Still looking at the dying fire, she replied, No, I just want to sit here.
Yeah? All night?
Yes.
Who'm I gonna cuddle with?
Not me. I'm chained to the bed.
Handcuffed, not chained.
What difference does it make to me?
Hey, if I could trust you, you wouldn't be chained to the floor, or cuffed to the bed, or nothin". Can I trust you?
Yes.
He laughed. Yeah, I can trust you to blow my brains out.
She looked at him. Are you afraid of me?
His eyes narrowed, and he said, I'm afraid of anybody who can pull a trigger. I ain't no fool.
Annie said, No, you're not. But you're . . .
What?
You don't trust people, Cliff. Do you know how to trust?
Nope. Why should I trust anybody? Why should I trust you?
If I gave you my word that I wouldn't try to kill you, would you uncuff me?
Nope. Why you makin' such a big deal about bein' cuffed?
Why? Because I don't want to be chained like an animal. That's why.
Oh, you ain't chained like an animal. Animals got more freedom. He laughed. You're chained like a felon who got caught by the law. Them dogs outside never did nothin' wrong, so they can move a hundred yards or so. You fucked up, lady. Big-time. Maybe in a few weeks, I'll hook you to the dog run, then you can say you're chained like a animal and thank me.
Annie took a deep breath and said, Cliff . . . I had a chance to kill you that time . . . it's not in me to kill anyone. Please» believe that . . . you know that. You said so yourself. Let me sleep without the cuffs tonight. I can't sleep like that with my wrists cuffed to the headboard. Please. I swear to you, I won't harm you.
Yeah? But that ain't sayin' I won't wake up cuffed to the bed, and you'll be long gone. Right? Right? Hey, don't bother to answer. He leaned toward her. That reminds me. Next time you got to take a piss, you can do it right where you are.
Cliff . . . please . . .
Then clean it up. He added, But not in the bed. He yawned again. So you'd rather sleep in the goddamned chair all night than sleep with me?
She shook her head. No . . . I'm sorry. I don't want to sit here all night. I'll go to bed. She added, I have to go to the bathroom.
Yeah? I got a better idea. Stay here. Do you some good. He moved toward her and ripped the blanket away, throwing it across the room. Freeze your ass off, and piss on your chair.
Bastard.
He pinched her cheek hard. You got ten strokes across your butt comin' in the mornin'. Think about that all night. And no breakfast. You can sit there in your own piss and smell the bacon and eggs cookin'.
He walked to his gun rack and unlocked it, taking down the AK-47, then relocked the rack. I'd rather sleep with a rifle than you, anyway. Rifle's warmer than you ever was.
She sat in the rocker, her arms around her, looking into the glowing embers.
He asked, You want me to throw a log on?
She didn't reply.
Wasn't gonna do it, anyway.
She looked at him and said, Cliff, please . . . I'm sorry. Don't leave me here. I'm cold, I have to—
You should've thought of all that before you opened your mouth. You remember that Doberman I had that used to bark at me all the time and bit me once? Lots of guys said I should've shot him. Well, anybody can do that. It took me about a month to show him who was boss, didn't it? Turned out to be the best damned dog I ever had. That's gonna be you, sweetheart.
She stood. I am not a dog! I am a person, a human being. I am your wife—
No! You was my wife. Now you're my property.
I am not!
Cliff pushed her back in the rocker and stood over her. He stared at her a long time, then spoke in a sarcastic tone. Well, now, if you was my wife, you'd be wearing a wedding ring, and I don't see one on you.
She didn't reply.
Now, if you can find your weddin' ring, we can talk about you bein' my wife. Where do you think you lost it?
She stayed silent.
Well, hell, you don't need a ring. You got leg irons and handcuffs. Fact is, that's what I shoulda put on you years ago. And one of them chastity belts to keep your hot twat outa trouble. God knows, you don't take your marriage vows real serious.
You . . .
