After going inside and finding Shasta crumpled on the floor, Anthony gently set Christy down. He determined Shasta wasn’t dead and carried her to the cot in the infirmary. Christy gathered some washcloths and ice from the small kitchen and was reminded of how Moe had helped her at the Glades Motel. Anthony tried to shoo her away, but she told him, “I can help. I’m not hurt, and she is.”
While Christy ministered to the woman whose face resembled a punching bag, Anthony made some phone calls and within twenty minutes the rumble of motorcycles were distinct. Shasta had already come around and told Anthony everything, not leaving out any details.
He thanked her and asked Christy if she would stay with Shasta while he attended to business. Christy didn’t have to ask him what business and reassured him that she would stay until he got back.
He met his men outside and told them to follow him. He had John take Andrew to the building that used to be the camp’s chow hall. Anthony entered with the three men he’d summoned. They were the worst of the worst and would put Andrew to shame when it came to brutality. Especially the one named Brooks. However, they were his trusted regulars and would never have been stupid or desperate enough to believe Veronique’s lies. And even if they did believe her, they still would’ve had the wherewithal to at least page him or X to see if her message was true.
A shaking Andrew started to cry when the men approached. John had tied him to one of the massive wooden posts that supported the tall ceiling. His hands were fastened so tightly behind his back, his shoulders felt like they’d been ripped from their sockets.
“I have a hole in my back. I’m probably gonna die from it. Let me go, and I’ll crawl away,” he sobbed. “Please.”
“I’m going to show you the same mercy you showed my woman. My wife,” Anthony snarled. He turned and walked toward the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “John, do you want in on this?”
“Nah,” John yelled out. “I’m more of a spectator.”
Andrew started mumbling about Anthony sending a message that he had no use for a white rabbit. Anthony chalked it up to nonsense and blocked him out. It didn't matter anyway. Andrew was going to die a long slow death for what he'd done to Christy.
“Good,” Anthony told John as he returned from the kitchen carrying three large pots. “You can add up the score at the end.”
Brooks let out a loud laugh and said, “This sounds like it’s going to be fun, Bear.”
Without answering him, Anthony laid the three pots on a table near Andrew. He then walked over and got right in the restrained man’s face. Andrew wouldn’t look at him.
“I heard you tell my woman that you were going to bite off certain parts of her body and chew on them. And then you were going to spit them in her face.”
“No. No. I didn’t say…”
Andrew didn’t get to finish his sentence and instead let out a blood-curdling scream. “My nose. You bit off my nose,” he cried, his eyes clenched closed. He opened them and saw Anthony’s blood-spattered face and recognized the muscle in his jaw working. He watched in horror as Anthony got closer and spit a mound of flesh in his face. Anthony then repeated the grisly act, this time tearing off a piece of Andrew’s bottom lip.
He then turned to the four men who’d been watching the gruesome ritual and spoke to the three he knew would be more than willing to participate. Nodding toward the three pots he’d laid on the table, Anthony told them, “You each get a pot. One thousand cash to the man whose pot contains the most pieces of Andrew. John will tally it when he’s dead and if you get bored or your jaws start to ache, use your knives.”
“Noooo!” Andrew screamed as he tried to break free from his restraints.
Anthony headed for the door. He left the chow hall, but not before he heard Brooks say, “Don’t worry, boss. We won’t get bored.”
And another quickly added, "I look forward to filling up my pot unless we get extra points for swallowing."
Anthony returned to the office and once inside the infirmary he saw Christy nod at him as he headed for the sink to clean off. She knew where he’d been and she’d let him know she was okay with it.
Anthony and Christy wanted to take Shasta to a hospital for treatment, but she brushed them off. “I’ve survived worse,” she told them.
Christy looked with compassion at the woman who was responsible for saving her life. While Anthony was gone, Shasta had not only shared what she overhead, but also some of the horrible things Andrew had done to her in the past. She admitted that she never told Anthony because she was afraid of Andrew’s retaliation. And if she was going to be honest with Christy, she wasn’t even certain Anthony would’ve cared.
Anthony stood over the cot Shasta was lying on and was reminded of the last time he was here with her. It had only been weeks, but could just as well have been a year ago. He couldn’t remember what his life felt like before Christy. He was no longer the same person. He was in the sense that he would continue to do what he did to people like Andrew, but for the first time, he saw Shasta as more than a whore who pleasured him for her next fix. He saw her as someone’s daughter, someone’s sister. She might’ve even been someone’s mother. He hadn’t a clue of who cared about her because he’d never cared to find out. Christy changed that in him and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.
Looking down at Shasta he said, “I owe you for Christy’s life. Anything. You name it, Shasta, and it’s yours.”
He was certain she would ask for a large sum of cash, and he would gladly give it to her.
“Anything?” she asked. Her lip was swollen, and her speech was slightly garbled.
Anthony nodded. “Anything.”
Shasta briefly described her life and how she eventually wound up at the camp. Shasta and her two sisters were raised by a single mother whose boyfriends abused all of them. She drank her first beer when she was eight. She smoked her first joint when she was ten, and she started exchanging sexual favors for harder drugs by the time she was fourteen.
“The only thing I can remember from my childhood, the only thing that I ever found pleasure in, was drawing.” She looked over at Christy who was smiling at the admission.
“Not drawing like you might think,” she quickly added. “I liked to draw sketches of pretty buildings. Sometimes, I would get a ruler and try and draw what I thought the inside looked like.”
“Like an architect or engineer?” Christy asked.
“I don’t know,” Shasta said shyly, looking away. “It’s probably stupid. Someone like me trying to be something other than a whore.”
“What are you asking me for exactly?” Anthony questioned.