by Jette Harris
“That’s what I sounded like after he first took me.” Z, realizing the implication of his words, added, “into the other room, I mean.”
Heather smirked, grateful for this clumsy attempt to comfort her. “Really, it’s just a sore throat.”
“Whatever,” Z scoffed.
Monica’s voice drifted over. “Heather?”
“Hm?”
“Thank you.”
Heather smiled. Monica rarely thanked her for anything. “Don’t mention it.”
18
Monica thought she hit her head when she fell off the cars, but she couldn’t identify a specific point of pain. Her muscles felt as if they had been stretched into taffy, worse than a day after competition drills. She thought Heather was calling her name, but her voice disappeared. Rhodes’s face loomed over her. Everything moved in slow motion. She thought he was trying to help her to her feet, so she tried to sit up. She was confused when he shoved her back down.
The world returned to normal time as she realized he was pulling down her pants. Shrieking, she shoved his hands away and scrambled backward. He grabbed her shoulders and shoved her down. Her head popped against the asphalt The world spun. With his powerful hands holding her so effortlessly, she began to cry.
There on the side of the road, Rhodes accepted her surrender.
Monica allowed herself to be pulled to her feet and shoved into the passenger seat of the Jeep. She whimpered ceaselessly. Rhodes turned the radio on and began to sing along with Supertramp to drown her out. He had planned to drive around and disorient the girl, but she kept her hands over her face. They were already near their destination when it occurred to Monica: if Heather were conscious, she would be memorizing every stop and turn.
The house was a manor, surrounded by two acres enclosed by a fence, and twelve more acres of woodland. Monica stared at the façade, knowing she had seen it somewhere before. She couldn’t place it.
When Rhodes pulled her out of the Jeep, all he needed to control her movements was a hand on the back of her shirt, twisting the collar tightly around her neck. He knew it would be useless if he actually intended her harm, but the girl did not catch on. He had to pull Heather out of the back seat and hoist her over his shoulder one-handed. If she woke, it would be impossible to control both of them. To his relief, she remained dead weight.
“Oh, my God!” Monica squealed. “She’s bleeding! Is she dead?”
“We’ll find out in a moment,” he grunted, steering Monica toward the front door. “Open it.”
He prodded her forward. Taking a deep breath, she suppressed a whimper and resolved to play along. She shoved open the heavy front door and stepped inside. The house smelled like mold, paint, and Lysol. Rhodes knocked her aside as he entered.
“Close it,” he ordered. “Lock it.”
Monica obeyed. She followed as he pulled her through a great room and guided her to a laundry room. Not having enough room to maneuver around, he released her shirt, closed the door on his own, and flicked on the light. There was a long metal table pushed against the wall, next to a coffee table. A folded white sheet sat at the end of the table, and more linens were piled on a rack underneath.
“Spread the sheet on the gurney.” His voice sounded different this time, less aggressive and more business-like.
Monica was unable to suppress a few sniffles as she spread the sheet over the table, then folded it double. Without a word, Rhodes crowded her out of the way and gently laid Heather down.
“Is she dead?”
Rhodes didn’t have to check her pulse; he could see it beating strong in her neck, but left Monica hanging. Instead of answering, he inspected the wound on the side of Heather’s head, gently pulling the hair away. The broken skin had started to clot, but would still need stitches. Her scalp was split down to the skull and the bone was grainy, but not visibly cracked.
“She’s alive,” he said, leaning up.
Monica bounced on her toes. “She’s gonna be OK?”
“No.” Monica froze mid-bounce and settled her heels to the ground. “She could still die from this injury,” he continued. (It’s happened before.) “But she’s alive right now. You may consider that a good sign.”
She didn’t know whether to be happy her friend was alive, or upset she could still die. This conflict was exactly what Rhodes wanted. When he smiled down at her, she had to fight cowering in fear.
“Are you going to kill us?”
“Not tonight,” he promised. “Now sit in the corner, and don’t make a sound.”
Monica sat and watched with curiosity as Rhodes held his hands out as if he didn’t want to touch anything with them and looked around. His mouth twitched. He looked at Monica as if he were about to ask her a question, then back down at Heather. He lowered his hands. Sighing, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out what resembled a wallet-sized manicure kit. He pulled out a moist towelette and tore it open with his teeth. Leaning back over the girl, he cleaned the laceration, wiped his hands, and tossed the dirty towelette on the floor.
