by Neal, Toby
“Okay. I guess that’s how it’s going to be, then. I’ve been ill and had a bad night; I’m going to take a nap now.” I spoke in the firm, forthright voice I used with clients and headed for my bunk.
“Okay. I’m sorry about this.” Russell Pruitt sounded downcast, like a Great Dane smacked with a newspaper. It occurred to me he was very young, probably around my son’s age, but the height thing threw off any normal assessment of him.
“Me too,” I said. I took off my boots and climbed into my sleeping bag, clamping my eyes shut. He was silent a long moment. I imagined he must be looking at me, wondering at my awful color, my socially bizarre behavior—but quite frankly, I didn’t have the energy to do anything but lie down at the moment.
I heard the creak of the boards of the floor as his massive bulk moved to the door, the squeak of the hinges as he opened it, the thunk as it closed, the snick of the latch tongue finding the notch in the doorframe.
I was rattled. I brought my phone up out of my pocket and shone its blinking camera eye down on my face as I lay on my pillowless bunk. “In a strange twist of events in this documentary, I am now sharing the cabin with Russell Pruitt, a young journalist giant,” I whispered. “I’m not looking forward to making social niceties with him feeling the way I do.”
I turned the phone off, ever mindful of my battery, and settled my arms beside myself, breathing deeply and practicing some progressive relaxation to help me nap.
I must have fallen asleep, but the waking was sudden and abrupt. A thought had occurred to me and was so urgent I woke up with it burning in my mind: I hadn’t actually seen his permit, nor introduced myself as Dr. Wilson.
I thought of what information was on the permit clipped onto my backpack—and I was virtually sure my title of “Doctor” wasn’t listed. I was simply Caprice Wilson for purposes of this trip.
How had he known I was Dr. Wilson?
I got out of the sleeping bag and tiptoed over to the permit, folded and dangling from the pack in its plastic sleeve. I slid it out, unfolded it. Ah, there it was where my name was listed: “Caprice Wilson, PhD.”
Habit. I’d filled it in with my title since I did that on all my case and other notes. But it wasn’t displayed on the part that was exposed by the fold for rangers to check, which meant he’d taken the paper out, looked at my home address. Looked at my emergency contact information. Looked at my length of stay and that I was at Holua Cabin next.
What the hell was this guy up to? Was my paranoia just returning? Still, better safe than sorry, and I couldn’t do anything to deal with the situation in my sick and weakened state—better just to get my pepper spray and go back to bed, rest, think about what to do and if I was paranoid or if Russell Pruitt was a real danger. I felt in the side pocket, removing the small first aid kit—and there was nothing else there.
My pocketknife was gone. My pepper spray was gone.
I scrabbled through the side pocket, as if looking repeatedly would make it appear. I turned the backpack upside down—there wasn’t much left inside, the dirty yoga pants, a few odds and ends. I searched through every single pocket and zip.
My two weapons were gone.
I sat on the floor and felt a wave of panic rise up through my body to choke me. My heart thundered, a bass drum. I panted like I’d run a marathon. Perspiration burst out all over me, instantly soaking my sweatshirt and hair. I gasped, vainly sucking for oxygen as I battled the urge to scream.
I must be having a panic attack. I remembered a first aid pamphlet that said to cough hard to get the heart going again, but with my mouth wide and hyperventilating, I couldn’t seem to get enough breath to cough.
I had to get outside. Outside, under the bowl of sky, nothing could be that bad. I crawled to the door, took the handle in both hands, twisted. It wouldn’t open. I pushed; I leaned; I pounded; I twisted. Something was wrong with the door.
I gasped and coughed. Kept coughing until it turned to dry heaves.
I felt like I was dying. My first panic attack was way scarier than I’d ever known. My words to clients echoed in my addled mind: “Panic attacks occur when the limbic system is activated by a real or imagined threat. Adrenaline and cortisol flood the nervous system, causing a fight-or-flight response. If fight or flight is not possible, the body seems to turn on itself, short-circuiting with the overload.”
