Bad to the Bone (37 page)

“Blossom?”

“Yes, Davis?”

“Do you think Betty is ready? Oh, dear, I made a rhyme. I’m a poet and I know it. Well, Blossom, what do you think? Is the fruit ripe for plucking?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“S-E-X, Blossom. With you. Is that clear enough?”

“Michael is here, Davis,” Blossom said quietly. “The child would see.”

Craddock, his leer firmly in place, stared at her through dead eyes. “Somehow, I can’t understand why that matters.” He turned back to Betty. “Anyway, I’m happy to report that my work is going well. My helpers labor like ants in a hive. They’re
so
anxious to earn their PURE. I’ve set productivity standards and I reward those who exceed their quotas with an extra ration of…Guess what? Do you know about rats and cocaine? If you give rats an unlimited supply of cocaine, they eat it until they die. They ignore
everything
—food, water, sex. They eat it and eat it until their little hearts explode. And, of course, cocaine is nothing compared to PURE. PURE is heroin and cocaine multiplied by ten.”

“Then it’s drugs,” Michael Alamare’s angry voice surprised everyone. “And I’m
not
sick. I want to go home.”

Craddock’s smile vanished abruptly. “A reasonable request. I have to admit it. And a reasonable request calls for a serious response. Here it is: if you don’t shut the fuck up, Michael, I’m gonna beat your fucking brains out.”

He got what he wanted. Michael Alamare allowed Blossom to finish, then fell back on the bed and turned his face to the wall.

“That was the thing I hated most,” Craddock announced, turning toward the door. “The rug rats. I’ve never liked kids, but, as Hanoverian therapy is dedicated to the production of properly socialized children, I couldn’t very well refuse to work with them. It was quite a learning experience for me. They’ll believe anything, if you start when they’re babies. In the early days, I even dreamed of hanging around the guru scene long enough to produce a little army of fully programmed adolescents. But things didn’t work out. Or did they?”

Once Craddock was gone, Michael turned away from the wall to face Betty. The misery in his eyes didn’t come from his father’s harsh words or the knowledge that his father had deliberately addicted him. It was the look of a child with nothing to believe in and Betty recognized it immediately. His mother had disappeared and he’d been taken from the only home he’d ever known. No surprise that he’d clung to his father’s lie: he was sick, but if he took his medicine, he’d go home as soon as he got better. Now there was nothing left. Michael was adrift and he knew it.

Betty took the child by the hand and drew him close to her. She wondered if he would ever be able to deal with what had happened to him. And if Connie Alamare was the one to help him deal with it. But, of course, in order to have a chance, he would have to survive. She thought of Moodrow and hoped he’d managed to stay calm and that he wasn’t sitting by the phone and that he’d come after her.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” she said quietly. “You understand that, don’t you, Michael?”

“Yes.” His voice was angry. “My daddy’s a dope dealer.”

“I want you to go over and put your ear against the door. If you hear someone coming, let me know. But don’t shout. We’ve got to be very, very quiet.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I’m going to look inside the bed and see if there’s something in there I can use to make a…a tool.”

“From the bed?”

“Maybe from the springs. I don’t know, Michael. That’s why I want to look inside. But I don’t want your father to find out.”

“Okay. That makes sense.” He went over to the door and put his ear to the wood. “Nobody coming,” he whispered.

Betty, turning to her work, was grateful for the drug, PURE. Despite her distaste, PURE had done its job. She felt energetic and peaceful at the same time. She knew what she had to do, and she was going to approach it step by step. Craddock’s confidence was a weapon she could use. But only so long as he thought of her as helpless. Even his threat—to make her perform—was simply another part of the equation. She might have to deal with it, but she wouldn’t let it interfere with her plans.

She pulled the mattress away from the wall and turned it until the leading edge was facing her. Punching a hole in the fabric, she worked the tip of the nail file back and forth. The hole slowly enlarged, but the metal tore at her skin. She took a handkerchief from her purse, wrapped one end of the file and went back to work. It was slow going—the file had no edge and she had to use the point to gouge a long tear in the fabric—but she got through it. Unfortunately, there were no springs in the mattress, just a single, thick piece of styrofoam.

