Chapter 36 Thea
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THEA
“I’ve always been fascinated with redheads,” Henry says, reaching through the bars of the cage.
He pinches a lock of hair between his wrinkled fingers and pulls it to his nose to inhale.
I wince as the uncomfortable tug grows into pain.
Hot tearing across my scalp makes me cry out, and tears well in my waterline, blurring my vision.
He steps back with the chunk of curls tangled in his fist and grins. “Apparently my grandson shares in my fascination.”
I turn away, allowing my chin to fall to my chest as the tears dripping down my face splash onto the floor.
My body aches from being strung up in this cage.
The chains bite into my wrists and ankles as they pull me taut, twisted like a marionette.
The weight of being suspended for the past—I don’t know how long I’ve been here—makes my shoulders burn with each shallow breath, but if I move, if I twist or squirm for relief, the cage sways enough to make my stomach launch into my throat.
The air is stale with something sour, but it’s not the damp dungeon-type smell I’d expect after being hauled into a strange home and downstairs somewhere.
I was blindfolded, but this isn’t EV. The air isn’t saturated with rich cologne or cigar smoke.
It’s clean, almost sterile, and this sadistic man has a cage identical to those at EV in his basement.
My steel bindings rattle as I tremble. Toes unable to touch the floor, I’m vulnerable in a whole new way, hung like a prize, or worse, hunted prey. My fingers flex against the restraints as I work to keep the blood flowing while watching Henry move about his workspace.
The lights are dim—dark even—but I can still make out the oak cabinets lining one side of the wall in the murky bleed of candlelight.
Smooth drywall painted a soft honey brown, recessed lighting, hardwood floors—meticulously designed as a clean version of a man cave.
A Persian rug with hand-knotted fringes lies beneath the walnut table he leans over.
Henry pours himself a glass of amber liquor from the crystal decanter in front of him. He swirls it around in his hand and stalks toward the cage again. I’m grateful to be inside. Though I know he has the key, the idea of his having locked me up instead of murdering me brings with it cruel hope.
“What did you share with Piper Reeves?” He sips his drink, smirking at me over the rim. Then he licks his lips.
It’s the third time he’s asked me. The first was in the car. When I didn’t answer, he slapped me and then blindfolded me. My swollen lip still tingles with the ghost of his hand. The second was as his goon was stringing me up.
I stare at what looks to be an expensive candle flickering on the low marble table in front of two leather chairs and ignore him.
He lifts his glass to take another sip, his jaw shifting the liquid around in his mouth.
Then, with a sniveling curl of his lip, he leans forward and spits it in my face.
The scent of whiskey hits me first, followed by the splash.
It catches me across the cheek, drips down to my jaw, and stings the cut on my bottom lip.
Spider-like chills run down my spine, and I spit, disgusted.
I can taste the fire of his drink on my tongue.
“Tell me what I need to know and this will be over. Or do you enjoy being strung up like a piggish harlot?”
It’s easy to almost forget I’m chained here. Between the plush academic space, Henry’s expensive suit, and the soft instrumental music lulling me into a false reality.
I smother a laugh. I’m so messed up. Months. It only took months for my sense of morality to shift. At least I’m not buried in a concrete box at EV. These are my thoughts while I’m chained to psycho grandpa’s cage like the bird he’s ready to stuff. I’m going to vomit.
The normality makes it worse. I’m worried more about Piper. Did she get away? Even if she did, they’ll go after her now. My goal was to help free the girls, not to add more to the mix.
A knock sounds at the door, and my heart leaps, adding to the pulse pounding hard in my ears.
“Not now, Sam!” Henry shouts. He moves to one of the drawers among the many lined in the wall of cabinets.
There’s a muffled sound I can’t make out, but Henry, who’s much closer to the steel door, must. He yells back. “Send them in.” He sets a brown rolled pouch with frayed edges on the table and moves to the door as it opens. “Senator, Mr. Vignola, Cleaner … come in. I have her here.”
I squint the best I can, but they’re shadows until three of them step closer to the cage. One stays back, and the only visible part of him is a fist decorated with tattoos.
Graves drags a solo finger along the table, his index finger drifting along as he walks toward me.
