The blades pressed, and Clay flinched. “All right,” he said grudgingly, “I’m with you.”
Abner removed the blades from Clay’s neck. “You’ve made your decision,” he said with the finality of a judge passing sentence. “There’s no going back. The consequences would be deadly.” Rifle in hand once more, he used the cutters and set Clay free from the chair.
I watched with pounding heart. Yes, Abner held the rifle, but it wasn’t aimed. It was the perfect time for Clay to go for it, to grab the cutters, to sock Abner, to try something. Anything.
But he didn’t.
My head drooped. Clay had made his decision about whose side he was on, and no matter how pressured he’d been, it appeared he meant it. He was now the enemy.
Yet I let him heave Max over his shoulder and lug him toward the prison hole, because I had no choice. I was forced to enter the hole first, but then I shone the flashlight up to make Clay’s journey easier, for Max’s sake. Clay moved slowly down the rope ladder, but the fact that he managed to perform the awkward feat without dropping Max amazed me despite myself. Finally he laid Max on the cold dirt floor, and left.
While I fretted at Max’s side, Clay returned from above with a pillow. He began to put it under Max’s thickly bandaged foot, but I swiped it from him and did it myself.
Clay hesitated, then spoke quietly. “I’m sorry, you know. But you were there. You’ve got to see I had no choice—”
“You had a choice,” I said stiffly, speaking to the shadows. “It wasn’t an easy one, but it was still a choice.”
“I’m still really on your side.” His tone begged me to understand. “Think about it. What good am I locked down here? At least this way, I can help. I’ll try to get some things to make it better for you and your brother. Some food, water, blankets, painkillers—”
“But not freedom. Not a doctor. Not the police. Correct?” The silence told me all I needed to know. “We don’t want anything from you or your brother.” I laid my hand on Max’s forehead. “You’re both criminals now.”
There was a pause before Clay said, “Fine.”
He was so far from the hero I yearned for, that I couldn’t stand to even look at him as he turned and walked away, climbed up the ladder, and left me for the world above.
* * *
I felt as if I were keeping vigil at a corpse’s side. I felt I should pray, but bitter anger and hurt ate away at my heart and soul, so that I was incapable of any act of faith. I was an empty shell. If Max died, I would die, too. I didn’t know how, but I knew I would.
The flashlight stood up like a candle from where I’d balanced the narrow handle on a level spot of ground. This and my dark, earthen surroundings only enhanced the tomb-like atmosphere. I kept my fingertips on Max’s pulse, and this was my one hope, because I continued to feel the movement of his life-blood throbbing steadily.
Eventually, he stirred. I leaned over him and studied his face. “Max,” I whispered, “can you hear me?”
He blew out his breath and even while I wrinkled my nose at the stale odor, I rejoiced to see he was reviving.
“Water,” he mumbled, and he licked his chapped lips.
I squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry, Max, I don’t have any water.”
He groaned and opened his eyes. Eyes pooled with pain. I watched the realization dawn on him as he lifted his head slightly and looked around. “Back in here,” he said flatly, letting his head fall back down on the cold floor.
“I’d rather be in here than up there with that savage,” I said viciously. My voice softened as I added, “You were very brave.”
He grunted. “No, I wasn’t. And I don’t want to be. I just want out of this hellhole.” His eyes rolled back in his head, and he winced.
“Does it hurt a lot?”
“No, Char. It feels great. You should try getting your toe hacked off sometime.”
A muffled sob escaped my throat.
“Sorry, that was uncalled for.” He sighed. “I’m not really thinking straight right now.”
“Don’t apologize. It was a stupid question.”
He rose up on his forearms and slid back a little, struggling to prop himself against the wall. I automatically moved and adjusted the pillow so it kept his bandaged foot elevated. Then I sat next to him, hugging my knees and trying not to think about anything.
Instead, I wondered about Clay, and his intention to bring us water, food, blankets, and painkillers. I wished now that I hadn’t reacted the way I had, for Max’s sake. He could really use those things. But it had been a long time since Clay left. I doubted he’d be back tonight, if at all.