“Somebody’s coming,” Michael whispered.

Betty pushed the mattress against the wall and sat on the edge of the bed. She felt no urgency, no sudden acceleration of her heart. Once again, she pictured a convict digging a tunnel. The tunnel might take months, even years to complete.

“Okay. They’re gone.”

The box spring was resting on a metal frame. It would have to be lifted before she could turn it toward her. And the mattress would have to come off altogether. She tested the mattress and found it to be extremely light. She could stand it against the wall while she worked. The problem was the blanket and single sheet. It would take several minutes to remake the bed and she wouldn’t have that much time if Craddock showed up unexpectedly.

“How come you’re not doing nothing?” Michael asked, his ear still tight against the door.

“I have a little problem. Come over here and I’ll tell you about it.”

She explained it quickly, the useless mattress, why she couldn’t take it off and what she wanted to do with the box spring. Michael, his face so serious Betty couldn’t help but smile, listened closely.

“Maybe,” he said, after due consideration, “you could work on the other end and cover the hole with the blanket.”

“We’d be taking a big chance. What if the blanket comes off?”

“That’s true.” He circled the bed, his hands clasped behind his back. “Let’s try to slide it backwards.”

Michael tugged at the foot of the bed, and the frame, obligingly set on castors, moved several inches. Betty pushed from the top, and together they moved the bed, box spring, mattress and frame several feet away from the wall. “Why didn’t I think of that?” Betty asked.

Michael’s proud grin earned him a quick hug. “Now,” Betty said, “you go back to the door and I’ll get to work.”

The box spring was so close to the floor that Betty had to lie on her side in order to work. With much of her weight supported by her left arm, she lost most of her leverage. Nevertheless, she persevered, hacking at the fabric until she opened a foot-long strip in the material. She looked inside, but except for a gleam of metal, she couldn’t see anything. The only light in the room came from the fixture in the ceiling. The blackened windows added to the gloom. She reached into the darkness and felt the individual springs. They seemed to be tied down with some kind of twine. She tugged at one of the coils and it moved a little. Not much, but at least they weren’t welded onto some kind of a frame.

“I have to get my reading glasses.” She pushed herself to her feet and went to get her purse. “I can’t see a thing.”

“Get the lamp,” Michael advised, still whispering as if his father was on the other side of the door. “From the bathroom.”

“From the bathroom?”

“Yes. The lamp.”

Then Betty remembered that the fixture in the bathroom didn’t work. Someone had put a small lamp on the toilet’s water tank. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

They went into the bathroom together, Michael giggling all the way. Betty unplugged the lamp, then abruptly plugged it back into the socket. “Hold the lamp, Mikey. I want to look at something.” She lifted the tank cover and examined the plumbing inside. The toilet’s handle was connected to a short length of wire which was, in turn, connected to the rubber stopper at the bottom of the tank. Pushing on the handle lifted the stopper and allowed the water to run into the toilet. As the water ran down, the stopper dropped back to cover the opening. A valve in the left-hand corner of the tank opened as the water level went down, then closed when the tank was full again. The valve was connected to an empty plastic float with a six-inch metal rod. The rod was threaded at both ends. Easy enough to remove, but without the float, the water would run continuously. Still, there must be some way to shut the water off in order to do repairs. She looked behind the toilet and found a valve attached to the pipe running into the bottom of the tank. She twisted it closed, unscrewed the rod and held it up for Michael’s inspection.

“It needs a little work, but I think it’ll do.”

“How can we go to the bathroom?” Michael wrinkled his nose in distaste. “It’s sure gonna smell in here.”

Smiling, Betty flushed the toilet, allowing the water to run out before opening the valve in the pipe. She waited until the tank filled, then closed the valve. “Does anyone ever use this bathroom besides you?”

“No.”

“Then I guess we’re in business. You go back to the door. Listen carefully, because it’s almost time for lunch. I’m going to rub this rod against the bed frame until it’s nice and sharp.”

The rod Betty removed from the water tank was not made of steel. It was brass, a far softer metal. If it had been steel, sharpening it to a point would have taken the better part of a week. As it was, she didn’t finish until an hour after dark. The fingertips of both her hands were blistered from the constant rubbing. Even as she held the finished work aloft, Betty knew that she had a problem. The seven-inch rod, threaded at one end and sharp enough to pierce the hardwood floor, would make a formidable weapon. But only if she could find a way to hold it, to make a handle.