When he approaches the cage, he lifts his hand, studying the faint gray smear on his skin before running it between his thumb and forefinger.
His gaze snaps to mine as he speaks to Henry.
“You really should have Sam clean this better, DuPont.”
Henry’s face screws up in confusion, but Graves just studies me.
I meet his gaze. I’m not afraid. I never really had a plan for my life; maybe this was it.
Maybe I’m meant to die in the basement of an ex-congressman whose grandson I love, all so Piper has a chance to shed light on this vile organization.
“What does she know?” Again, Graves doesn’t address me, but his eyes bore into mine, wicked and abhorrent.
It’s odd—almost fascinating—how Henry DuPont is less intimidating in Graves’s presence.
Like when the rat snake looks better than the viper slithering next to it, despite the fear of them altogether.
“She hasn’t said,” Henry says, tapping a knuckle on the canvas roll.
“Hmm. And Slade?”
I jerk, my spine straightening the best it can hung up in this position.
“Ahh,” Graves says, reaching into the cage.
“She reacts to him.” His fingers graze my cheek, and every heavy bone in my body demands I recoil, but I shut it down.
His grip lands and pinches the tip of my chin.
Tilting my head from side to side, he inspects me, invades me.
“Vignola. What are your thoughts? I’d like an update. ”
A middle-aged, bald man steps forward, the candlelight dancing off the rolling sweat beads on the smooth skin.
The whites of his eyes are pooled with red veins, and when he looks at me, there’s a callousness.
He rolls his shoulders. “All the girls from Market have been relocated. If any information is leaked, we have cleaned out the barracks. However, nothing has been reported.”
Relocated. Cleaned out. Nothing reported. His words are chopped into bite-sized chunks my brain tries to reconcile. My mouth drops open, and I shake my head ever so slightly.
Graves stops me by clamping his fingers on either side of my mouth and nodding my head for me. “Oh, yes, my dear. Did you think you were going to save your friends?”
Tears pool faster than I can blink them away.
He laughs in my face, his spittle showering me. “And you’ve put a target on Piper’s back …” He tsks several times. “Cleaner.”
The man in the shadows shifts, his towering form swaying.
“Find her. You know what to do.”
“Yes.” The man’s voice is deep, abrasive, like two rocks slowly scraping together, and the severity of what I’ve done by dangling this alluring lead in front of Piper makes my stomach revolt.
I grit my teeth and force the bile down, along with the thought.
The mystery man turns and leaves, leaving the three others. I figure Vignola is a member of the Eight. His lanky figure and bald head are familiar enough. I may have seen him at the table reserved for them.
“It doesn’t matter what you’ve told Piper—the Cleaner will find her. Dispose of her. He never misses a mark. If she’s on the run, she’ll have to leave her career behind—”
Graves’s phone rings.
“What?” Graves smiles. “Slade … I was wondering when we’d hear from you.” His smile evaporates, turning down into a frown. “Touch my daughter, and I will have your head!”
Henry freezes, rushing around the table. “Slade!”
Graves blocks Henry with his shoulder and rolls his eyes. “Very well. I will meet you in the Sovereign Chamber in an hour.” He clicks off his phone and stares at me before sighing. “Young love.”
Henry snorts. “Love? She’s his piece of ass. Probably kept his attention longer than the rest. The kid never did know how to speak to women.”
Graves plays with his phone. “She isn’t to be harmed or moved until negotiations with Slade are finalized.”
Henry’s eyes glaze over and his mouth gapes open. “Negotiations?”
“He made a compelling argument I can’t overlook.” He turns back to me. “Perhaps you’ll bring in more coin than I thought possible.”
“Guard coin?” Henry slams his palm on the table. “Slade doesn’t have money outside the assets I control. I will not approve of withdrawing any funds for her, and his salary as a congressman isn’t going to touch it.”
“I’ll let him worry about that. DuPont, it was a pleasure. Vignola, monitor the chatter and pay off whoever needs to be. If they won’t comply, kill them.” Graves brings his phone to his ear as he walks toward the door to leave. “Knox. Where is she?”
Then the door slams shut, and there are two.
