Somehow, this small victory gave her courage. If she could do this with every screw, a little every day, and carefully re-screw them loosely in place so he wouldn’t notice, then eventually she might be able to loosen one whole board and break the glass behind it. Then she could wiggle through the opening.
Yes.
She had a plan.
Now, to make sure he wouldn’t notice, she had to come up with something clever.
Curtains? Maybe she could offer to make curtains, and thus hide her scratches in the wood and the loose screws.
She’d try that, too.
I’m gonna get out of here. Soon.
With her heart singing, she walked boldly into the bathroom and filled the tub with hot water. Without worrying about him seeing her lying there, she sank into the tub and refined her plan.
Chapter 33
Six days. Six days of gnawing hunger, each day worse than the last.
Portia looked in the cupboards, even though she knew there wasn’t much there. The fridge was empty. Totally. And all she had left was some Crisco, sugar, and a little flour.
With a shrug, she thought about pancakes. Could she make them with those ingredients? No milk. No eggs. No oil. No syrup. But water could substitute for milk. And the Crisco might melt down into oil.
It could work.
She took down the last of the ingredients and wondered if he’d ever come back.
With her knuckles raw from banging them against the window boards, trying every possible way to break out, working for hours on the padlock with her bobby pins to no avail…she felt exhausted.
I want fruit. An apple. Some juice.
I want scrambled eggs.
I want…food.
Weak now, she knew that drinking was the most important part of this whole thing. At least the faucet worked and cool, sweet water came from it.
What was it they said about people lost in the desert? They could last maybe a week without food, but just days without water.
With a sigh, she held her hair back and leaned over and drank from the spigot for a long time.
It was good, and it filled her stomach a little bit.
She mixed up the flour, a little melted Crisco, and water, and beat it so it seemed almost like pancake batter.
What about shortcake? Could it be made into that?
Since the batter seemed pretty thick, she formed it into little mounds and laid them on a baking tin.
They were ready in fifteen minutes, and to her surprise, they tasted pretty good. A little butter or jam would have made them almost heavenly.
But of course, she didn’t have that.
She ate them hot and dry, slaking her thirst with cold water from the well. This time, she set up the table as if it were a real meal.
Plate, utensils, napkins, and a pretty flowered glass.
Maybe when she broke out of here, she’d bring that glass home, as a reminder of how strong she was.
In her whole life, she never imagined having to go hungry. Most of the time she was more worried about eating too much, getting fat. But now, she thought of the big, hearty meals her mother and father would prepare for her every day, and salivated.
Oh, to have a big slab of roast turkey and some stuffing.
Or a bite of mashed potatoes and gravy.
Or, better yet, a piece of Mom’s pie. Portia loved the strawberry rhubarb the best, and she’d readily go out and pick the berries and rhubarb at any time of day to get a slice of that heaven on her plate with some vanilla ice cream.
She took another dry bite of shortcake. It wasn’t terrible. And there were three more little cakes to make last.
She finished her sparse meal and did up the dishes.
Now what?
The place was as clean as it could be. No excuse for him to punish her when he got home.
Another hot bath? One more time, before he could watch her undress again?
No. She’d done that just this morning, and who knew if the water had heated enough yet, anyway. It seemed to take forever and the tank had to be tiny since it barely filled the tub and then went cold.
She wandered over to the pegboard on the wall, where he had pinned copies of the newspaper articles about her disappearance. In one article, her parents and sister were shown at a press conference, holding hands and looking brave.
How she longed to speak to them, to embrace them. Even her little sister, the perennial trouble maker.
She wondered if this whole kidnapping thing would make Gracie go crazy, force her to fall back on her bad habits. She prayed out loud. “God, let her be strong for Mom and Dad.” Kissing her fingertips, she pressed them against the picture, coming away with black newsprint.
Oh God. Would he see the smudge? Would he flip out on her?
There was nothing she could do now.
And then she spotted them.
Pushpins. Several blue-headed pushpins sat clustered in the corner of the board, waiting for more clippings to post. Maybe she could use one as a weapon?
They were pathetically small, of course. But sharp. What if she raked one across his face? His eyes?
Shuddering, she tried to imagine having just enough time to distract him with the pain so she could slip out the door. But it would have to be the minute he returned, so he didn’t have time to relock it.
The sound of his returning truck galvanized her to action. She grabbed one of the pins and shoved it into her dress pocket, shaking.
She watched through the crack in the boards. He got out, arms loaded with grocery bags and one large bag from McDonalds. Hunger swarmed over her, and she felt her resolve melting.
The door unlocked. “I’ve got more in the truck. Take these,” he said.
She ran to the door, reaching for the food.
Oh, it smelled so good. Burgers. Fries. Ice cold soda. She even thought she smelled an apple pie. Maybe she could eat first, attack him when she was stronger?
Horrified at her own thoughts, she walked like a zombie to the table and put the food down.
I have to get out. I can’t give in.
But before she had turned to remake her plan, he stood glowering at her. “Where’s your cap? Are you trying to piss me off?”