My fight-or-flight was blocked, and I’d never make light of this experience again in my work, I told myself—if I got out of this situation alive.
Maybe the back door was open. I stood up and ran to it, twisted the handle. It turned, but nothing else happened. I pushed, twisted, yanked, and pounded.
Russell Pruitt had taken my weapons and locked me in the cabin.
Chapter 11
“Dr. Wilson.” His deep, measured voice came from the front door. I noticed again its timbre, like it came up from some deep, booming well. I pictured his barrel chest, huge lungs, enlarged larynx. “I’m sorry. I can tell you aren’t well, and I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t badly need your services.”
I walked back into the front room, stroking my arms as one soothes a cat because the crawling sensations had returned with a vengeance. Services? Russell Pruitt had locked me into the cabin because he wanted therapy?
I was stuck in the wilderness where literally no one knew where I was, with a crazy giant. The part of me that still had a sense of humor appreciated the bizarreness of it all.
“I have to pee,” I said, because it was the truth.
A long pause as Russell Pruitt considered this. “Use a pot. We have to establish trust before I can let you out.”
I opened my mouth on a cackle of laughter, closed it again. Establish trust? That showed how delusional he was. I needed to get my psychologist hat on, and fast.
I found my pot from the night before, dropped my pants, peed into it. Squatting on that aluminum container, I looked around the kitchen. Surely there was something useful here somewhere. My eyes scanned the windows—small panes of glass framed in metal, they were riveted into their frames. Breaking one would only turn the steel frames into bars.
I wiped with a square of paper towel, put the waste in my ziplock bag like a good little camper, stowed the pot under the sink, and began an FBI-level search of the kitchen for something to use as a weapon.
“I took all the sharp objects out of the kitchen,” Russell Pruitt said from outside. “It’s okay. You’re safe with me.”
I ignored this, continuing to search, my mind shuddering at the thought of Russell Pruitt’s enormous hands—just one of them was big enough to crack my skull like an egg. It didn’t bear thinking of.
The only thing I could find was the extra stove lighter, a bulb of lighter fluid with a striker on the end that made a flame when the trigger was pulled. Maybe I could stick it in his eye or something.
“I’m getting cold out here. I’m going to come in, and I want you to get back into your sleeping bag so we can talk,” Russell Pruitt said. “I’m going to fix us some dinner. You’ll like it.”
“And if I don’t want to get back into my sleeping bag?” I said, holding the barbeque lighter aloft, bemused by its uselessness.
“I’ll put you in there myself. It’ll take longer for us to get to know each other,” he said in his pedantic way. The thought of him stuffing me into my sleeping bag had me hyperventilating again. It was unfair that I’d been ambushed at my lowest point mentally and physically, but I was a savvy psychologist who’d dealt with hundreds of psychopaths and criminals in my time.
I just needed to outwit him; that was all.
If I could escape somehow, I’d need my boots.
“Okay,” I said meekly. “I want to at least hear what you have in mind.” As if I had a choice. I shoved my feet into the boots and swung my legs up to my sleeping bag, stuck them inside, climbed in, and zipped myself up. I tucked the lighter along with the flashlight down into my sweatpants. “I’m in.”
Russell Pruitt opened the doo
r and entered, bending his enormous head because he barely cleared the ceiling. He looked over at me, cocooned in my bag.
“Good. We can get started.” He carried his backpack back in and took out a screwdriver and a tongue-and-hasp combination. Walked back to the door and began screwing the hasp side on. He was putting a lock on the door.
I felt terror rising up again, but I did a couple of calming breaths and focused on engaging him.
“You’ve said you want to establish trust with me. I’m wondering how putting a lock on the inside of the door is going to help me trust you,” I said, with the warm tone of neutral curiosity I used to help clients explore conflicting goals. “Locking the door sends a message that I’m a prisoner, and neither of us is to be trusted.”
“Aha. Motivational interviewing,” Russell Pruitt said, correctly identifying my technique, his back massive as a wall as he put heft into turning the screws. “I wondered what your opening gambit would be. Nice try, Dr. Wilson, but I’m not actually a journalist. I’m a psychology grad student.”
