Captors

by Farris, John

  "Then Uncle Hat came in. He must have heard us wrestling around. You can imagine what he saw, and what he thought."

  "That kind and gentle man," Felice said with a sneer.

  "Patsy threw a quick tantrum and blamed the whole thing on me. I was in shock. Hat dragged me down two flights of steps to his basement workshop. He locked my arms into vises and spent an hour squatting in front of me in his shabby old robe with this fanatical light in his eyes that was more horrible than cruelty. He honed a knife until I was chewing my tongue at the dry, slidey sound of the blade on the whetstone. I tried to—appease him, but he wouldn't even look at me. 'I better cut it off,' he said. 'If you can't control yourself in my house around my daughter then by God I'll cut it off.' Needless to say he didn't, but he got the reaction he was after."

  "Don't tell me." He looked very pale, to the tips of his ears, though he was trying to smile.

  "I—couldn't," Sam said wanly, shrugging. He touched her cheek with his fingertips as if to reassure himself about something, and she snuggled against him gratefully.

  "What happened to Patsy after that?"

  "Oh, well, she stayed away from me, and a few months later she ran off with some boy. Hat held me responsible for that too—for ruining her life in the first place."

  "But he never hurt you—physically, I mean."

  "I could have taken a beating now and then; it might have toughened me in a useful way. That wasn't Hat's style. He was a master of psychological pressure, an artist at grinding me down, bit by bit. You know all that. I've told you." Sam was uneasy, and cold to her touch. His eyes were hostile, but she knew the hostility wasn't directed at her.

  "Why couldn't you make love to me, Sam?"

  "No matter how much I wanted you I was convinced that if I tried to go through with it, Hat would break down the bedroom door and carry out his castration threat. It's been hanging over my head for a long time now. The sooner that miserable bastard is in his grave the better off I'll be. You realize that, don't you?" He looked at Felice, his eyes unfamiliar now, poorly focused.

  "Dear Sam," she said, confused, and with a sigh tried to snuggle again. He broke away from her, preoccupied.

  "Don't you?" he said in a dry voice, and went to the window, stood there leaning with his fingers splayed on the sill, seeming disappointed and terribly anxious.

  "Hat died a long time ago, Sam."

  He began to breathe again. "Yeah," he said wearily, thankful. He located a cigarette, snapped his lighter. "Just in time, too." He blew smoke, smiled at her. "I couldn't have withstood him another year. Jesus."

  "Feeling better now?"

  "Some." He thumped his solid chest with a fist, somewhat derisively.

  "I think it's good we talked about it."

  "Sorry I—flopped."

  "You'll get me mad. Stop it, Sam. You're no flop. We've been married nine years and I could recite you chapter and verse. I just picked a perfectly lousy time. Soon we'll—" She winced and shook her head slowly. Tears stood out in her eyes.

  "I'd better get dressed," Sam said, "and find Turo. Do you want to come down?"

  "I was thinking about a bath. Another drink. Don't stay long. Sam, I love you."

  "That's all I really give a damn about," he told her.

  He was sitting in the library downstairs listening to tapes when he heard them come in by way of the back porch. He walked through the living room and down the center hall to the kitchen. Lone was laughing. He saw their shadows on the kitchen floor. He saw the blackened beat of wings and heard the hissing of the bird on Lone's wrist. He came to a stop in the doorway and turned his head, hands grabbing for his face. He saw the blue Pacific sky and gulls wobbling in the air and heard them scream for his liver. They descended like sharpened bones. He saw the ocean sweltering and the rain coming down. He saw dreadful shapes pressing landward from the sea. He pinched at his cheeks and eyelids, inflicting pain, forging a semblance of reality.

  They stopped laughing when they saw him and heard the sob of breath in his throat.

  "What's the matter, Sam?" Rich asked.

  "The bird," Sam gasped.

  "Captain Midnight," Lone said proudly. "That's the name I picked for him, Sam. Captain Midnight. Look how he's filling out. A few more days and I'll be able to fly him."

  "We don't have a few more days, love," Rich reminded her.

