Drawn Into Darkness

by Nancy Springer

  “For God’s sake, turn it off,” begged Quinn from the other end of the sofa.

  Forrest jumped up, tossed Quinn the remote, then ran to the bathroom, where he vomited. He had been forgetting to eat; there was not much for his stomach to puke except yellow bile, and it left a terrible taste in his mouth.

  When he went back out, Quinn had the TV turned off.

  “Wanna watch Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs?” Forrest tried to joke.

  “No, thank you. Do you think that naked, nauseating old goat was Stoat?”

  Forrest sat down, considering. “We don’t know, do we? Was there anything in the background to give us a clue?”

  “I don’t remember, but I think the background was just a cloth drape. We could check—”

  “No way am I looking at that sick tape again.”

  “What about the others? If they’re the same kind of thing with the same guy—”

  “You go right ahead and play them if you want, Quinn. I’ll wait outside.”

  Quinn’s only answer was not to answer and not to move. He sat on the opposite end of the sofa from Forrest, staring without focus. After a while he said as if talking aloud, “We have child porn. What help is that?”

  “Huh?” Even to himself, Forrest sounded like a sulky teenager. He felt weak and faint and he didn’t like it, although he wasn’t about to admit it to his brother.

  Quinn said, “How is it getting us any closer to finding Mom?”

  Forrest thought, God, I want my mommy. The elemental force of the thought made him feel shaky all over. I really do. I want Mom. Why the hell didn’t I realize that before she disappeared?

  When he was able to talk, he said, “If Mom knew anything . . . if Stoat is a pedophile and she caught wind of it . . .”

  “She would have called the cops.”

  “But she didn’t. So . . .”

  “So maybe he knew she wanted to call the cops? So he—what? Grabbed her?”

  Worse than that, Forrest feared. Much worse than that. But he could say only, “Quinn, I’ve got a really bad feeling about this.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Down on my hands and knees, ruining my bathroom towels by wiping blood off the floor with them, I ignored my own blood dripping from my head, and I tried to bypass the pounding pain where Stoat had bashed my scalp with the shotgun butt, because I had a more serious problem: survival. Stoat held me captive. Making an annoyingly rapid recovery from his rattlesnake bite, he no longer really needed me. So how to stay alive?

  I figured Stoat could still use some tender, if not very loving, care. In my experience there was no man alive who would not want to be fussed over, especially with part of his face turning black and falling off. I knew Stoat liked to order me around like a slave. And I knew he sometimes liked my big mouth. Could I make him comfortable and get him talking? Somehow pull a Scheherazade on him?

  Huh. I’d never thought of the Arabian Nights in that way before, but Scheherazade was the archetypal victim of Stockholm syndrome, pleasing her captor with her storytelling skills, then joining with him in marriage, and that was supposed to be a happy ending? I sure as hell did not want to spend a thousand and one nights with Stoat the Goat, but any future after today was not my immediate worry.

  By the time I stood up and gathered the bloodstained towels into my arms, I had thought of an opening gambit. On my way to the washing machine with Stoat following close behind me, I paused in the living room and turned on the TV. Moving into this isolated slice of Eden, I had treated myself to more satellite TV than I could really afford, almost certainly more than Stoat had.

  Stoat halted, transfixed by the Animal Planet spectacle of a pack of African wild dogs disemboweling an impala. As I moved on toward the washing machine, he snapped, “Stop. Drop that stuff. Set.”

  Obligingly I plopped the armload of bloody towels on the carpet, handed Stoat the remote, and sat down. Shotgun handy, he sat down also, comfortably, on the sofa, and when Animal Planet cut to a commercial, he began surfing the channels. I swear the pupil of his one visible eye dilated when he found a noisy show featuring oversized men, “gladiators,” in an eight-sided chain-link “cage” instead of a boxing ring, savagely fighting with their fists and feet. One kicked the other in the jaw. The other reeled, then retaliated with a wrestling clinch. An announcer kept up a stream of commentary while a large audience of surprisingly normal-looking people watched, yelling in excitement. This barbaric spectacle was apparently present-day and considered a sport. Stoat seemed fascinated. I found it difficult to plan my next move under the circumstances, but I tried.