“Interesting.” I fumbled my phone up, hit the video button, aimed it at him from beside me. I wanted to record some of this—for law enforcement or posterity, whichever came first. “If so, you must be aware that taking me captive to do therapy is a flawed scenario. The unconditional positive regard and trust necessary to the therapeutic process are compromised.”
Russell Pruitt turned back, the screwdriver tiny in his fist. I hoped he didn’t see the edge of the camera phone poking up with its blinking red record eye. “I needed to see you. It’s a matter of life and death.”
I took a moment to absorb this—his face was very pale, and greasy sweat had sprung up along his hairline as his eyes shone with feverish, glassy light. I wasn’t the only one who looked ill. Something besides delusion was going on with him—something physical. I seemed to remember gigantism was caused by tumors on the pituitary gland and that many giants didn’t live long due to enlarged organs.
“Two questions. No one knew I was coming here. How did you find me? And why didn’t you just make an appointment?”
Russell Pruitt, if that was indeed his name, walked back over to his backpack, slid the screwdriver inside, and took out a combination lock. He walked back to the front door, pulled the tongue over the hasp, hooked the steel lock through the eye, and clicked it shut with a final-sounding click. I almost moaned aloud—and bit my lips instead.
“I’ll answer your questions after I make dinner,” he said. He walked back over to his backpack and reached in to take out a silvery cold pack bag. “I brought all your favorite things.” He shook the bag, as if displaying doggie treats to a hound, and went into the kitchen.
I stayed silent, my brain scrabbling. How had he found me here? Literally, no one knew where I’d gone after I got off the plane in Maui. It doesn’t matter how he found me, I told myself. What mattered was that I begin to take control of the situation and find a way to escape. I turned the phone off, slid it back into my pocket. I sat up, pushing the sleeping bag down around my waist—still technically obeying him, but concealing my boots.
His back was turned and he was chopping something in the kitchen. “You haven’t been eating well lately, Dr. Wilson. You’ve lost weight.”
“I know. I’ve been ill.”
“No. You’ve been drinking.”
I narrowed my eyes at the back of his enormous head. He had to be the stalker. There was no other answer. He must have been observing me. I clamped down on my millions of questions. I needed to stay on task. “I think it’s much more interesting to find out about you. What is this matter of life and death?”
“You like pasta with shrimp and cream sauce,” he said, as if I hadn’t spoken. “It’s amazing you’ve kept your figure all these years. Anyway, I thought you’d be ready for a really good meal after being down here a few days.”
“Thank you for being so considerate.” He was already showing me what he would and wouldn’t do. “I’ve read gigantism is a tough diagnosis. Many people with the disorder don’t make it out of their twenties due to health complications. Is that what’s happening to you?”
“I also brought asparagus,” he said. I saw the flash of the big butcher knife that used to be in the dish rack, heard it whack the cutting board with excessive force, making me jump. I looked around, wondering if I could sneak over to his backpack and search it while his back was turned. As if he read my mind, he turned, and the waning light of evening glanced off the blade, rendered tiny by his hand.
“You aren’t lying down.”
“You didn’t say I had to. I’m in my sleeping bag. I’m following directions,” I said softly.
He turned back and resumed chopping, then filled a pot with boiled water, turning to the stove. Good. He’d let me get away with something. I could build on that progressively until I gained the upper hand. He had some sort of respect or regard for me; I would use that authority to strengthen my position.
I had left the second striker near the stove, anticipating that he’d miss it if I took the only one—and now he lit the burner without comment even as I wondered how the hell the hidden striker was ever going to help me.
“Now a drink. You must be feeling terrible by now, when you’d been drinking so much daily.” He lifted a bottle of Grey Goose, my favorite vodka, off the counter, waggled it, and poured at least five fingers into a plastic cup.
My whole body tightened, and I felt my mouth fill with saliva. I was Pavlov’s dog incarnate, hardly human in the violent wave of longing that swept me. I shuddered with the power of it as he approached me, holding the full plastic cup in two hands like it was the Holy Grail.