Monica’s eyes widened when Rhodes pulled a razor blade out of the kit. He leaned close to Heather’s face and his arm twitched. Craning her neck, Monica scooted up the wall until she could see: With short, careful strokes, he shaved the hair away from the wound. When he was finished, he motioned as if he were going to toss the razor on the floor as well. With a glance at Monica, he thought better of it. He placed it on the table by Heather’s head.
He took a pre-threaded needle from the wallet and began to stitch the laceration shut. His movements were slow and deliberate. His nose was inches from Heather’s face. He did not remove his eyes from his work. Monica wondered if she could creep behind him, out the door, and run to freedom.
She inched along the wall, not daring to breathe. Rhodes did not lean up, speak, or turn his head. She wanted to close her eyes as she eased behind him, but resisted. She was about to edge out from behind him, when his leg shot out. Monica screamed as his foot slammed into the wall inches from her, blocking her escape. If he had hit her, the force would have broken bone. Covering her mouth, she froze. He glared over his shoulder for a several tense seconds.
“I told you to sit, and don’t make a sound,” he reminded her in a low, simmering voice.
Nodding, Monica edged back along the wall, pressed herself into the corner, and slid down. He lowered his leg. Poised mid-stitch, he did not take his eyes off of her until she had sat motionless for an uncomfortable amount of time.
Rhodes seethed as he bent back over his work, finding it difficult to conceive she could possibly think he was so stupid. He promised himself he would give her hell for it as soon as he was through.
He always kept his promises.
19
“Sterling!” Monica jerked awake, her heart pounding against her ribs. She swung her head around, searching the small room. She could still feel her little sister crouching next to her, tears streaming down her innocent face. Relieved it was just a nightmare, Monica attempted to regain control of her breath. Her heartbeat slowed gradually.
Her robe clung to her sweaty skin. With a huff, she peeled it off and wadded it into a ball. Pressing her face into the silky cloth, she took several deep breaths. She wished she could stop crying so often; It was exhausting and embarrassing. Rhodes loved it when she cried, loved licking the tears from her face. Her throat constricted. Each time she cried, she gave him one more excuse to violate her.
Sniffling, she blinked the tears away. The room was silent except for Witt’s soft snoring and Heather’s rough breathing. The AC rattled on, making Monica flinch. She pursed her lips until her heart slowed down yet again.
“H…Heather?” she called. Z shifted in his closet, but Heather’s breathing continued unchanged. “Heather?” she dared to call a little louder.
Heather inhaled sharply. There was a dragging sound as she pulled herself up against the wall before she answered, “Mm-hm?”
“Do…” Monica swallo
wed as tears pricked at her eyes again, “Do you remember the stories you used to tell the kids?” Her voice tightened as she said “the kids.” She couldn’t remember a time she had gone so long without hearing their voices. Thinking of them made her heart ache.
Heather let out a long breath. A tremor betrayed her sympathy. “Of course,” she said, “yeah.”
Monica opened her mouth to speak several times, but couldn’t push the words out. She didn’t want to ask Heather to speak in her state, but fear overwhelmed consideration. She felt foolish and vulnerable, like a child. “Wou—” she squeezed out, “Would you tell me—us—tell us one? The one that helped David with the dogs?”
David’s encounter with a neighborhood dog resulted in twenty stitches and a paralyzing fear of going outside. He would not even venture out to their fenced-in back yard. To assist in his recovery, Heather told him folk tales about the trickster Br’er Rabbit, turning all his various adversaries into dogs.
Heather sat in silence. Monica wondered if she were holding her breath. “Um…” she replied, her voice thick and shaking, “yeah, give me a minute.” Her grandpa had told her those stories. If Monica was missing her family, everyone else must be missing theirs as well. Heather’s rasping breath became quick and heavy, then slowed. Monica was surprised when she giggled.
“Bless yer heart, child,” Heather began, adopting the deep Southern drawl of the story-teller, “I ain’t got time for all that.” Z scoffed, either at her ridiculous accent or the concept of her not having time. Witt snorted at the absurdity of the whole situation.