What? You gonna tell me I fucked around. So what? But I'll tell you somethin'—them women didn't mean shit to me. If you'd've done what you was supposed to do, I wouldn't've had to go stickin' it here and there. Now, you, on the other hand, you went and fell in love. Didn't you?
She didn't reply.
He came closer to her, and she turned in the rocker. He said, Look at me.
She forced herself to turn toward him.
He said, You think I'm ever gonna forget what I saw in that motel? I don't mean you fuckin' him. Hell, I pictured you fuckin' guys lots of times. I mean you jumpin' on me, so he could . . . he could try to kill me. I mean you layin' on him, so I couldn't smash his fuckin' head in. You think I'm ever gonna forget that? Ever?
No.
No. Not ever.
Keith and Billy knelt at the edge of the clearing.
While Billy scanned through his telescopic sight, Keith trained his binoculars on the house. A light was still on, but not the light Keith had seen before, which had shone nearer to the sliding glass doors. This was a weaker light, coming from the dormered window where he'd seen Annie, near the center of the house where the chimney rose through the roof. He guessed that the light came from a single table lamp. He saw no other lights on and no discernible glow of flames from the fireplace, though smoke still drifted out of the chimney, and it still came toward them, so that he and Billy remained upwind from the dogs, which was good.
He continued to look at the house through the binoculars. He saw no movements and no shadows across the window. He couldn't see the telltale, blue-white flicker of a TV set, either, which would have meant background noise in the house and which would have been helpful. There could be a radii or tape playing, of course, but Keith gave Baxter enough credit for not creating a disadvantage for himself. If Keith had to guess what was going on inside the house now—and he did have to guess—he'd say that one or both of them were still awake, sitting by the dying fire, and perhaps reading, maybe talking. He also made the assumption that Annie was physically restrained in some way, or Baxter would have to be on his guard constantly.
Keith scanned the open space around the house. He saw that the golden retriever was at the far end of its run toward the lake, lying down, perhaps sleeping. He noticed another dog, further away, silhouetted against the glow of the lake, walking near the shore, and it appeared that this dog was also on a wire run, which ran along the lake. The third dog, which he couldn't see now, was somewhere out toward the rear of the house. It occurred to him that, long before Baxter had retreated to his lair, he had positioned these dog posts to provide maximum security. Keith supposed that, if he'd lived Baxter's life, he'd take precautions, too.
Keith lowered his binoculars, and Billy put down his rifle. They remained almost motionless and could speak only in low whispers into each other's ears because of the dogs. Billy whispered, Gettin harder to see.
Keith nodded. The moon was low over the southwest end of the lake now, barely ten degrees above the tallest pines. He'd have welcomed complete darkness and would have wanted to wait until between three and four A.M., when dogs and men slept soundest. But if he could eliminate the dogs now, while he could see them, he'd feel better about that open space between the trees and the house.
They waited, wanting the light in the house to go out before the moon set behind the pines.
Keith stared at the house without the binoculars. The longer he stared at it, the more sinister it looked, he thought, this dark triangular-shaped structure, sitting high above the ground in the middle of nowhere, bathed in moonlight, and surrounded by a purposely cleared killing zone, with a fai
nt light glowing from somewhere in its unseen rooms. A mist rose off the lake now, adding to the spectral mood of the setting. Keith tried to imagine what was happening inside that house, what Annie and Cliff Baxter were saying to each other after all these years, what they were thinking and feeling now that both of them knew the end was near.
Annie continued to look at Cliff, and for the first time in the last three days, perhaps the first time in years, she thought, their eyes actually met. She hadn't loved him in many years, and they both knew that, and for the last few years, she hadn't even cared for him as a person. But she'd never really wanted him to suffer, despite all he'd done to her. And now, even after all the physical agony he'd caused her, she was sorry for his emotional pain, which she knew was real and deep. She felt no emotional attachment to him—he'd killed that long before this. But she did wish he hadn't seen what he saw in the motel room.
