Chapter 4
Chapter 4
D esperately, I try to make out a sound, but all I can hear is my heart, thumping so fast that I can barely breathe. I stare at the lid in a daze, but then the side of my prison swings open, not the top.
The brightness is like a punch in the face. I squinch my eyes shut and roll onto my side, pressing my back against the wall behind me. Even through my closed eyelids, I can still see the shadow that steps in, covering the blinding flood of light. Someone is standing in front of the box, in front of the wall that swung open a moment ago.
Is this when I die?
My teeth are chattering, and I realize that I’m soaking wet. Head to toe.
“Shh, quiet,” I hear a man’s voice say. “I didn’t have a choice.”
I know that voice. I’m not sure where, but I don’t trust it. My hands clench around the chain of my necklace, practically crushing it. The tiny cross Ethan gave me once bores into my skin. I think I would rather just pass out again, but my body refuses.
“I’m going to get you out now.”
I can’t make myself keep my eyes shut any longer. I look directly at his face.
Brendan!
He’s kneeling on the ground, observing me with his head tilted to one side. For half a beat I don’t know what the hell is happening. Has he come to free me? But no, the look in his dark eyes is too narrow, too searching, too calculating. Too knowing. As I’m lying there, trying to work out what his presence means, the gaps in my memory begin to fill in. I see the Travel America signage, his jacket on the bench, the stuff on his counter, his questioning look. I even feel his arm around my torso, the way he’s restraining me to keep me in check.
Reflexively, I press myself more tightly against the wall behind me.
He raises a hand like he’s trying to soothe a shy deer. “I’m not going to do anything to you, Louisa.”
I’m Bren, not Jack.
He’s lying. He was lying to you the whole time. He’s lying to you now. He’s going to kill you.
His arms stretch into the box. To me they look like tentacles, coming to grab me and throttle me. I start screaming. I hear him talking to me, trying to calm me down, and I scream louder to drown him out. I slap his hands away, over and over again.
Cursing, he grabs my upper arm so tightly that I whimper in pain and stop fighting him. He uses the moment as a chance to slide his other hand underneath my hips. “I don’t want to hurt you. Stop fighting me.” His tone is calm, but determined. He’s going to get his way, and he knows it.
I try to kick him, but my legs are like pudding. He heaves me out of the box in one quick motion. My head starts throbbing again; a gyroscope of colors rotates around me. Black, red, white. His hands are still gripping me tightly. I try to get away, but my body ignores my commands, like maybe the nerves connecting my legs to my brain have been severed.
I’m not going to escape him. I’m completely at his mercy.
The moment I understand that, really and truly get it, I gag and spit a wad of bile onto my fingers.
He grips my hair, holding it away from my face, and I can’t stop him. He waits. “That’s from the chloroform,” I hear him say almost casually. “It won’t last long, don’t worry.”
I focus on a point on the ground to make the world stop spinning so fast. It looks like a half-moon, but the spinning is making it fuller and fuller. I retch some more bile onto my hands. My throat is raw, and my lungs are on fire. I wish I were dead. Then I wouldn’t be afraid anymore.
After a while passes without me puking again, he clears his throat. “I’m going to put you on the bed now. That’s all.”
I don’t know how he takes hold of me, only that he does.
I flail around again, but I can tell my resistance is futile. I feel myself swinging down and landing on my back, onto something soft. The ceiling overhead is rocking back and forth.
Where is he?
I turn my head to the side and see him at the foot of the bed. I stare between his thighs at a hallway leading to the driver’s cab.
I’m still in the RV! That explains the rocking. He’s hauled me away somewhere so that he can do whatever he wants with me and then dispose of me afterward.
I clench the material under me as tightly as I can. Of course he’s going to say he doesn’t want to hurt me. He wants to lull me into a false sense of security. Probably more fun for him that way—first get my hopes up, then watch them shatter when I realize he’s killing me. I can almost feel his piercing gaze on my skin, blazing and burning, as he pictures everything he’s going to do to me. How he’s going to torture me.
Inside, I curl into a ball, try to get away from him. I want to lift my hips and scoot to one side, but whatever he gave me, I’m still numb from it.
“Do you need to use the bathroom?”
I flinch. The question rips me away from my fear immediately, as if the fear had just been a dream. I shake my head, but the next thing I notice is the pressure in my bladder.
“Tell me when you do and I’ll help you.”