She reached frantically for her hair. Oh, God. She’d forgotten it. Rushing madly, she ran to the bathroom and quickly pinned it on.
Then she looked in the mirror.
You’re a coward.
A weak, sniveling coward.
She knew it was true, and realized she needed to screw up her courage for next time. She needed to be ready. Really ready.
Patting the pin in her pocket, she sighed.
Next time.
“Come on, it’s getting cold, sugar.”
She hurried to the kitchen table and sat when he gestured to the chair.
“Bet you’re hungry, huh?”
Like a robot, she nodded. “Yes.”
“Sorry I took so long.”
She realized with a start that he wore pants and a shirt she’d never seen. Green khaki’s and a black and white plaid shirt.
Where had those come from?
Where had he been?
“Where did you go?” she asked meekly, waiting for him to tell her to start eating.
He laughed. “Go ahead, open the bag. It’s all for you.” He got up to lock the door, pocketing the keys. “Why do you want to know?”
She took a huge bite of her hamburger, then a handful of fries. They were still hot. So there had to be a little town not too far from here.
“Just making conversation,” she said, drinking the sweet orange soda from the extra large cup.
“I got a place up north,” he said noncommittally. “I fish there sometimes.”
“What about this lake?” she asked. “Does it have good fish, too?”
“Devil’s Lake?” he said. “Oh, sure. But sometimes a man needs a change, you know?” He stared at her with that sick, lustful expression she’d come to hate. “A man n
eeds variety.”
“Uh huh.” She continued to eat, trying to slow herself down so she wouldn’t get sick.
“What did you catch?”
He smiled at her. “You’re a regular Chatty Cathy today, aren’t you?” He got up and moved toward her, playing with her hair. “You really missed me, didn’t you?”
She nodded, looking down. “Of course.”
“When you finish, put the food away. Then come into the bedroom.”
Chapter 34
“Stand in the corner,” he growled from the bathroom. The closet door stood open, and she couldn’t see him.
In the bedroom, Portia’s knees shook and her heart banged beneath her ribs.
Is this it? Is he finally going to force himself on me?
Every time she’d been afraid in the past, he’d just made her stand in the corner with the damned nurse costume on while he took care of business on a chair on the opposite side of the room.
That had suited her just fine. As long as he didn’t touch her.
Of course, he had touched her in other ways. So far, it had been to hit, kick, or drag her by her hair. Not that she liked that, but it was better than him assaulting her sexually.
“Put that around your neck,” he called again, from the bathroom.
She noticed the plastic stethoscope on the bed. “This?” With a shrug, she put it on. Another prop. Another sick addition to his fantasy.
“Now, sit on the bed.”
This was different. She’d never had to sit on the bed before. Nerves fluttered in her stomach.
Oh, no. Please, no.
“Close your eyes.” His voice sounded weird, kind of sing-song.
She closed her eyes, and through tiny slits in the lashes noticed a figure coming toward her.
“Okay. Open them.” He towered over her, and a grin split his ugly, pitted face.
It was all she could do to stifle her hysterical laughter, for he stood before her in one of the nurse uniforms, his hairy chest and legs open to the air and to her ridicule.
“Oh,” was all she could manage. She didn’t let her mouth twitch. Didn’t let the laugh bubble out from her throat.
Now we’re twins, she thought.
Twins.
What the hell was this guy playing at, anyway? Now he wanted to be a nurse, too?
Well, this answers the question about the plus size uniforms in the closet.
To her horror, he slid onto the bed beside her.
“Check my heartbeat,” he said, with a coquettish tone.
Her stomach turned, and she was afraid she’d lose her much-needed food if he got any weirder.
I won’t throw up. I won’t.
When she hesitated, he roared at her in his usual gruff voice. “Check it, I said!”
She inserted the plastic tabs in her ears and leaned toward him, pressing the plastic disk against his open chest, where he’d left all the buttons undone. “Okay. Breathe deeply.”
He grabbed her wrist and squeezed it hard. “No talking.”
She nodded, and kept moving the stupid toy around his chest as if listening.
He flipped up his dress, exposing himself beneath it.
Of course. He’s naked.
Dread filled her throat. Oh, God, what’s next?
He lay back on the pillows and began to stroke himself. “The other girls knew what to do. Why are you so shy?”
The other girls?
She shrank from him, but couldn’t help answering. “I’m not shy.”
“Then sing to me.”
“What?”
“Sing to me. I want a lullaby.”
“Um. Okay.” In a thin, warbling voice, she began to sing the only lullaby she could think of, “Hush Little Baby.” She couldn’t remember the words to all the verses, and was sure she mixed them up, but she just kept singing with her eyes closed until he moaned, shuddered, and sighed. She felt the bed shift as he got up.
“Enough,” he said. “That was good. Now you know what to do.”
She watched as he lumbered into the bathroom, where he started the shower.
I’ve gotta get out of here.
The thought repeated in her mind, over and over again. And then she realized that when he’d changed into his starchy white uniform, he’d left his clothes in the bathroom. Which meant the keys were unattended for a few minutes.