“No, thank you,” I said feebly. “I’ve been cutting back.”
“I know you have. You’ve been very brave, trying very hard. But I think you’ve dealt with this wrinkle in your plans admirably, and you deserve a reward.” Russell Pruitt held out the yellow plastic cup of clear, odorless liquid. I held my quivering hands still in my lap to restrain them from taking it. I realized that, no matter how much I wanted that drink, I didn’t want it even more.
“Thanks so much, Russell Pruitt, but I just couldn’t.”
“Oh, but I insist.” Then followed a brief flurry of violence in which he sat on my bunk, lifted me like a doll over his legs, held me down, and pinched my nostrils. When I gasped for breath, he poured the vodka into my throat until I choked and swallowed. He then sat me up and handed me the cup.
“Drink,” he said. “Or we’ll keep doing that until it’s gone.”
I drank. When the cup was empty, I handed it to him.
He patted my tousled hair. “Now, isn’t that better?”
And horribly, revoltingly, I had to admit that it was—even as tears streamed down my cheeks. The heat of the liquor ignited in my belly, ran like liquid energy down my arms and legs, and every deprived circuit in my body and brain wanted to leap up and sing “hallelujah.” For some reason, I thought of Bruce, his hard brown eyes challenging me. How angry he’d be that I hadn’t gone to Aloha House. The tears wouldn’t stop pouring down my cheeks.
“No means no, Russell Pruitt. I said no, and I feel violated by you making me drink that.”
“I think we need to suspend some of the social niceties for the duration,” he said. “I’m sorry you felt violated.” He got up and went back into the kitchen.
He’d very effectively shown me how strong he was and asserted total domination over me. I felt queasy with fear and the huge shot of vodka.
“So, what do you know about sociopaths?” he asked conversationally, stirring the pot of pasta.
“Quite a lot, actually,” I said. What was he getting at? The booze was working, loosening my tongue and the tight joints of my hips and knees, falsely restoring my confidence by expanding the constriction of my cerebral cortex. Knowing that was happening didn’t make it less effective. “Why do you want to know?”
He didn’t answer that. “Do you think the diagnosis of ps
ychopathy should be admitted to the DSM-V in lieu of antisocial personality disorder? Many psychologists and psychiatrists in the profession are divided over this.”
“Sociopathology refers to a pattern of antisocial behaviors and is recorded Axis Two, but the group submitting the psychopathy definition have done neurological MRI studies showing that the brains of psychopaths don’t process emotion the way normal people do. That group wants to have a psychopathic disorder available on Axis One, the main diagnostic axis.”
“You didn’t tell me what your opinion was.” His back was turned at the stove.
“I’m not a part of the committee reviewing the submissions, but I think there’s merit in having that diagnosis available.” I leaned back against the wall so that the upper bunk would shield me from his view. “Why are you asking?”
He didn’t reply.
I brushed the tears from my cheeks, hoping that one drink wouldn’t make me have to go through withdrawals again—but if he made me keep drinking, I’d be right back at ground zero. What a horrible form of abuse, and it scared me down to my untied boots.
He was cooking shrimp in a frying pan, and it smelled delicious. I was disgusted by how hungry I was, how much better I felt after he’d fed me the drink. You might have to do a lot worse to stay alive before you get away than eat shrimp and drink booze, Constance said. You can feel guilty later.
A thought occurred to me—maybe Aloha House would call Bruce and tell him that I’d never arrived, and he’d be worried. Kamani too. And Bruce might call Chris, and Chris would tell him I was on Maui and that I’d always wanted to hike Haleakala, that Richard and I had always planned to, and they’d figure out where I’d gone. It was a dim hope, but a real one.
Someone might come looking for me. Someone might take it seriously that I’d disappeared, even if it was because of my own stupidity. One call to the ranger station, and they’d know I was in Haleakala Crater.
And then they’d wait for me to come out of the crater. No one was going to come looking for me down here until my permit expired, at least four more days.
