictured the furry little creature standing in the corner of the room glaring up at her, its tiny mouth filled with drool and disease.
I don’t want to be a Debbie Downer, but I have to ask. What does a rat trapped in a cement box with a naked girl tend to eat?
Emory groaned, and for a second she heard herself. Then a guitar solo started and burned away any trace of other sounds. She scrambled on top of the gurney.
I know rats are not picky eaters. They tend to be grateful for any food offered up. I imagine a nice tender young girl would be the highlight of the dinner menu, though, don’t you agree? You would be like Kobe beef compared with a dried up old homeless person.
Emory peered down into the darkness around her. She felt it down there watching her, but she couldn’t see it.
I wonder if they can climb.
The gurney squeaked as she shuffled on her butt to its center.
I bet if there are a lot of them, they can make a little rat pyramid and get right on up. They’re resourceful little critters. I’ve been told they’ll sometimes bite their victim in the cheek to get them to open their eyes so they can pluck one right out of the socket. A little bait and switch. Mischievous. Hey, that might be where that term comes from. Mischievous little critters are full of mischief.
“It’s not a rat,” Emory told herself. “How would a rat get in here?”
Ah, there’s the rub. Although he did put you in here. Maybe he dropped in a rat or two or three. After all, the man cuts off body parts and mails them back to their families; his choice in entertainment is questionable at best. He may not be playing with a full deck.
Emory’s heart pounded—a rhythmic thump, thump, thump at her damaged ear.
This time when the rat scurried past, she saw it for sure, if only for a second before the plump little rodent disappeared into the gloom.
27
Diary
I ascended the steps at a snail’s pace as my brain churned away, attempting to devise a believable story. Just how to keep her from entering the house, or worse—going down into the basement?
I found her sitting at the kitchen table. She had been crying again. She dabbed at her eyes with a damp napkin while picking at a slice of bread.
As I reached the top of the steps, I pulled the door closed at my back. The frame tended to swell during the summer months, and I had to give the knob a good tug before it would shut properly.
I crossed the kitchen and sat at the table, my eyes fixed on the cold stew. “There’s a problem with our water heater, and Mother is downstairs helping Father try and fix it.”
I spoke the words softly, so low I barely heard them. It wasn’t the most creative of lies, but it would have to do. I looked up at her, at her tired face.
Mrs. Carter returned the gaze. The bruises had grown darker in just the past few minutes; the swelling had worsened. How could a man do such a thing to someone he loved? Her knee bounced under the table. When she spoke, her voice was weak and distant. “He’s dead, isn’t he.”
It was more of a statement than a question, spoken flatly, without even a hint of emotion.
“They’re working on the water heater. That old beast can be a bear to fix,” I said.
She shook her head and sighed. “You can tell me the truth. It’s okay.”
Father asked me to handle her. He wanted me to puzzle it out. If I told her, would they kill her too? If she had to die, would it be my fault?
She needed to know, though. She had every right to know. If I didn’t tell her, what would she do? Go home and call the police? Worse still, tell them Mr. Carter had come over here and not returned home? I had to tell her. “He tried to hurt Mother. She defended herself. Nobody would blame her for doing so.”
She sighed again. Her hand tightened on the crumpled napkin in her palm. “No, I suppose not.”
“I should take you home,” I told her.