He seemed to sense what she was thinking and said to her, You never would've done that for me. Not even twenty years ago.
No, I wouldn't. She added, I'm sorry, Cliff. I really am. You can beat me, rape me, do whatever you want, but all I feel for you is pity. Maybe some of it is my fault for not leaving you sooner. You should have let me go.
He didn't reply, but she could see some of this was sinking in. Her words, she knew, would only cause him more pain, but under the circumstances, with life stripped to its bare essentials, and since he'd brought it up, it was time for honesty and reality. She didn't think what she said would snap him out of his insanity, and in fact it would probably make it worse. But if she was going to die, or both of them were going to die, she wanted him to know how she felt at the end.
Keith felt that familiar pre-combat calm come over him, that almost transcendental disassociation between mind and body, as though none of this were actually happening to him. This was how most men went into battle, he knew, but later, when it began and the adrenaline kicked in, you snapped out of denial, and your mind and body got together again.
He thought about Annie. He hoped that she believed help was on the way, and that she could hang in there and not give up and not push him over the edge.
Baxter pulled the pistol out of his holster. He held it up and said, This is his gun. I stole it from his house. I want you to know, if I shoot you, it's gonna be with his gun.
So what?
He pointed the Glock 9mm pistol at her. You want to get it over with now?
She looked at the black pistol pointing at her. She said, It's your decision, not mine. Nothing I say matters to you.
Sure it does. You love me?
No.
You love him?
Yes.
He stared at her down the length of the barrel, then raised the pistol to his head and released the safety. You want me to pull the trigger?
No.
Why not?
I . . . Cliff, don't . . .
You don't want to see my brains splatter?
She turned away. No.
Look at me.
No.
Don't matter. If I blow my brains out, you're gonna die a slow, slow death chained to that floor. You can watch me rot. You can smell me rot, right here in front of you.
She put her hands over her face and said, Cliff . . . please, don't . . . don't torture me, don't torture yourself—
It's you or me, sweetheart. Which one?
Stop it! Stop!
Bye, darlin'—
Suddenly, a muffled shot rang out from somewhere, and Keith and Billy got lower. They waited, but there was no second shot, only the sound of the dogs barking.
Billy whispered, Did that come from the house?
Don't know. But it sounded as if it did. It wasn't the distinct crack of a rifle being fired in the open, but was muted, as if a pistol was being fired indoors. Keith raised his binoculars and noticed that his hands were unsteady. He couldn't see anything through the windows, and his impulse was to rush the house, but whatever had happened was finished, and he was too late to do anything about it.
Billy whispered, Stay cool. We don't know.
No, but we'll find out soon.
Annie heard the pistol fire, an ear-splitting explosion that made her jump. She turned her head to him and saw him standing there, the pistol at his side, a smile on his face. He said, Missed. He laughed. Piss yourself? He laughed again.
Annie put her hands over her face again and sobbed.
Cliff gathered his AK-47, the bulletproof vest, and a shotgun, then turned off the table lamp, throwing the room into darkness.
She could hear him breathing not far from her, then he said, Good night, sweetheart.
She didn't reply.
I said, good night, sweetheart.
Good night.
Don't sleepwalk. He laughed.
She heard him walk out of the room.
Annie sat motionless for a full minute, then opened her eyes. The embers glowed weakly in the fireplace. She felt her heart pounding and took a deep breath. Despite his periods of irrational behavior, which truly frightened her, she could still plant a suggestion in his mind and have him act on it. He wasn't going to kill himself, or her, tonight. But he did want her to suffer, so he liked what he thought was his idea of leaving her there, naked and cold, her feet chained to the floor. So far, so good. She had one chance and one chance only. She slid off the rocker, onto the floor, and moved toward the fireplace.