“Where’d the pillow come from?” Max asked, as if noticing it for the first time.
“Clay brought it.”
This seemed to trigger something in Max’s memory. “Clay,” he repeated, his eyes tightening. “He made us think he was a victim, but he’s really in on this. I thought he was just some random fisherman who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but he’s really Abner’s brother.”
I didn’t say anything, just stared at my knees.
“Char?” His tone was sharp. “You knew all along, didn’t you?”
At that moment, I hated twin intuition.
“Yes, but—”
“The kidnapper’s brother, Char?” His voice rose. “The kidnapper’s freakin’ brother! Why didn’t you tell me?” His fist flashed through the air. “I could’ve taken him easily when he was down here before. Pummeled him to a pulp.”
“Max, please. That wouldn’t have done any good.”
“Would’ve been worth a shot. And it sure would’ve felt good.” He turned his eyes on me accusingly. “Why the heck were you protecting him?”
“Max, I’m sorry.” I couldn’t bear to have him angry at me. Tears gathered in my eyes and trembled on my lashes. “I really thought he was on our side. He did help me, he—”
“Man, talk about naive.”
“How do you think you got down here?” I asked defensively. “If it weren’t for Clay, Abner would’ve thrown you down here. Clay carried you on his back; he didn’t have to do that.”
“Okay, so if he’s really a victim like us, where is he now? Why isn’t he down here, too?”
I was silent, weighing my answer. But there was only one way to say it. “He joined Abner. Abner threatened him, made him—I know,” I hurried on, because I could tell what Max was thinking, “that’s no excuse. I agree with you. Clay’s clearly not on our side.”
“Clearly.”
As I sat there in utter discomfort, I began to realize that I’d been smelling a foul odor for quite some time now. I wrinkled my nose. “What’s that awful smell?”
Max gave me a hard stare. “That, dear Char, is our toilet. Sorry to break it to you, but this place doesn’t exactly come with plumbing.”
I plucked up the flashlight and swung it around the room, illuminating a large green bucket in the far corner that I had failed to see on my previous sweep through of our prison. I cringed, all my senses assaulted at the realization that I needed to use the bucket. Plodding over to it, I clicked off the flashlight.
Then I, a self-admitted clean freak, was reduced to squatting over a reeking, stagnating toilet bucket, in frigid temperatures, while my brother sat nearby.
And what will we do when the bucket’s full? Better not think that far ahead. Hopefully, we won’t be here anymore.
Negatively, my mind added: We’ll probably be dead.
* * *
Max was not a pleasant companion. I couldn’t blame him, not under our circumstances and with him in such unrelenting pain. The minutes dragged by, and I wished sleep would claim him, or me—or, preferably, both of us—but rest had never felt more impossible. Thirst plagued me. My tongue felt thick, dry, cottony, and it stuck to the roof of my mouth. A person dies after about three days without water, my mind warned me.
At the same time, I kept fantasizing about a soft mattress, thick quilts, and fluffy pi
llows. This alternated with my food fantasies. All I’d eaten today was three donuts, not ideal survival food. And just envisioning Grandfather’s heavily laden table caused me to drool and fume with anger. His brunch feast now seemed so long ago.
I rubbed my forehead. How did so much wretchedness get crammed into one day?
According to my watch, it was now 10 p.m.
I rested my head back, then instantly removed it. Too late. The cold, clammy earthen wall had already sucked what little warmth I’d had left. But I wanted to rest my pounding head so badly. I finally leaned it forward on my knees.
Knees. Knees are for praying. God . . . was all I could manage. Did that even count as a prayer? Was my mind freezing up, so I could barely form a prayer? Or did I just not want to? Was I giving in to despair?
Suddenly, the metal door to our prison clanged open, and I braced myself for more Abner torture.
But it was only Clay. He climbed down with two plastic grocery sacks in hand and approached us tentatively. I glanced at Max, who was glaring at him. Clay cleared his throat before crouching down, keeping his distance from us both. “I brought you some stuff.” He pulled two worn blankets from one bag.