In any event, Craddock would be along soon. Time to get ready. The bed rail farthest from the door (and, thus, farthest from the eyes of Davis Craddock) was deeply and obviously scratched.

“Mikey,” Betty said, “would you bring me two crayons? Gray and black.”

Michael, thoroughly bored with his sentry duty, obeyed eagerly. “What’re you gonna do?”

“I want to cover these scratches.” She pointed to the scarred bed rail. “But I’m also very tired. Maybe you could do it for me.”

Michael, grinning his proudest grin, bent to the task. Betty watched him examine the rail carefully. “The black is no good,” he announced. “We need light blue and gray.”

Suddenly tired, Betty lay back on the bed. She examined her fingers once again. Craddock was coming soon and his threat was becoming more immediate. Betty was not about to participate in Davis Craddock’s perversions. If he insisted, she would take her weapon and use it as best she could. Consequences be damned.

She slid the sharpened rod underneath her belt, then tightened the belt until the rod was held firmly. Her blouse, pulled out, would cover the weapon. Now she could concentrate on making a handle. The problem with the naked metal was that it was too slippery to hold in her fist the way she’d hold a knife. And if she tried to put it against the palm of her hand, it would cut her almost as badly as its intended target.

The obvious solution was a piece of wood, perhaps a bed slat. But how would she fasten the metal to the wood? She had no tools. Even if she managed to gouge a hole in the wood, the rod would fall out when she tried to swing it. Wrapping one end in cloth, her handkerchief, for instance, would produce the same unhappy result.

The door opened half an hour later, and Betty, still without a solution, sat up quickly. She tapped the sharpened rod in her belt, looking for some reassurance, but Craddock’s face didn’t appear in the doorway. Blossom came in, bearing a tray of food and the inevitable PURE, followed by Kenneth Scott carrying a newspaper and a telephone.

“Davis says to tell you he’s busy fixing a machine and he can’t come personally,” Scott announced, tossing the paper onto the table. “He says to tell you the paper’s a wedding present, and he’s real happy to see that your face isn’t on the front page. He says to tell you he’ll see you tomorrow. In the meantime, you call the serpent. You say, ‘I’m okay,’ then you hang up. No bullshit.”

Instead of handing the phone to Betty, he put it down on the table, then backed into the doorway. Betty did as she was told, reciting her one sentence in a strong, clear voice, before dropping the receiver onto the cradle.

“Are you a dope dealer, too?” Michael suddenly asked.

Scott lifted his rifle until the barrel was pointed, not at Michael, but at Betty. “You’ve destroyed everything. Now you’re trying to turn the kid against us.” His eyes narrowed to slits and the muscles on his neck stood out sharply. For a moment, Betty thought she was dead, then Blossom stepped directly between them.

“You must take this,” she said, holding out the obligatory dose of PURE. “We are very busy and we can’t stay here all night. Kenneth, you know Davis told you not to stay in the room after the phone call was completed. You mustn’t disobey him.”

Scott’s mouth opened in amazement. How could Blossom Nol, Craddock’s latest sexual toy, dare to order him about? But the threat, to tell the boss about his employee’s failure to follow instructions, was sharp enough to jar him back to his senses. He tossed Blossom a look that clearly equated her with the evil afoot in the garden, then spun on his heel and exited.

“Why did you do that, Blossom?” Betty asked. “Why did you step in to help us?”

“I was following instructions.”

“I don’t believe you, Blossom. You know what he wanted to do, and you put yourself between us. Davis Craddock didn’t tell you to do that.” Betty felt no great surge of hope. Blossom was, without doubt, the proverbial weak link, but her intervention didn’t necessarily mean the link was actually broken. Blossom was just another piece of the escape tunnel. “Tell me something, Blossom, do you really think that Davis Craddock is going to let me go? Do you really think he’ll let Michael go? What did you accomplish by risking your life? And what’s going to happen to you when he’s finished with you? You said you wanted freedom, but…”