As Heather spun her tale—broken occasionally by clearing her sore throat—Monica slipped her robe back on. She curled up on the floor, her back against the wall. Heather’s voice pulled her away from her anxious thoughts. She fell asleep, dreaming of a rabbit in a white robe out-witting a stupid, vicious dog.
20
Rhodes leaned against the doorframe, panting for breath. Sweat ran down his face in torrents, dripping from his chin and pooling on the floor of the foyer. The sun shone on his back, burning through his shirt. With a groan, he slammed the door. The ball chain around his neck was burning his skin and singed his fingers when he pulled it off to lock the deadbolt. He swore repeatedly as he crossed the great room, wiping the sweat from his arms and flicking an alarming amount of liquid onto the floor.
“Fuck this heat!” he bellowed as he stormed up the spiral staircase. “Fuck this humidity!” He swiped a hand over the back of his neck, slinging more sweat onto the hardwood of the landing. He ducked into the open door of the Bedroom, and didn’t bother to pull the chain off to unlock the padlock on the closet door. A few shirts, a suit bag, and a crisp deputy’s uniform hung in a neat row above a duffle bag, his back pack, a pair of boots, and a crate of water bottles. As he leaned down to grab a bottle, he kicked off his shoes, then peeled off his socks. He downed one bottle in a matter of seconds. Tossing it aside, he picked up five more.
Emerging back onto the landing, he twisted the cap off one of the bottles with his teeth, and poured it over his head. Although the water was not cold, the sudden change in temperature made goose bumps rise on his skin. He tossed the empty bottle down into the library, then pushed open the door to the White Room.
The room filled with conspicuous silence, as if the four had been in the midst of speaking. Ignoring it, he pulled open closet doors and dropped the bottles inside, finding the kids in various positions of tense repose. (Note to self: Don’t call them “kids.” They’re fucking adults.) He was surprised to find Heather sitting in the middle of her closet, legs tucked as if kneeling before an altar. She wore the expression of derision everyone beheld him with when the initial fear had faded—if it ever faded.
“What?” he demanded.
She stared at him for a moment before answering, “Welcome to Georgia.” She had heard him yelling. Her mouth twitched as if she were fighting a smirk.
Rhodes tilted his head, attempting to assess what level of insult this was and how to punish it. Surely she was testing him, probing his tolerance. Still worn out from his run, he chose to let it pass. He snorted his amusement, then held the bottle out to her. Heather glanced from it to his face, then motioned to take it. He pulled it away as she grasped for it. She dropped her hand. He held it out to her again. When she made no attempt to accept it, he tossed it at her face. She caught it as deftly as a ball player.
Snorting again, Rhodes nodded. “I’m going to have loads of fun with you.”
He closed the door, then left the White Room. Before he pulled the door shut, he changed his mind. Treading back inside, he swung the door shut as if he had left. Without a sound, he sat on the floor. Long before the house had any other occupants, Rhodes had taken to sitting against the wall between the closets, where he would be able to eavesdrop without detection. The room was silent for only a moment, then Monica whispered.
“That can’t be it.”
“That’s it, that’s the end,” Heather insisted, also hushed.
“Tell us another one,” Z said.
The sound of plastic crackling and popping indicated Heather had crushed her bottle, and was tossing it in the air and catching it. The noise stopped. “No,” Heather replied. “My throat is killing me. Monica can tell you one.”
“I can’t do the voice!”
Heather sighed. “OK,” she surrendered. She embarked on one of the oddest-sounding tales Rhodes had ever heard. It reminded him of the Native American tales he had heard as a kid. It took all of his remaining strength not to burst out laughing as she spun her yarn…
By-n-by, Br’er Rabbit never did get a moment’s rest. Heather adopted an accent that was a true imitation of her grandfather. It seemed like ev-er-y day Mr. Wolf came along and made off with one of his kits. He reckoned they’d be safer if’n they had a house. So ’e made a house o’ straw. I tell you what, it wasn’t one day later Mr. Wolf came along an’ tore it down. So he made a house of pine cones and gumballs. It lasted maybe a week before Mr. Wolf came crashing in. Then, ’e made a house outta bark, but that di’n’t last long neither.