Unable to help myself, I reached forward and snatched them, immediately dropping one on Max before wrapping myself in the other, although it was rather thin and musty smelling.
From the remaining bag, Clay produced two plastic water bottles and two cans of baked beans. “Sorry about the mess,” he said as he handed them to us, “but I had to open the cans before coming down.” A silverware handle protruded from each can and some of the contents had slopped over the sides. “You’d better eat fast. Abner’s timing me, and I have to bring the cans and spoons back up.”
What, so we don’t try to kill ourselves with them? I began gulping down the beans and hoped Max wouldn’t be too stubborn to do the same. We needed any nourishment we could get.
“These are for you.” Clay set a small paper cup near Max. “Painkillers.” Apparently feeling the need to explain himself, he went on. “I would have come sooner, but Abner made me clean up the mess . . .” He let the sentence trail off, probably realizing how tactless his words were.
“Oh? He made you?” I said acidly. “I thought joining up with him was supposed to give you the power of ‘calling the shots.’ ”
Ignoring me, he continued trying to justify himself. “Then I had to help him get rid of your car, and after that we dropped the—uh—package in a drop box so it’ll go out to your grandfather first thing. You’ll probably be out of here before you know it. Maybe even tomorrow,” he said brightly. Too brightly. His hand rubbed the back of his neck. “Anyway, I just want you both to know that I’m looking out for you and doing what I can—”
“Save it.” Max’s voice oozed disgust. “We’re not buying your crap. You’re looking out for your own skin, and that’s it.”
“No,” he retorted. “I just don’t see the need to go looking for trouble. I’ve tried standing up to Abner. It didn’t accomplish anything, and it cost me. He’s bigger and stronger, and he can deck me no problem. Sorry, but I’m not looking to get killed.”
“Stop whining,” Max said scathingly. “You’re a sorry excuse for a man. You’ve got nothing we want to hear, and we’ve got nothing to say to you; and if I wasn’t out of commission right now, I’d beat you myself.”
Clay worked his jaw silently and waited for us to finish eating. Then, gathering the cans, spoons, and bags, he left without another word.
Max gulped down his painkillers with a swig of water. I took a deep drink as well, but also tried to be conservative, as I doubted Clay would be back.
* * *
10:30 p.m. I pressed my lips together and wished they weren’t so chapped. At home, I used lip balm constantly. Max called it an addiction. Sometimes I carried ChapStick in my pocket. Thinking this, I ungloved my hand and reached into my jeans pocket hopefully. Sure enough, I felt the smooth tube. And something else, something beaded. Along with the ChapStick, I pulled out, to my surprise, a rosary. But it didn’t belong to me. I studied the blue beads closer, then recalled Gwen asking me to untangle this rosary earlier today. It felt like weeks ago.
I was ridiculously thankful for the ChapStick and the relief it brought as I spread the waxy stuff thickly on my rough lips. After repocketing the lip balm, I fingered the rosary contemplatively. It felt good in my hand.
“Haven’t seen one of those in a while,” Max commented. “Wouldn’t it be nice if life was that simple: Say a prayer, and all’s good.” His derogatory attitude reminded me of my own, yet I cringed at it.
I gripped the little crucifix and found myself saying, “I do believe that God can get us out of this. If He wants to. That’s the two-million-dollar-question: Will He? Kind of like Grandfather.” I bit my tongue, hoping that hadn’t been blasphemy. I’m a perfect illustration of fallen human nature: Forget God when things are good; blame Him when things go bad.
Out loud, I said, “I haven’t prayed much since Mom and Dad died. I guess because Grandfather always prodded me to ‘pray for their souls.’ I didn’t want to think of them as souls, without bodies. And all those times he forced us to go to confession . . .”
“No kidding. Grandfather’s enough to turn anyone off religion.”
I rolled the smooth elongated beads in my fingers, musing. Could I blame it all on Grandfather? Not really. There always seemed to be a reason not to pray. Not enough time. Too many distractions. And, most of all, lack of desire. But now . . . all I had was time.