  After a while I stood up. Stoat, damn him, alerted instantly, grabbing his shotgun and barking, “Where you think you’re going?”

  “To the kitchen for some snacks.”

  He grunted assent but followed, watching me closely as I put together a couple of plates of Ritz crackers, sliced cheddar cheese, and stick pretzels. Back in the living room, I placed one plate on the coffee table for him, took the other for myself, and sat down again. My stomach, much more frightened than I allowed my mind to be, wanted nothing to do with food, but I methodically chewed and swallowed anyway, partly to keep up my physical strength and partly to foster the illusion I was trying to establish, that of a happy housewife watching TV with her guest.

  In due time I set my plate aside and stood up again.

  “Now what?” Stoat barked, turning away from the TV with evident frustration.

  “Would you like something to drink? Those pretzels are salty.”

  “I’ll show you salty if you keep interrupting,” he muttered as once again he followed me to the kitchen, where I filled a couple of glasses with ice and Sierra Mist.

  “Ain’t you got no proper soda?” Stoat complained.

  “If I’d known you were coming, I would have stocked up on beer,” I said lightly. “What do you like to drink?”

  “Root beer.”

  “Next best thing,” I said with a blithe little laugh, back in the living room, delivering his drink and sitting down with my own. “Tell me,” I prattled on, “if a lion, which is from Africa, fought a tiger, which is from India, which one do you think would win?”

  He gave me a surprised look. “Now, that,” he said, “is an interesting question.” But he did not answer, fixated again on the TV screen. The fights, I had seen on the menu when he was surfing, would be on all day. If Stoat’s interest did not wane, I had time.

  After I finished my drink, I stood up.

  “What?” Stoat didn’t even look away from the TV.

  “Bathroom. Potty break.”

  “Sit down. Hold it.”

  “I can’t anymore. I’ve been holding it all day. Listen, Stoat—I promise I’ll be right back. You don’t really think I could climb out of that little window, do you?”

  He made a show of studying the width of my hips. “No, I guess not,” he drawled. “You ain’t no skinny little kid.” But then all humor left his voice. “Don’t shut the door. If I hear it shut, I’ll break it down. Go ahead.”

  Yes!

  Maybe, actually, I could have fit through the bathroom window on a diagonal if I had tried, but I had no intention of doing so. I’d won victory enough; Stoat had let me out of his sight. And oh, what a relief it was to use the toilet without supervision. First, I nipped into my room and grabbed some dry clothes. Then, in the bathroom, I put on the dry things, including socks and sneakers, before I flushed the john. I even combed my hair. When I felt I was ready, I checked myself in the mirror. This time I had my guard up against a captive’s irrational shame. I looked levelly back at my own bruised eyes in the mirror, pressed my lips together, and nodded.

  When I reported back to my chair in the living room, Stoat, as I had hoped and expected, barely looked at me. He appeared not to notice either my dry clothes or my shoes. I made myself nibble some more cheese and crackers, leaning back in my chair, hiding, I hoped, any sign of how high my adrenaline was running.

  It w
as the middle of the day. Cars passed occasionally. Strangers were still parked at Stoat’s place; I’d checked on my way back to the living room from the bathroom. If Stoat had any sense, he wouldn’t harm me once I got where people could see. To reach the front door, I would have to run straight past him, and he’d stop me before I could get there. But the back door . . . I measured the distance with my eyes. Much shorter. But farther from where Stoat sat.

  Taking a deep breath, I stood up.

  “What?” Stoat barely stirred from watching the “warriors” on TV, barely even sounded annoyed.

  “I’m going to get some napkins.”

  “What the hell for?”

