Run Rabbit Run Boxset

by Jette Harris

  “These strings are about to snap,” she informed him. She set the guitar across her lap like an offering and met his eyes. “I’ll tune it if you let Monica stay in the other bedroom,” she proposed, “instead of going back to the closet.”

  She had been waiting quite a while to use his tactic against him. Rhodes narrowed his eyes as he turned this over, and chewed on the tip of his forefinger.

  “Tune it,” he told her, “and I’ll consider your… proposal.”

  Knowing it was the best she was going to get, she began to strum and tune. Twisting the pins hurt her shoulder, but she pushed through it. As soon as it sounded right, she began to pick out a tune, then offered the guitar back to Rhodes.

  “Play for me.” His tone was strange, between command and request. He leaned back into his chair, kicked out his legs, and folded his hands over his belly.

  She settled the guitar back in her lap and began to pick out a Collective Soul tune. He shook his head. She countered with one from R.E.M. He groaned.

  “You can go to Hell,” she said, as if his distaste in local bands was the greatest of blasphemies.

  “Hell is, in fact, a summer in Georgia.”

  “I-75 is that way.” She pointed to the wall behind him.

  Smirking, he shook his head. “No, it’s not.”

  Heather puzzled over this, attempting to calculate their position with that information. Afraid he might be able to read these thoughts on her face, she pretended to inspect the rusty strings. “What would you like?” She tried to keep derision out of her voice.

  His face lit up. “Stairway to Heaven,” he replied, “of course.”

  “Don’t know it.”

  “Lies.”

  Heather shrugged. She didn’t want him ruining the memory of one of her favorite songs. Rhodes pulled the chair around to the side of the bed and beckoned for the guitar.

  “You’ll sing, then.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know the words, either.” Rhodes gave her a side-long glance as he sat down. Ignoring her protests, he began to play. When she missed her cue to begin, she could tell by his face he knew.

  “Don’t make me come over there.”

  Lowering her head, Heather began to count the beat with her finger on her knee. Rhodes began to sing. His voice was rich, but not made for carrying a tune. She began to murmur the words. Baring his teeth, he muted the strings.

  “I wonder if Monica knows the lyrics.” He turned to look at the door.

  Heather pursed her lips and turned away from him. Rhodes picked the chord back up, then muted the strings again. He plucked a chord, then began to play again. It wasn’t Stairway to Heaven, but another well-known tune. He sniffed, then began to sing:

  I’m surrounded by familiar faces

  And they all know my name

  I would give them the shirt off my back

  And I know they’d do the same

  Grateful for his mercy, Heather joined him. At first, their duet was clumsy and unharmonious, but they felt one another out as they sang. Before long, their voices fell together.

  They can’t see me through my mask

  They don’t even know it’s there

  I smile, they think they know

  I smile, there’s nothing here

  And I know… nobody knows me

  It pained Heather how good it sounded, how good it felt, to do something with Rhodes as normal as sing. She had to fight the joy she was feeling, the fun she was having, and remind herself where she was, who she was with.

  Rhodes’s enthusiasm was visible, and it grew as they sang. He crawled on the bed and sat next to her. It was bizarre to see him beaming with happiness; It was not an emotion Heather believed he could experience. His glow unnerved her.

  They can’t see me through the lie

  This life I’ve built for them is the perfect disguise

  So I know… nobody knows me

  But I wish you would

  As the song ended, his voice faded out. He let Heather sing the last lines solo.

  But I wish you would

  I wish you would

  I wish you would

  Wish you would

  As her voice faded, so did the illusion of normalcy. She was sad to see it go. Turning to Rhodes, she expected to see a similar come-down. His expression could not have been more contrary: He was still high on it, biting his lip with ecstasy. Heather’s elation was replaced by fear.

  Tossing the guitar aside, he fell upon her. She braced for assault. But he didn’t hit her. He pressed his mouth to hers and kissed her, deeply, intimately.

  Heather whimpered, pulling away. He had kissed her before, but it had been utilitarian, not like this. After everything he had done to them, this was far more alarming. Rhodes saw the fear in her eyes. Pain flit across his face. Remembering himself, he forced a smile. He tried to look gentle.

  “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

  Heather scoffed. Acid rose into her throat. How dare he say that, after all he had done? Her fingers twitched, wanting to scratch the smile off his face.

  But she didn’t. She couldn’t. Rhodes eased forward. She allowed him to kiss her again. Her stomach twisted in knots. She pushed him away.

  “Are you high?” That was the only logical explanation.

  “What?”

  “You—You—” she attempted to articulate why kissing her like that was so unnerving, but every explanation that occurred to her sounded pathetic. Rhodes watched her stammer and search for words, but already understood what she was attempting to express.

  “Why are you still alive?” he demanded.

  Heather’s eyes shot wide. Her breath caught in her throat.

  “You are a liability”—he ticked off a list on his fingers—“you have insulted me, defied me, fought me, attempted to escape twice. Yet, I keep you around. In fact, I have brought you back from near-death on more than one occasion, despite your best efforts. I’ve killed all but one of your friends. Why do you think you’re still here? And why she’s still here, for that matter.”