I look up, working my way up his black cargo pants with my eyes. His T-shirt is completely soaked through with sweat. Even though I’m close to passing out again, I can tell that it’s unbelievably hot in here. I focus on his face. He’s regarding me closely. His pupils are huge, his eyes wide. They have an unnatural glint in them, the way they did in the parking lot of the visitors’ center. I remember that look. He keeps staring and staring, swallowing me with his gaze. It’s so much worse than the darkness from earlier.
Why didn’t I see what that look really meant when I first met him? That he wants to devour me until there’s nothing left of me? How could I have thought those ominous dark shadows beneath his cheekbones were attractive?
“I’ve put you on the toilet a couple of times. Don’t you remember?”
I shake my head again and close my eyes in defeat. I don’t dare think about him dragging my unconscious body from the box, undressing it, and setting it on the potty. The fact that I can’t remember any of it only makes it worse. Who knows where he touched me, or what he was thinking about.
Still, he’s given me one piece of information: if I’ve used the bathroom twice already, I must have been out for an awfully long time. If I knew how long, I might be able to work out how far we’ve driven and where we are. But I don’t want to have to ask him. I don’t want to talk to him at all.
A soft rustling sound makes me open my eyes again. He’s standing a little closer to the bed now—he must have taken a step forward. Now he’s looking down at me from above. “I’d give you something to drink, but I can’t for twenty-four hours after the anesthesia. It would be too dangerous. You might pass out again and then choke on your own vomit.”
I roll my head in the other direction so that I don’t have to see him. Now I’m facing the back wall of the camper, which the double bed is directly against. There’s a wall cupboard near the top, extending maybe a foot and a half over the bed. Everything here is totally cramped.
“Lou, I know you’re probably scared, but I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”
He chloroformed me and stuck me in a goddamn box. Does he have any idea how grotesque he sounds right now? My upper arm is still burning where he grabbed me and dragged me out. I don’t know what his definition of “hurt” is, but it seems to be quite a bit different from mine. Maybe he doesn’t think it will hurt me when he chokes me, squeezes my breasts and forces himself on me.
I press my fist against my mouth to suppress a whimper. I taste my own sour bile on my fingers, but I don’t care.
Behind me, I hear him sigh. “Okay, I’ll leave you be for now. You’ll just have to see for yourself that I’m going to keep my word.”
Heart pounding, I listen to his footfalls as he walks away. They sound hard and heavy, and the floor creaks under his weight.
“Why me?” I whisper into the fist at my lips.
The creaking stops. Everything is still for a while. A bird twitters outside.
“Because you’re so full of life,” he says quietly.
My throat closes up, but I’m so horrified that I can’t even cry.
I nod off, wake up, nod off again. Every time I come to, I’m terrified that Brendan will suddenly show up and attack me. He’s actually there two or three times, standing there at the foot of the bed with his dark gaze fixed on me... but this time when I wake up, I don’t see him.
I’m lying on my side with my cheek mashed against the bedsheet, sticky with drool. I’m drenched in sweat from head to toe. Something is different, though. I lie there for a moment and realize that I feel better, less exhausted... more full of life . That phrase has been echoing in my head since the moment he first said it. I think I even dreamed about it. I can’t figure out what the hell he meant by it. Did he kidnap me because he’d rather see me dead? Am I too full of life for him?
I tell myself to stop thinking about that. Too terrifying.
I lie completely still for a while, letting my head clear. What is he planning on doing with me? Where are we? Can I get away from here somehow? Hundreds and hundreds of questions, but I push them aside, focus on my own body.
I turn my head from side to side a couple of times. My head is still pounding, but not quite as badly. Tentatively, I wiggle my toes and rotate my ankles, and then manage to lift my knees and roll onto my back. After another minute or two, I somehow muster the strength to pull myself into a sitting position and scoot against the back wall.
I rub my swollen eyes a little and then look down at myself. I’m still wearing my shorts and my white blouse; even the chain is still there. It’s weird seeing myself in these clothes. It seems like weeks have passed since I put them on this morning.
I pluck at the blouse, which is so soaked that it’s clinging to my skin—which means it’s totally see-through, but I’m too exhausted to care. I smell absolutely rancid. Sweat, puke, terror.
Here in the rear of the camper, there’s just the double bed, with barely enough space for a person to stand in front of the tall, narrow wardrobes built into the back wall. There’s another wall-mounted cupboard directly above me, high enough that I won’t hit my head on it. When I look straight ahead, I can see into the hallway, which is about thirty feet long and leads to the cab with the two front seats. I still don’t see Brendan, which is a tiny bit comforting.