  "Maybe I'll take him along," she said. "Nobody to miss him. Would you like that, Cap'n?"

  Sam's vision failed gradually, leaving him with a heavy breath and the specific muscle memory of kneeling in cold sand, a glare of winter light in his eyes as he methodically and resolutely beat a crippled gull with the clumsy ax of his hand, beat it until it was pulp and feathers. "Get that bird out of here," he said thickly, glancing at it, at the perfect round of a yellow eye and the sharp curved beak.

  "That old phobia still bothering you, Sam?" Rich asked, concerned. "I guess it is, you look mighty pale. Porch, Lone." She scowled mock ferociously at him and walked away, gurgling to her half-tamed pet. In the dark of the porch she tethered the falcon to the high back of a wooden chair.

  Sam turned abruptly and went back down the hall, heart pounding, breathing through his mouth. "Hey, Sam," Rich said softly, following.

  In the library Sam opened a bottle of Scotch, a drink he disliked, and poured a shot of it. He was drinking when Rich sat down on the sofa.

  "What happened back there, Sam?"

  Sam stared at him, drank a little more of the Scotch, squeezed his temples between thumb and forefinger. "A little side trip," he said lethargically.

  "Oh, yes? Remember, I warned you that could happen. Even months after you stopped dropping acid. How long did the reaction last?"

  "Too long. But it was mild compared to a couple of others I've had. There was one about a month ago, while I was flying from Minneapolis to New York—" He drained the whiskey from the glass but continued to swallow hard after it was gone. "I thought I was going to have to get up and leave the airplane. At thirty thousand feet."

  Rich said judiciously, "Still, it's not such a big price to pay. You can put up with a few unexpected trips. You owe your sanity to acid. Your life."

  "That's right." Sam heard a sputter of voices on the tape recorder in his bottom desk drawer and went to turn the machine off.

  "Good news, Sam. No need to monitor the tapes any longer. The General heard from Vernon Metts a little while ago. Metts is flying in late tomorrow afternoon. The General expects him around eight o'clock."

  "God. After all this time. Finally." Sam locked the drawer. "One of you will have to remember to pull the bug out of his telephone. We overlooked that."

  "I'll make a note of it, Sam."

  Lone slid the library doors open and came in. "Where do you suppose Turo is?"

  Rich said, "He might have gone to Mother Church. After last night he needs Her."

  "Just so he doesn't drag his troubles into a confessional."

  "He knows better."

  Lone took off her butch trench coat. She was wearing a horizontally striped shell and indecent red shorts that left two firm crescents of her behind bare. She was flushed but the whites of her eyes were startlingly clear. She was glossy, electric, at the peak of health and good feeling; she laughed, making a drink for herself. "I don't really need this, but I hate to see you drinking alone, Sam-the-man. Do you want another?" To Rich she said, "Has he heard the latest?"

  "I told him."

  Sam said, "I'm worried about Turo."

  "Why?" Lone asked. "He wants this more than any of us. He's waited half his life for this chance."

  "Felice has an affinity for Turo. She seemed to have reason to think we could crack him if we tried."

  "Well," Lone said, stirring the drink with a finger, "then we'd better keep the lady away from Turo. That shouldn't be hard. I'll stay very close to her tomorrow."

  After a few moments Sam said, as if the fact had been weighing on his mind, "She doesn't like you."

&
nbsp; "No surprise. She's scared to death of me. I tell you I could have stuck that knife in her just as easy as Dev, and she knows it. Don't know what stopped me." She gave Sam's ashen face a sly close study and said pleasantly, "Only kidding, Sam-the-man. But I don't like her. I never have. She's made this thing twice as tough for me as it should have been. Every day I expected her to come out with 'You're not Carol!' I saw it in her face two or three times. But she never quite let herself believe it." She made a seat for herself on the edge of his desk. Rich lit a thin cigar and watched the two of them with great enjoyment. Lone clinked her glass against the empty glass in Sam's hand. "Salud. I think you're making a mistake. I think you really ought to come with us when it's over. Could be you'll miss your true friends when you're way up here and we're way down there."