  The answer tugged at the back of her mind, but she fought against it. Determined not to cry, she set her jaw and shook her head. She fixed her eyes on the sheet by her hand.

  “Because you like my tight snatch.”

  She would never have said such a thing under normal circumstances. The word tasted putrid in her mouth. She turned her head to shake it out.

  “Trust me,” he assured her, “I’ve had better.” His expression softened again. “You know the truth.”

  “Fuck you.” The tears began to build up and threatened to escape down her cheeks. Her hands shook. She pressed them into the mattress.

  “No,” he said. “Look at me.” He turned her face to look into her eyes. “You know… You know…” He had trouble with the words as well, so alien to him. “I love you.”

  Heather squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head. She backed away until she was flat against the headboard in an attempt to put more distance between them. She only gained a few inches. He took them from her by leaning forward.

  “You don’t—You don’t even know what those words mean!” she cried. “This is just another one of your sick jokes!”

  “It’s not.” He kept his voice soft and even. “I love you.”

  “It’s a lie!” She was light-headed, unable to collect her thoughts.

  “I love you,” he repeated, as if repetition could make her believe him.

  “You’re a liar! You’re just fucking with my head again.”

  Rhodes shrugged. “I don’t expect you to believe me, but it is true.”

  Heather set her teeth again. “You—You can go to Hell. You’re—Sick. Disgusting. You kidnapped me. Raped me. Raped my friends! Murdered them! You are fucking delusional—delusional to believe there is even a parallel universe in which I could love you.”

  “I don’t.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not stupid, Heather. You know that; I�
�m very practical,” he explained. “I have no illusions about what I’ve done to you and your friends. I know you would never—willingly—return my love.” He shrugged. “But I can persuade you to cooperate.” He gestured toward the Camera Room. “Monica is a waste of resources. She bores me. I would have killed her a long time ago, but you love her—That makes her my trump card.”

  Monica’s name sobered her, forced her to focus. Her tremors eased. “There must be another reason.” She refused to meet his eyes.

  Rhodes sat back on his heels. He pulled his robe closed again and studied her skepticism. “How could I possibly say it to make you believe me?”

  She met his black eyes and answered him coldly: “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “Just run.”

  Rhodes’s face fell. Without another word, he slipped off the bed and left the room.

  70

  Every time Heather heard a noise beyond the Bedroom door, her muscles twisted like wire. She attempted to relax by picking out tunes on the guitar. It had been so long since she last played, her fingertips grew red and raw. Abandoning the instrument at the foot of the bed, she pressed her ear against the door. From somewhere within the house, she thought she could hear intermittent banging and crashing, like breaking glass. Hoping Rhodes would not return any time soon, she dared to take a long, hot shower.

  It was so humid outside, Heather began to sweat as soon as she stepped out of the shower. Wrapped in a towel, she lay on her stomach across the bed. At first, she attempted to fold her hands under her chin, but moving her left shoulder shot electric pain through her collar bone. She opted to hug her left arm to her side, and rest her chin on her right hand. She dozed off in the warmth and silence.

  The door made no sound when it opened. Heather woke when Rhodes slid the guitar off the end of the bed. Sitting in the chair in the corner, he began to strum, then picked out a classic tune that tugged at her memory. Although she was tempted to ask him what it was, she decided not to acknowledge his presence. Rhodes behaved likewise: He would play, pause, then begin again. Sometimes he would hum, even sing softly. Heather identified the tunes between dozing on and off.

  Heather did not notice when Rhodes stopped playing and put the guitar aside. He sat in silence, bitterness etched across his face. Despite raising his hand and dropping it several times, he abandoned resisting his tics and began to tug at the hair on the back of his head, taking his anxiety out on it. Once he calmed down, he climbed onto the bed, startling Heather awake.

  Before she could roll over to a safer position, Rhodes sat close to her side and placed his hands on her back. She twisted away from the touch, but winced. “No,” he murmured, “just relax. I’m not hurting you.”

  She huffed as he tugged at the towel. Rather than pull it away, he surprised her by folding it down to her waist, tucking it around her hips. He ran his hands down her back, scrutinizing more than feeling, then began to knead her tight muscles. When she whimpered, he eased the pressure. He worked delicately around the lesions where he had flogged her. Gradually, her muscles relaxed.

  “Where do you go,” Heather asked, her voice drowsy, “when you leave?”

  Rhodes smirked. He wasn’t about to tell her the whole truth about the mischief he had been getting into, but he could be vague. “I run around Cheatham Hills.” Her muscles tightened at the sound of his voice, but they relaxed when he ran his hands back over them. “I spy on the cops. Either that, or I sit in the office downstairs and play Solitaire.”

  Heather snickered.

  “Hey,” he chuckled, “I get bored with you as often as you get bored with me.”

  “‘Bored’ is not the word I would use.” Her voice became hard.

  “What word would you use?”