A wave of bitterness washes over me. God, he lured me in here so easily with his pretend-vulnerability, with those dark eyes of his. He won the minute he spoke to me. Did he know I’d walk straight into his trap? Could he tell how naive I was just by looking at me? If so, he’s amazingly good at reading people, which doesn’t make anything about my situation easier.
I scoot forward a bit to examine my surroundings more closely. There are metal plates on the walls at different heights, each one with a grip bar on it, a little like the narrow handles on our kitchen cupboards. And there’s a window on either side. I’d been too focused on myself to notice them. Silver blinds block the view outside, but I have to know what it looks like out there, wherever we are. Maybe Brendan’s taken me to a different campground, and I can escape and get help.
Don’t be an idiot, I scold myself sharply. If you really believe that, you’re completely underestimating this guy.
I scoot forward an inch at a time and then cautiously let my legs drop over the edge of the bed. Brendan might be lurking outside somewhere, so I don’t dare raise the blinds with the cord and risk drawing his attention, but I slide my fingers in between two slats and bend them apart a crack.
The first thing I see is a metal bar running left-to-right across the window. I saw them on a few RVs in Sequoia National Park. It’s designed to protect against break-ins, but obviously it’s also preventing me from crawling through the window and escaping. Brendan really did think of everything. I try to ignore the dull ache in the pit of my stomach.
On the other side of the bar, I see a cluster of pale birch trunks, and then nothing but dark pines. The trees aren’t nearly as massive as the ones at Sequoia, so we’re obviously in a different forest. I tilt my head to look from a different angle. The trees are standing in rows, thick as prison bars. A thin cone of sunlight is shining from behind their tops, creating elongated shadows on the needle-strewn forest floor. I try to guess the time based on their length, but I’m not sure if it’s early or late.
I clamber across to the other side of the bed, but there’s a bar across this window, too, and the view is the same: trees, trees, trees. No people. No tents. No other campers.
On the other side of the blinds, I spot the window handle. I could pull the window open. Then the screen would be the only barrier between me and the outside. I listen toward the hallway. Everything’s silent. I don’t know what Brendan would do if he caught me opening the window. My stomach knots up. Just thinking about that, I’m not sure I have the courage anymore. With trembling fingers, I reach in past the blinds, fold the handle down as silently as I can, and ease the window open a crack.
My heart starts pounding in hopeful anticipation. A distant conversation or the sound of children laughing would be enough. Then at least I would know that there are other people nearby. Besides Brendan, I mean.
But no matter how quietly I breathe, I can’t hear anything. Apart from chirping birds and the soft rustling of leaves in the underbrush, everything’s quiet. Too quiet. Like we’re at the end of the world. No cars, no humming machines, just... forest. Is this where Brendan’s going to bury me? Somewhere nobody will ever find me? Is he already out there digging my grave?
I press my hand against my mouth like I’m physically holding the horror back, keeping myself from giving voice to it, as though not letting it out will make it go away. It’s in every part of me, though. And the longer I sit here at the window thinking about my grave, the worse it gets. And the worse the pressure on my bladder gets, too. I can’t sit around here any longer.
I scoot to the foot of the bed, facing the narrow hallway. A wave of dizziness hits me as soon as I stand up. The walls feel like they’re coming at me, and I have to put one hand against the wall on either side to keep from falling over. There’s no way I can escape in this condition. Brendan would find me right away. I don’t even want to think about what he’d do to me then. Maybe I can lock myself in the bathroom? Then at least I could pee.
I wait for a few seconds. Stare at my bare feet. The half-moon-shaped spot on the floor I was focusing on hours ago is near my left heel, which means that horrible box must be right underneath the bed.
I try to picture him sticking me in there and then driving away like it’s no big deal. Driving on and on, bringing me further and further away from my brothers, one mile at a time. My throat closes up. Probably better to not think about my brothers. It makes everything a million times worse.
Cautiously, I put one foot in front of the other. I feel like some kind of junkie staggering toward her next fix. I’m certainly shaking like one. There are doors to either side of me. Up ahead is the table and the kitchen unit. I shove the right-hand door open and discover a tiny shower and one small shelf, but that’s it. The room behind the left-hand door is maybe ten square feet, barely enough space for a toilet and a sink. It smells wretched in here, like an outhouse. A handful of fat, black flies are circling beneath the bottom-hung window near the ceiling.