  "I doubt it," Sam said, with a leaden smile.

  Lone pressed a hand to her heart and pretended to swoon over the side of the desk. "Sam, you put the hurt on me! I'll miss you. After all, I nursed you at my own breast in this your second life."

  "Sam's tired, love. Don't badger him."

  "Well, just you remember, Sam. After the old man's dead, if it isn't good with Felice the way you think it's going to be, we'll be happy to see you any time."

  "I love Felice," Sam said, looking at her, grim in a manner she found mildly distressing. "And nothing had better happen to her between now and the time you leave here for good."

  Lone wagged her head. "Sam," she said reprovingly, "I'm surprised at you. I don't like Felice. But I'm not mad at her." She got down from the desk and walked around the room tippy-toe, humming to herself. Sam stared at her, then glanced at Rich.

  Rich was watching Lone too, and he looked as nearly worried as he ever could.

  "Tomorrow night can't come too soon," he said, "for all of us."

  "I'm going to bed," Sam told him.

  "Send Turo in the morning?" Rich asked.

  "Send him in the morning. It'll give him something to do."

  Chapter Twenty

  Sunday, July 14

  Morning light. Morning of the twenty-first day. That called for a little celebration, Carol thought, remembering Babs's remark about the cake and candles. She didn't smile. She had slept poorly and there was an ache in her lower back she couldn't massage because of the constraining belt and the manacles.

  She'd heard the car, heard someone come in downstairs. Voices, subdued and unintelligible. Rattle of cutlery in the kitchen. She wondered who had come. Turo? He hadn't visited for about a week. The last time she had been groggy, scarcely aware of his presence, unresponsive. By experimenting she found a position that eased the strain on her back. She waited. She did her yoga breathing exercises. Breathe in for a count of one-two-three-four. In her condition it was hard work, but she had to build lung power. She felt stronger in the morning. Not exactly full of fight, but no pushover, either. She hoped it was Turo, and that he would bring the breakfast tray. She did not want to see Big Jim. If he had the gall to come near her today she would spit in his eye.

  When she began to feel light-headed she stopped the exercise and closed her eyes. Presently she heard the breakfast tray on its way up.

  "Hello," Turo said.

  Carol turned her head quickly. "Turo! I'm so glad to see you!"

  Her enthusiasm was real, unexpected. He smiled bashfully as he approached with the tray. "Babs said you're feeling OK now."

  "Yes. How have you been?"

  "Oh—" he said vaguely, "fine." He put the tray down on the small table and took a key from a pocket of his sand-colored Edwardian jacket, reached behind her to unlock the big padlock that held the chain to the frame of the bed. Carol sat up thankfully. He pulled the rackety chain through the loop, then undid the several straps on the belt, releasing her.

  "Please stay," Carol said. "I'll be right back."

  When she returned from the bathroom he had uncovered the dishes on the tray: corn cakes and molasses, a small breakfast steak, a three-minute egg. "Babs always fixes too much," Carol said. "Why don't you share breakfast with me, Turo?" He declined with a shake of his head. "Some coffee, then? Believe me, there's plenty. And Babs sent two cups along. She never fails to be thoughtful, that Babs."

  Turo looked uncertainly at her but her smile was brisk and uncynical. He accepted the coffee and stood nearby drinking with the saucer beneath his chin. His hands were shaking. He was nervous this morning, and Carol was sympathetic. She ate half her breakfast but the pain in her back finally made it impossible for her to sit without fidgeting unendurably. She got up and paced. Turo watched her with a heavy-lidded admiration and despair, and nibbled at a fingernail between drafts of coffee.

  "What's the matter?" he asked finally.

  "I've got this bad back."

  "If I could just get the blood circulating— Rub it for me, will you, Turo?" She didn't look to see what he thought of the suggestion. She kneeled on the polar bear rug and eased flat onto her stomach, joined hands outstretched. Turo put cup and saucer on the tray, clattering them. He came over and stood looking down at her blonde head and then kneeled astride her and began to massage. He had strong hands but he was deft and careful and seemed to know the musculature of the back.