Welp, Br’er Rabbit was at ’is wit’s end, and runnin’ short on progeny. He finally hired some proper carpen’ers, an’ they built ’im a proper house with wood logs an’ a stone foundation.
A’ firs’, e’rytime Br’er Rabbit an’ ’is fam’ly heard Mr. Wolf passin’ by er sniffin’ ’round, they would run to the cellar—’cuz they had a proper cellar—an’ hide. But by-n-by, they stopped bein’ so scurred—
“‘Scurred’?” Z chuckled.
“Scurred, son! Pull the cotton out yer ears.”
They giggled. Heather took the opportunity to clear her throat before she began again.
Br’er Rabbit’s fam’ly was jus’ startin’ to feelin’ safe, wen one mornin’, they heard a ruckus ou’side: Houn’s barkin’ and bayin’, feet goin’ e’ry-which-way. ’Fore Br’er Rabbit cud peek ou’ the door, Mr. Wolf was pushin’ ’is way in.
I tell you what, all his chil’ren duckt into that cellar lickety-split, but Br’er Rabbit cud see tha’ Mr. Wolf was huffin’ and puffin’, an’ co’ered in mud, an’ all tore up.
“Hide me, Br’er Rabbit!” Mr. Wolf cried. “Them dawgs’re comin’!”
“Jum’ in this here ches’!” Br’er Rabbit said, openin’ a foot locker by the fireplace. ’Thout a secon’ thought, Mr. Wolf jumpt in and curl’d up. Br’er Rabbit slammed the lid shut and clapt on a lock.
“Whassat soun’?” Mr. Wolf askt.
“Oh, ‘es the dawgs tryin’ the doorknob!” Br’er Rabbit said. “You gotta be quie’!”
Now, Br’er Rabbit pulled up a chair and propp’t ’is loooong, lucky legs on the lid of the locker. He chewed the end of ’is pipe while he decided wha’ wud be-fall Mr. Wolf.
“Is the dawgs gone?” Mr. Wolf whispered af’er a while.
“Naw,” Br’er Rabbit replied. “I can still hear ’em sniffin’ ’roun’ under the windo’.”
Getti
ng’ out of ’is sea’, he lit up the fire place and put the kettle on.
“Wha’chu doin’ now?” Mr. Wolf askt.
“I’mma makin’ you some nice, sweet tea,” Br’er Rabbit replied.
“Oh, tha’s mighty kind of you, Br’er Rabbit.”
While the water warmed, Br’er Rabbit took a bore and bore little holes in the lid of the foot locker.
“Wha’chu doin’ now?” Mr. Wolf askt.
“I’m makin’ holes so’s you can breathe, Mr. Wolf.”
“Oh, thank ’ou, Br’er Rabbit. ’tis mighty hard t’ breathe in here.”
Br’er Rabbit chucked sommore logs on the fire, buildin’ it up ’til it was nice an’ hot.
“Wha’chu doin’ now?
“Oh, I’m buildin’ up the fire so’s you don’ get cold.”
“Oh, thank you, Br’er Rabbit!”
Once the fire was nice an’ hot, and the kettle was boilin’ furious, Br’er Rabbit open’ the cellar door to fetch ‘is chil’ren.
“What’chu doin’, now, Br’er Rabbit?”
“I’m tellin’ my chil’ren what a nice man you is now, Mr. Wolf.”
“Y’all watch this,” he whispered to ’is chil’ren. I tell you what, it was all they could do to kee’ from laughin’. As soon as th’whole fam’ly was gather’d ’round, Br’er Rabbit pulled the kettle from the fire and poured the boilin’ water all o’er the foot locker.
“Whassat I hear, Br’er Rabbit?”
“’Es the wind blowin’, Mr. Wolf.”
“Whassat I feeeel, Br’er Rabbit?”
“Oh, ’es fleas bitin’, Mr. Wolf!”
“Fleas be eatin’ me alive, Br’er Rabbit!” An’ those were the last words of Mr. Wolf.
I tell you what, Br’er Rabbit threw ’is door open and invi’ed the who’ neck of the wood to a bar-bee-que. When there was nothin’ else of Mr. Wolf, Br’er Rabbit strecht out ’is pelt on the fron’ porch and used it to shade ’is rockin’ chair.