  “Tortured.” His hands fell still. As she spoke, she imagined each word being carved into her back. “Distressed. Annoyed. Tormented. Raped. Ruined. Never bored.” She added with forced cheer, “There’s never a dull moment when you’re around.”

  “I’d like to change that,” he offered, “if you’ll let me.”

  “You want to let us go?” she asked with feigned hope.

  “No.”

  “Then none of that will change.”

  Rhodes clenched his jaw. The one thing she wanted was the one thing he could not possibly give her, whether he were willing to or not. He opened his mouth to respond to her skepticism, but stopped. Instead, he lay on his side next to her. When she turned her head to face him, he stroked her cheek.

  “Let me show you.” He pulled her close and kissed her. He tried not to seem as hungry as earlier, but it was difficult. She met him with the same tight-lipped resistance, but as he persisted, she relented.

  Here we go again, she thought as he pushed her onto her back. Although she could feel him hard against her thighs, he did not pull the towel away from her hips. His hands did not travel down her body, but confined themselves to exploring the curves of her neck and burying themselves in her hair. As he continued, Heather’s throat grew tighter with alarm.

  “Oh, God,” she cried, turning away.

  Rhodes leaned up, pulling his hands away, afraid he had hurt her. She stared at him, searching his concerned expression.

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?” she demanded. “You really think you love me.”

  He barked a laugh. “You thought I was trying to trick you.” He shook his head with a solemn smile. “No, unfortunately not. It’s much more… complicated than that.” He leaned to continue kissing her, but Heather turned her face again. Undeterred, Rhodes nuzzled her neck.

  “Kiss me, Heather Stokes.”

  Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she shook her head. Rhodes paused for a moment, his face pressed against her skin.

  “If you kiss me,” he whispered, “I’ll feed you better.”

  “Love doesn’t obligate you to do so?”

  Snorting, Rhodes lowered his head. He turned back to her as soon as the heat drained from his face. “Moné-sha, then,” he said. “Three square.” His throat was tight as she turned to him, her face etched with skepticism.

  Why would he do this? Why? Why not just kill you? she thought. The pain in his face was so obvious, it made her dizzy with confusion. Her fingertips found his lips. She expected him to suck on them as he had done so often, just to bother her. When he didn’t, she closed her eyes.

  You can use this, she told herself. This is good. Don’t be afraid of it.

  Despite the pain from her cracked ribs, Heather leaned up and kissed him.

  71

  Heather was wearing a white sundress. She was standing on the second-floor landing of a house she had never stepped foot in before. There were several doors on the landing, all of them closed, except for one. The door stood ajar a few inches. It didn’t even have a doorknob, just a gaping hole where the knob should be. There was a hasp lock near the top of the door, a padlock hanging open from the eye.

  The sound of crying floated from the room. She tip-toed to the door and nudged it open. The room was dimly lit and sparsely furnished with simple wooden furniture. There was an unkempt twin bed shoved into the corner. The wrinkled, twisted sheets were covered with faded brown stains.

  A small boy, no more than seven, sat on the floor, curled up against the foot of the bed. He wore a pair of ragged overalls that were too small for him. He was bare-chested even though it was cold enough for goose-bumps to form on Heather’s arms. He hugged his knees to his chest and hid his face in his arms. When he heard the door, he gasped in fear and jerked his head up.

  “Hello?” Heather called.

  The boy had sandy hair, dark eyes, and the rich tan of one who worked outdoors. Dirt smudged his hands and face. As soon as he saw her, he jumped to his feet and ran to her. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around her knees and pressed his face into her dress, sobbing harder.

  “Aww!” Heather crooned, crouching until she was eye-level with the child. “What’s wrong?”

  The boy stared at her, snifflin
g, but did not answer.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Thatch.”

  “Thatch?” she asked. “Is that short for something?”

  Thatch shrugged. “It’s just what people call me.”

  “Well, Thatch,” she asked, smoothing down his hair, “will you tell me why you’re crying?”

  “Aunt Betty died…”

  “Oh, I’m so sor—”

  “Uncle Jed needed someone to play with, but Mama didn’t want to play. He was hurting her! I tried to stop him…” The child paused for a moment to take a deep, rattling breath. “Now he plays with me… but I don’t want to play: It hurts.”

  Heather fought the expression of disgust and wide-eyed horror, but Thatch saw it. He hung his head in shame.

  “No, come here, sweetie.” She pulled him into a tight hug. “You don’t have to play like that anymore. I’ll help you.”

  “What about Ma?” He pulled away. Tears threatened to spill down his cheeks again. “If I stop, he’ll go after her.”

  “She can come, too. Where is she?”

  Before the child could answer, the door creaked. They both turned to find a man standing in the doorway. He was possibly the largest man Heather had ever seen. He, like Thatch, wore mud-stained denim overalls with no shirt underneath. He was lean, nothing but muscle.

  “What do we have here, huh?” the man asked.

  Standing, she pulled Thatch behind her. He began to cry again, pressing his face into her dress.