As Keith watched, the light in the lit window went out, then a few seconds later, the light in the window toward the rear of the house, probably a bedroom, went on. A minute later, the light in the second window went out, and he lowered his binoculars. It didn't seem logical that someone in the house had just been killed and that the other person turned off the lights and went to bed. In hunting country, he assured himself, there were lots of shots fired, even at night, and because of the lake and the trees, it was difficult to tell where that one had come from.
He got himself under control and glanced at Billy, who was looking at him, waiting for him to say something. At this moment, as they both knew, waiting at the jump-off point, conversation was essentially reduced to three commands: go; no go; hold. No go was not an option, Hold was what you wanted to say, and Go was irrevocable. Keith asked, Ready?
Ready.
Let's go.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Annie slid quietly across the oak floor, the chain running through the padlock until the manacle on her left ankle came in contact with the eyebolt. She reached out with her right hand toward the wrought-iron poker, which stood upright against the stone fireplace, but couldn't reach it.
She rested a moment and listened. She could hear Cliff snoring twenty feet away in the bedroom down the hallway. She stretched as far as she could toward the poker, and it was close, but her fingertips were still a half inch away.
She tried again, stretching as far as she could, but her fingertips only brushed the handle of the poker. She went limp, and the taut chain fell to the floor, making a sound against the floorboards. She froze and listened.
Cliff's snoring stopped a second, then continued. She sat up, looking around the darkened room. The embers still glowed, and moonlight came in through the south windows. She needed something to extend her reach, but there was nothing near her. Then she saw it. Lying on the hearth, illuminated by the embers, was a big, twisted beer pretzel that had fallen to the floor when Cliff yanked the blanket off her. Cliff's little treat. Thank you, Cliff. She picked up the pretzel and again stretched her body and hand toward the poker.
Every muscle was pulling, and she felt pains shooting up her legs and through her battered body. But she remained steady and calm, the pretzel held tight in her fingertips until she looped it around the hilt of the poker and pulled. The poker fell toward her and she caught it, then lay still, breathing hard.
Finally, sure he hadn't heard anything, she inched back toward the rocker and sat on the floor. She bent over and examined the chain, padlock, and eyebolt between her feet. Sh
e didn't think she could lever the bolt out of the floorboards or snap the shackle open. But she could unscrew the threaded bolt from the floor. She put the tip of the poker through the shackle and moved the poker counterclockwise, using it as a lever to twist the padlock so that it also turned the eyebolt to which it was connected. The threads squeaked in the oak floorboards, and she stopped and listened, then repositioned the poker so as not to tangle the chain, then turned it again. After a few turns, she could feel with her fingers that the threaded bolt was rising out of the floorboard. She recalled that it was a three- or four-inch bolt, and when Cliff had put it in the oak floor, he'd said to her, That ain't comin' out. Wrong, Cliff. But it would take some time. She continued working the poker, and within a few minutes, the bolt was about two inches out of the floor, but it still held fast.
She heard the bed squeak, then heard the floorboards squeak as his heavy body came down the hall.
She quickly slid the poker under the hearth rug and got into the rocker, putting her bare foot over the padlock and eyebolt. She slumped to the side and feigned sleep, looking at him through a narrow slit in her left eye.
The table lamp came on, but he didn't say anything, just stood there in his boxer shorts and undershirt. His eyes darted around the room like an animal, she thought, trying to see what, if anything, was not as it should be. His eyes glanced down at her feet, but then they darted somewhere else. In many ways, she thought, he'd become like his dogs, and there were even times when she thought he had the super-sharp sense of smell and hearing of a dog, or the cunning of a wolf. His weakness, however, was overestimating his own intelligence and underestimating everyone else's, especially women, especially hers.
Hey! Wake up!
She opened her eyes and sat up.
You comfortable, darlin'?
No.
You piss yourself yet?
No . . . but I have to go—
Good. Go right ahead.
No.
You will. Cold?
Yes.
I was thinkin' about letting you come to bed. He jiggled the keys that were on a chain around his neck. You want to come to bed?
Nelson Demille Page 47