Slade … what are you doing? The warm splash of tears dripping down my face makes my eyes feel heavy, drooping to the point it’s too much effort to keep tabs on the two men in the room.
There’s a rustling and a hushed argument, but I stare at the rich hardwood floor, a picture of wealth in all the wrong places. I understand now. Why Slade was determined to destroy them from the inside. Break the bones and they’ll heal; poison the blood and the body will rot from the inside out.
There’s no epic takedown. No rescue made where a sting operation receives publicity across North America. Those are happy endings you see in movies, not real life.
A door slams, and the chains rattle as I flinch. When I look up, it’s just me and Henry DuPont again. His face is red, eyes wild, like what Vignola had said pissed him off. I half wonder if he’s on drugs or mad because he mumbles to himself while he collects jars from the cabinet.
“My family name … DuPont. Slade won’t … I won’t allow this.”
He loosens the dark tie around his neck and unfurls the rolled-up pouch across the table.
Gleaming steel is tucked neatly into each of the many pockets.
Pliers, a bone saw, a hooked blade with a worn handle.
Each piece of whatever this tool kit represents is cradled in its own stitched slot, and I obsessively follow his fingertips as he traces each tool.
The experience is out-of-body. As if I’m the one hovering in the shadows, watching a deluded man rifle through his trinkets while the girl tied up in the cage looks on, numb.
Sometimes I wonder if my mother is looking down on me from wherever she is.
Is she disappointed? I swallow and slump, allowing the chains to take my limbs where they may.
Pain wrings more tears from me as I cringe.
Would she be disappointed that I fell in love with him?
With Slade? That through this perverse world I found the strength to be a dandelion, or would she be relieved that someone was there to save me?
The low, rasping scrape of metal on metal whispers through the basement, and through the candlelight flicker I watch as Henry sharpens a long, thin knife.
Each stroke on the metal is slow, like he’s coaxing the sharpness from the blade.
When he’s finished, he tests the handle in his palm, gripping and releasing it.
I wait for the shiver. I wait for the panic or the fear. Why am I not more scared?
What’s he going to do to me? Will it hurt? How long will it take me to die? They’re all questions that should be looming as he approaches, as he pokes the tip of his blade with his finger and draws blood only to slurp it down between his lips.
Will I be buried beside my mother? My pulse kicks up; it’s that question that does it—and the answer. Of course, I won’t. Most likely I’ll be chopped up and my body parts sold on the black market.
When Henry reaches the cage, he lifts a small black remote, clicking a button.
Mozart’s “Lacrimosa” wafts through the room, and with another few clicks, it swells into mournful waves that shake the room.
My professor once said the harmonies within “Lacrimosa” twist together majestic beauty and unholy horror.
Granted, I’m sure he was thinking of some Gothic cathedral, not his student on the verge of torture. But his description is eerily true.
Henry turns back to me, placing the remote inside his chest pocket and pulling out a key.
It’s barely audible over the clash of the choir with the orchestra, but there’s a click and the cage swings open.
My body clenches in anticipation, and a searing trail of liquid trickles down the inside of my thigh.
I fight to hold the feverish gleam in his icy eyes with my own, but I’m swept away in Slade’s eyes staring back at me.
Somewhere in my heart—a fissure, a crack.
The deep lines surrounding his voided gaze pinch together as a disgusting grin morphs his lips.
“I think, my sweet seven-fifty-five, it’s time to play. ”
The stillness I’ve worked hard to maintain betrays me, and I thrash as he grips my chin and slides the tip of his knife over my clavicle.
The nick is surface level at most, papercut quality, but I strain to see it nonetheless.
Blood oozes out across the nick, and his eyes widen with a hungry frenzy.
He leans forward, mouth clamping over the small cut.
My lips curl and I dry heave as his tongue laps over my skin.
He grunts out an indulgent moan, and my stomach roils at the very stench of him.
Tears plunge down my cheeks, but I bite my tongue, swallowing the curdling scream that wants out.
He leers at me as he pulls back, rubbing a single knuckle over the valley of my chest. “Yes,” he says. “I think I know why my grandson favors you.”
A whimper escapes at the mention of Slade, and another gash is made on my neck. I was right. The reason I don’t know what to do with my life is because I’m not meant to have one at all.