  Already halfway to the kitchen, I catapulted into a run, darted to the back door. Quickly—I’m not sure I had ever moved faster in my life—I twisted the dead bolt and grabbed the doorknob—

  It wouldn’t turn.

  I tried again, wrenching at that knob as if I wanted to tear it loose, but to no avail. I couldn’t open the door.

  Although the door was not locked, the latch wouldn’t budge no matter how I turned the knob. I rattled it—

  Behind me—not nearly far enough behind me—Stoat laughed. Laughed! The bastard, he’d been playing me all the time. He had probably disabled the doorknob while I had been taking my good old time in the bathroom. “Something wrong with the damn door, huh?” he drawled as one of his wiry arms clamped around me from behind, pressing my upper arms to my sides, and something dreadfully sharp nudged the front of my neck.

  • • •

  “Forrie.” Quinn sat on the sofa next to his tough kid brother who was coming undone. “Like you said, this place is sicko. You want to get out of here, go somewhere, have something to eat?”

  Forrest looked up at him wild-eyed and addressed a completely different, unspoken question. “If he killed her, then what’s her purse doing here? Wouldn’t he have gotten rid of the evidence?”

  Quinn found he couldn’t meet his brother’s stricken gaze. He studied his own Italian leather shoes.

  “Quinn?”

  He had to clear his throat twice before he spoke. “According to TV, sometimes criminals keep items from the victim.”

  “You think that handbag is a trophy? A souvenir?” Forrest sounded squeaky, almost hysterical.

  Quinn didn’t trust his own voice to speak. He nodded.

  “But he’d be crazy not to get rid of her ID!”

  Quinn stood up and went around the sofa to where he had found Mom’s purse in the first place, checking the floor for an object he had just hazily remembered. But Forrest had kicked stuff around so much that he didn’t see it anywhere. He got down on his hands and knees to search under the end table and the sofa.

  Forrest asked, “What are you looking for?”

  “That pad of paper.”

  “Huh?”

  “When I picked up Mom’s bag, there was a tablet of cheap paper, the kind they give to kids in school, lying on top of it.”

  “On top of it?”

  “Yes, as if it had been placed there for some reason.”

  Belly down on the thin carpet to peer under the sofa, Quinn heard rather than saw Forrie stand up and prowl around the room. After a moment he called, “Is this it?”

  Quinn sat up to look. “Yes.”

  “It was facedown on the floor under some of the so-called movies.”

  Quinn got up from the floor; Forrest came over to him with his find; but as Forrest reached out to hand it to him, a loose sheet of yellowish paper fell out to drift downward like a feather.

  As it landed on the floor, Quinn felt recognition hit him like a fist in his gut, punching a wordless cry out of him.

  At the same time Forrie exclaimed, “That’s Mom’s handwriting!”

  Quinn grabbed the sheet of paper off the floor, but his hand shook so badly that he had to lay it on the back of the sofa to read it. Forrest crowded next to him. Standing shoulder to shoulder, neither of them made a sound as they read:

  Dear Forrest and Quinn,

  Dear sons, please remember life has not been kind lately so this news is not terrible to me. I have encountered a man who needs to kill me. He promises to do so as quickly and painlessly as he can. By the time you receive this, I should be dead. This is my last will and testament in which I divide all my belongings equally between you. There is much I want to say but cannot, except that I wish you long and wonderful lives.

  With greatest love,

  Mom

  “Oh, my God,” Quinn whispered, and for the first time in his life it was really a prayer. He could not seem to see properly, but he felt Forrest start to shake, then heard him making urgent noises that were not words. He turned to put his arms around his brother.

  Forrest returned the hug for only a moment before he stiffened and said, choking, “No. No, or I’ll lose it.” He pulled away. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Where?” Quinn barely managed the single word.

  “I don’t know. Anywhere. I can’t stand this place. Come on!”

  Robotically Quinn followed Forrest out the front door. Forrest dived into the driver’s seat of the rental car and called, “Where are the keys?” Without giving Quinn time to respond, he all but screamed, “Where are the damn keys?”