I half-swing, half-flop from the doorframe to the sink, and then from the sink to the toilet. I drop down onto it and take a few deep breaths, and then stand up exactly as far as I have to in order to push the door shut. There’s no lock. I sit there for a minute listening for noises on the other side, but everything’s still silent, so I tear my shorts down my hips with one hand while clutching the toilet lid with the other for support. I can’t at first, I’m too tense, terrified that Brendan will fling the door open, like maybe he’s been lurking nearby, waiting for this exact moment. But he doesn’t, and eventually my bladder relaxes.
Once I’m dressed again, I turn the sink on and run water over my hands and forearms. It’s fresh and cool, and I wish I could drink it, but it smells like it’s about half chlorine, which is just as gross as chloroform. I pick up the pale blue soap on the edge of the sink and use it to wash my face and hands. Immediately, the smell of sea salt and lavender fills the tiny room, and suddenly it’s like I’m back in our bathroom in Ash Springs. I turn the soap over and over in my hand, lathering it up, anxiously rubbing one hand across my cheeks again and again, feeling the soft suds melting against my skin, still clutching the bar in the other hand. I don’t want the scent to go away. I want to smell more of it, as much of it as I can. I want to draw it into me. I keep rubbing my face more and more frantically. I can’t stop. It’s like I’ve snapped. I glop the suds onto my arms, my neck, my hair, until I’m completely covered in white crowns of foam.
The scent reminds me of home. The realization hits me like a bolt of lightning. It’s the first rational thought I’ve had in here. My brothers and I use this same soap. Wild Ocean Dream, some discount store brand. Now we can dream wildly about the ocean here in the desert. Avery laughed as he said it. Liam rolled his eyes.
I hear myself gasping for air.
At that moment, the door jerks open.
Brendan stares at me with narrowed eyes.
From one second to the next, I turn to ice.
“What are you doing there?” His voice is tight.
I must look strange covered in soap suds, with only my eyes peeking out from behind a cloud of lather.
Brendan extends a hand very slowly, like I’m the psychotic one here. “Give me the soap, Lou,” he says. From his tone of voice, you’d think it was a butcher knife.
“Don’t call me Lou,” I whisper in a strangled voice. “You don’t know me.”
“Of course I do. Give me the soap, Louisa.”
“No!” I press the wet chunk of baby blue soap to my chest like it’s a piece of my heart he’s trying to take away.
“I told you to call me when you wanted to use the toilet.” He sounds accusatory, but there’s not much heat in it. “Did you drink any water?”
I press my lips together tightly and shake my head.
“Good. Wash that off.”
“No!” I want to keep the smell. I don’t want him taking it.
He gives me an appraising once-over, like maybe he’s trying to decide whether he should let me win this round. Finally he shrugs in indifference. “Okay, then stay that way.” He nods toward the bed. “Come on back. I suppose you’re done using the toilet, right?”
I don’t move. I stand there clutching the soap. It’s totally dumb, but I can’t help it.
“We need to get going.” He moves in to take my arm, but I jerk away, and then slip on the wet floor and land butt-first on the toilet.
“Going where?” I manage.
His smile is sickeningly triumphant. It makes me want to punch him in the face. “Further. Further away from where I picked you up.”
Picked me up . Like I was hitchhiking or something.
My grip on the soap relaxes as he speaks, and he plucks it gingerly from my fingers and places it on the top shelf where I can’t get at it. Then he grabs my arm with such determination that I don’t dare resist.
He stops near the foot of the bed, and a horrific suspicion comes over me. My toes cramp against the floor. “Are you going to lock me in the box again?” It comes out as a whisper.
He gazes down at me, and for a second it’s almost like I can see the horror I felt in that black hole written on his face—as though he’d already been in the belly of that beast, not knowing whether he was dead or alive. The expression in his eyes gives me chills way more than that all-devouring look he normally has.
After what seems like a million years, he shakes his head, slowly and mechanically, as though bringing himself back from somewhere else. “This road will be empty enough that I can let you stay out here. I only needed the box in the beginning.” He lets go of my arm; I can’t shake the feeling that he was hanging onto me for support. Which is obviously totally ridiculous.
I rub the spot he was clutching as inconspicuously as I can, and feel the blood shoot from my arm into the tips of my fingers.
Brendan’s at the window now, which is at stomach height for him. He pushes two of the slats apart on the blinds, the way I did before, and then leans over and peers outside.
Then, in a terrifyingly soft voice, he says, “Unless, of course, you try to run away from me.”