She began to plan again.
As she lay on the bed waiting for him to emerge, a thought slammed into her brain.
Oh, God. There were other girls.
Other girls. Girls with an ‘s.’
So where are they? What did he do with them? Are they all buried around me in the woods?
What if I sneak in the bathroom right now and get the keys?
Without stopping to judge the risks, she darted into the bathroom and noticed the shower curtain was fully closed.
Working on pure adrenaline, she grabbed his pants, reached into the pockets, and pulled out the ring of keys.
He hadn’t heard her over the water of the shower.
RUN.
Her heart drummed rapidly as she flew to the front door. She knew which key she needed, she’d memorized it. Big, silver, slightly tarnished.
Here it is.
Hands shaking, she inserted it into the giant padlock and turned.
Click.
The lock opened, and the shower turned off.
“Get me a towel,” he roared from the bathroom.
“Rot in hell,” she whispered, and ran into the cool summer air.
Chapter 35
He bellowed behind her like a wounded bear, shouting from the cabin. “Sugar! God damn it, come back here.”
RUN. RUN. RUN.
Don’t stop.
With feet churning through leaves and over clumps of moss, Portia headed for the lake and didn’t look back.
There it was. Devil’s Lake. At least now she knew the name, and for some reason, it made her laugh.
Running from the Devil to his very own lake. Devil’s Lake. Devil’s Lake. Devil’s Lake. The repetition of the name matched her footsteps.
But in spite of the name that didn’t seem to match its serene beauty, she wanted it. She wanted to reach the dock, jump in, and swim like hell.
Behind her, more yelling.
“Sugar!”
Oh God, he’s getting closer.
Redoubling her efforts, ducking through pine boughs and over clumps of brush, she flew through the woods toward the water. It grew closer, and she could even see a few fishing boats in the distance.
If only she could get their attention.
She broke into the clearing where the shore met water, felt the hot sun on her skin, and began to scream, waving her arms. She pounded across the dock, past the rowboat, and at the end, she braced her legs and dove into the cool blue water. When she broke into the air, she heard his footfalls pounding along the pier.
I made it.
Giggling hysterically inside, she threw arm over arm and stroked away from him. Away from the cabin. The humiliation. The fear.
Use your fear. Move!
Go, go, go!
The voices in her head encouraged her as if she were in a race and they were cheering alongside her route. She focused on breathing and swimming, and tried to ignore the sound of a small motor starting up.
No!
Harder now, she threw her arms far and wide, long, powerful strokes, surely enough to distance her from her monster.
“Sugar!”
His voice sounded impossibly closer, and she dared to turn to see the boat chugging up behind her. Why was the shore so close? Why hadn’t she made more progress?
Oh, please, God. Please don’t let him catch me.
Laughing, he moved the craft up beside her.
She glanced sideways. “No!” Screaming, she treaded water and yelled for help as loud as she could.
The engine puttered softly, and he simply watched her struggle. A huge smile bloomed across his ugly face
. “Time to come home now, sugar.”
“No!” She screamed again, tiring suddenly, feeling as if she couldn’t move another foot in the water.
“They can’t hear you. They’re too far away,” he said, as if to a child.
She considered letting herself sink to the bottom. Wouldn’t that be better than facing him again?
NO.
Next time, she would have to incapacitate him. Knock him out.
Kill him.
Next time.
Her mind let go, and when he caught her around the neck with the fishing gaff, she barely struggled.
“There you go,” he said, as if he were drying a wet puppy after a rainstorm. He hauled her into the boat and turned the boat around, churning back to the cabin.
She lay on the floor of the wooden craft, soaking wet and exhausted.
“Now, sugar.” His metallic voice rasped, even more pronounced out here on the lake. “You’re gonna have to learn some manners. That was very rude. Trying to leave me after all I did for you.”
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.
Next time.
Chapter 36
When they reached the shore again, she’d regained some strength, and one more time, she tried screaming.
“Help! Anybody? Please, help me!”
She twisted away from him and started toward the woods, but this time he caught her in seconds, pouncing on her from behind. His heavy body slammed her to the moist sand.
“Now, stop that, sugar. There’s no hope for you. Nobody can hear you.”
Anger built inside her, billowing into a volcanic head of emotion. “Stop it! Get off me. And stop calling me sugar! My name is Portia.” She curled sideways and hammered at him, hands slamming his face and feet kicking his knees. “I don’t even know your name, you big, filthy monster.” Sobbing, she tried yelling again, but could barely hear her own voice. “Help!”
“Now, stop that. You know the drill. I’m bringing you back inside.” He grabbed her hair and began to drag her like a caveman to his stony enclave.
Twisting and turning, she grabbed his wrist to lessen the force on her scalp. “No!”
He kept right on, as if she were nothing more than a rabbit he’d shot in the woods. Just bringing home dinner on a quiet Sunday afternoon.
Devil's Lake (Bittersweet Hollow Book 1) Page 12