  Quinn pulled them out of his pocket and handed them over, then got into the passenger seat; blinded by tears, he felt in no condition to drive. But a grinding sound from the starter and the way the car lurched forward told him that Forrie was not likely to do any better.

  “Whoa,” Quinn managed to say, “take it easy,” as the Chevy Aveo jolted and swerved onto the road. “Where are we going?”

  “I don’t know!” The car veered wildly.

  “Forrie, pull over. You’re going to wreck.” Quinn grabbed the wheel with one hand and tried to clear his flooded eyes with the other so he could see to steer. He got them off the road, and Forrest put his foot on the brake; they were not going to die after all. The car rolled to a stop in front of a blur of fuchsia.

  • • •

  “Don’t scream or I’ll slit your throat,” Stoat said, dead quiet in my ear.

  He needn’t have warned me. My fright reaction is to stiffen like a Barbie doll, and sometimes I hate myself for that. I couldn’t have screamed if I wanted to. I could barely breathe.

  “I’ll do your skinny neck same way I done Justin.” With his disgusting lips close to my ear and the smell of his frankly rank breath reaching my face, Stoat nattered on in a hoarse, almost hypnotic whisper. “It ain’t as easy as they make it look on TV. It ain’t like sawing a log. You got to put the point of the knife here—”

  He demonstrated, reaching clear to the other side of my head to jab at the sensitive skin of my throat. I closed my eyes, but his voice went on. “And you got to stab it in deep, two, three inches.” I felt the knife tip break the skin and thought crazily, he’s giving me a hickey. The bastard’s hugging me and giving me a knife hickey. How loverly. “Then you got to kind of pivot it in there, deep, so’s you get the jugular and the windpipe and the carotid and whatever. It ain’t just a cut, like this.” He slid the knife blade across my throat, and I could feel the blood trickle. “You got to do it right.”

  To my utter surprise I opened my eyes, felt my mouth moving, and heard my own voice speak quite calmly. “You did that to Justin?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “How did you make him hold still for you?”

  “Well, I had to shoot him first.”

  “Oh, I see.” I nodded as politely as if I felt no knife at my neck, then amended, “No, I don’t see. If you shot him, why didn’t you just finish him that way?”

  “Because I like knives, Miss Lee Anna. I am fixing to do you the same way. Give me one good reason not to kill you right now.”

  I had been wondering the same thing since he’d finished eating his fried eggs and stopped acting sick, although the side of his face remained grotesquely swollen; I could feel it right now, plump
and hot against my head.

  “Answer the question, bitch!”

  “Sir, because the twin jets of blood spurting from my carotid arteries would make one hell of a mess, sir.”

  “I’ll take you out in the back woods and slit your throat like a deer.”

  “Sir, then I’ll scream like a witch with her broom up her nose, sir.”

  I hoped to lighten him up. Sometimes I had known him to react to my “big mouth” with a flicker of transient kindness. But it was not my crude humor that saved me. It was the sound of a car scrunching through the sand and leaf litter to park in front of my house.

  I felt Stoat go as rigid as I-bar while he and I remained in our position of weird, perverse intimacy.

  “Shhhh,” Stoat hissed in my ear, tightening his hug-hold on me, pressing the knife harder against my throat and me harder against him. “No noise or you’re dead.”

  Sir, yes, sir.

  Yet this might be my last, best chance of rescue. . . . I waited, my mind clutching at straws of possibility, expecting to hear the car turn off, then someone knock at the front door, maybe yell something so I’d have a clue who it was and a chance to do something. But no, not so. Moments passed, the mystery car kept running, and I didn’t hear another sound. The silent strain between Stoat and me was reaching a crescendo. When the tension climaxed, he would kill me.

  I closed my eyes, opened them again, clenched my teeth, then whispered to Stoat, “Aren’t you curious to see who it is?”