  "Ummm," Carol said. "Heavenly. It feels all right now." Turo got up and she turned over on the soft rug. "You must do that for all your girls," she said, kittenish, curious about him. She knew so little. Two years ago at Berkeley they'd attended lectures together, a poli-sci section with two hundred students. Occasionally they passed on campus, smiled and nodded to each other. He always seemed to be alone and in a hurry, profoundly occupied. Before Dev she'd been tempted a couple of times to stop Turo and get acquainted. Now they had a little time, and she was surprised that she still cared. But he had touched her and been gentle; she knew the reason why.

  "Do you have anyone special?" she asked. The sun had fully risen and she felt it warm through the windows; sun touched his face and favored it.

  "A girl? No." He raised a fist to his mouth but he had no nails left; he chewed them all to the bloodied quick. Instead he mauled his knuckles and looked remotely ashamed of his nerves.

  "Once I nearly elected myself. You were somebody I wanted to know. I always looked for you first when I walked into old what's-his-name's lecture."

  The confession prompted a strained smile from Turo. No skepticism. His reaction gave her a reasonable idea of his feelings for her. She felt delighted and forlorn. "I was always late," he said.

  "It was an ungodly hour of the morning." Carol sat up, chained hands on her knees. He looked at the chain and then away. The fact of her captivity disturbed the mood of intimacy so easily created. Sensing this, Carol said ruefully, "Always trust your instincts. If I'd chased you when it occurred to me I probably wouldn't have been interested when Dev came along."

  Mention of Dev offended him somehow, or disturbed him; she wasn't sure which. "Finish your breakfast," he said, not unfriendly but with the severity of a jailer. Carol felt crushed. He walked to the stairs.

  "Please,” she said, getting up, "I have to talk to you, Turo."

  He didn't want to stay but something, a chivalric impulse, a dim sense of obligation, turned him back. Before he could reconsider Carol went to the breakfast tray and poured the last of the coffee for them, an awkward business with the chain in the way.

  "I know what's happening," Carol said. "I know why I'm here. I know about your plans for the General. Babs told me everything."

  Turo looked at her without comment and chose one of the sling chairs. His cordovan face was hard and he looked unreceptive. He turned his head toward the windows and closed his eyes wearily to the sun. Carol sat cross-legged on the tufted skin, facing him. She wondered about the small eggshell scar on his chin, and was diverted by the tarry length of his lashes. Momentary relaxation had loosened his mouth and his breath broke from the throat with a sibilance that startled him.

  "I can't defend the General's morality," Carol said, conceding everythin
g at once, hopefully to engage Turo despite his seclusion. "For a long time I've been determined to change his thinking. We've had some bitter arguments, gone weeks without speaking to each other. But he can't be argued with. He can't be changed. He's just a soldier, an old warrior. I've called him terrible names but still he's my flesh and blood and I'm fond of him. I don't want him to be killed. I don't want you to have to kill him."

  "Well," he said, after a long painful silence, "I have to, that's all."

  "You don't."

  "Listen—" He turned his head slightly and regarded her with a scorn he might have shown for a younger sister. He had found an attitude and was secure. "We can argue, but I can't be changed, either. It isn't something I decided to do yesterday. I decided twelve years ago."

  "Oh," she said softly, disappointed in him, "Turo, I don't believe that. When you were a boy?"

  "When I was a boy your grandfather was selling guns in and around my country. He sold a few thousand dollars' worth of automatic rifles and light machine guns to a mountain gang in our province, a collection of killers who had no politics to speak of and not much ambition. The weapons made them brave and a threat to the stability of the province. Two villages were shot up. Federal troops had to be sent in. The capital of the province, where I lived, where my father was mayor, had the worst fighting. I lost my father and relatives on both sides of the family. It wasn't difficult to find out where the sophisticated weapons had come from. But no protest was ever made. General Morse sold to everybody in my part of the world. Even to the government."