“It wouldn’t hurt to ask Him to help us,” I said quietly. “God, I mean.”
“What, you actually want to pray?”
“It wouldn’t hurt,” I repeated. “Just one Rosary. Will you join me?”
“Fine,” Max grumbled. “If I’m lucky it’ll put me to sleep.”
I crossed myself and began. Technically, I thought, we should pray the Joyful Mysteries, as it was still a Sunday in the Christmas Season, but that seemed highly out of place here. The Sorrowful Mysteries would be much more fitting, I decided grimly.
Our voices droned unenthusiastically in the darkness.
“. . . now and at the hour of our death, Amen” took on a whole new meaning. Any moment could very well be our hour of death.
I noticed that the little flashlight stood before us like a vigil candle, casting a comforting—or eerie—glow, depending how I looked at it. As I peered around our bare room, I studied the earthen walls with all their ridges and shadows. For quite a long time, I stared at the farthest wall, until I began to believe that I saw a cross. I blinked my weary eyes and refocused them, expecting the cross to vanish.
But no, it was no trick of my eyes. There really was something like the shape of a cross scraped roughly into the dirt of the back wall. Only, it wasn’t quite right. The longest part of the cross, the vertical part, stretched too long at the top and too short at the bottom, basically forming more of an upside-down cross than anything.
My eyes bleared, and my voice finished praying. Next to me, Max breathed a deep rhythm of sleep. I yawned, crawled forward for the flashlight, laid down with my blanket, and snapped off the light.
The cross disappeared.
Chapter Eleven
“Escape is our only chance,” I told Max for the one-hundredth time, as if saying it would help us come up with a plan. It was my second day of captivity, and to make matters worse, we’d been given no water or food yet today.
“Hey, I’m all for it,” Max said. I heard him hobbling carefully around the pitch black room, testing his damaged foot and attempting to warm his muscles. We’d decided to turn the flashlight on only when necessary, as we wanted to preserve the battery. Knowing we had some way of dispelling the oppressive darkness was an immense comfort, not one we wanted to relinquish.
Standing, I shed my blanket and flexed my stiff legs before making my way carefully around the room, feeling the dirt walls.
I removed a glove and scrat
ched at the wall. A few semi-frozen dirt flakes gathered under my nails. “We could dig out.”
“With what?”
I thought hard. Our fingers would be numb and bleeding before we dug five inches. “With spoons, maybe . . . No wonder Clay took them from us.” I sighed and thought harder. “The door, then.” I climbed the ladder and examined the metal portal for a crack or a hinge or something to work at.
“Even the key wouldn’t do you any good, not with the padlock on the outside,” Max said. “I’m telling you, I’d like to see Houdini try to get out of this one.”
“Shh.” I’d begun to hear muffled voices through the door. I thought I’d heard Clay shouting, and caught the words, “bring them food.” So maybe he would be back. I pressed my ear against the cold metal. I heard no more distinguishable words, but a plan began to form. It wasn’t ingenious and it wasn’t foolproof. It was risky and maybe even stupid. But was it worth a shot? Definitely.
I spoke down the length of the ladder. “We’ll just have to get one of the kidnappers to let us out.”
“Sure, that’ll be easy.”
“Seriously, if Clay comes down again, we should make a move. Do you think you could tackle him?”
Max snorted, and I imagined the are-you-kidding-me? look on his face.
“Okay, so here’s the plan,” and as I described it to my skeptical twin, he became a little less skeptical.
So that we’d be ready, he and I traded shifts listening at the door. Most of the time there was nothing to hear but the insane hum of silence. Every once in a while I’d say, “Max?” or he’d say, “Char?” just to reassure ourselves that we weren’t alone.
When the silence became too strained, we prayed a Rosary. “We might as well make this a novena,” I said, using the little metal crucifix to scrape a mark in the dirt wall to keep track of the days. “Just in case we’re in here that long.”
“So we pray for nine days straight, then we’re miraculously set free? Is that how it works?”
Frozen Footprints Page 11
