Ruthless (4 page)

I touch the edge of the end table in homage to the victims who came before me, the victims who are in heaven. Bowing my head in prayer, I say, “Help me. Be my guardian angels. Let me do this. Let me do this for you. For us.”

Breathing deep, I feel the presence of the others around me. I stay just as I am, head bowed, hand on the end table. Holding on to the feeling, I do nothing but take in the sensation that I am not alone, that they are going to help me, that they are going to be with me. The feeling passes, and my eyes focus on the rough wood floor of the cabin.

There's a line cut through the boards.

It isn't easy, tied up as I am, but I follow the line, scraping away the trash with my foot. The line meets up with another, then another, then another. There is a four-by-four square cut into this floor, cut to provide access to the ground below.

I tap the table. “You're down there, aren't you?”

It feels as though someone says yes.

I tap the table one more time.

Now.

Time to act.

I pivot toward the kitchen. I need a knife to cut these ropes. As I waddle forward, it occurs to me Wolfman might think I'm younger than seventeen, because I'm so small. He is used to dealing with terrified children who can't defend themselves. Why else would he not tie me to the couch? Unless it's a trap. He could be on the other side of a window watching me. Ready to punish me.

It's a risk I have to take. My hope is that he's become over­confident preying on children. He's about to find out I'm no child. Even so, the fear that he might come upon me, the fear that this is a trap, makes my hand tremble as I open kitchen drawers, searching for a knife.

I look out a window and listen. No sign of Wolfman or his truck. More drawers reveal nothing useful. Then, somewhere far, far away, a sound. My imagination? Maybe. Or maybe a chain saw miles away. But all the same the sound sends a shot of adrenaline into me.

More drawers, more nothing. Cabinets, now, but there's nothing I can use to free myself of this mummy rope.

The sound of the old truck's engine reaches my ears.
It's him
. Driving slowly on these mountain paths, but maybe not slowly enough.

Time to get back on the couch, act like I never moved. I quickstep as fast as I can, knowing that a fall would leave me exposed, vulnerable to punishment.

The truck door slams shut.

He's almost here.

I lie down on the couch, find the position he left me in, just as
he unlocks the door. Turning my face toward the floor, I pretend to be asleep.

I pray he doesn't notice anything out of place.

Wolfman shuffles around the cabin. It's hard to tell what he's doing, but if he finds something infuriating—a drawer or a cabinet door left open—I'll hear about it pretty quick. As I cringe and wait like a beaten dog, my promise to the previous victims returns to me.

I will not be a victim. I will not think like a victim. I am going to avenge all those little girls. I am going to win.

More shuffling from Wolfman. I open one eye, the one closer to the couch. On the floor are several hunting magazines. And there, in the corner of each of them, a label with his name and address. I set about memorizing the information and hope to God I get a chance to use it.

Five Years Ago

ALL THE GIRL WANTS IS
for her parents to stop fighting and leave. Once they leave, she can call the boy who is like the other half of herself. It's been that way ever since he moved into the trailer on the Carver property. At first it was a whole family. A mom, a dad, two daughters, and a son. Then the dad left and the boy changed. He grew up in a hurry, becoming more of a man than his daddy ever was. The girl misses the free spirit the boy used to be, but at moments like this, she's grateful for his seriousness.

The girl is still in her horse's stall, still hiding from her parents. The fight stops. The clicking of cowboy boots on concrete announces the departure of her father.

“Ruth, I'm going to the show office.” Her mom sounds tired, angry. “God knows it's five miles from here, so it'll be a while.”

“Okay,” the girl says, trying to sound normal.

She pulls her phone out of her back pocket. Her hand is shaking, and she feels betrayed by her own body. She never shakes like this. It takes two
tries before she successfully calls the boy. The phone rings, and her throat closes up on her. What if she cries? The thought is horrifying. No one hears Ruth Carver cry. Not ever. Not even him.

“Hello?” He sounds concerned, as though he already knows something is wrong.

She can't say anything.

“Ruthie?”

Forcing a deep breath, she says, “Yes.” Except she doesn't. It comes out as a gasp for air, a metallic hiss.

The boy's voice lowers. “Are they fighting?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I guess it's the same old, same old.”

All she can do is nod.

“Ruthie, what's the matter?”

“I can't speak,” she whispers.

The boy is quiet, trying to figure out what has her this upset. “Is it worse than usual?”

“No, it's the same. It's exactly the same.” The words come out with vehemence, frustration.

Something clicks for the boy. “And you thought going to Worlds was going to change things.”

“Yes.” Her “yes” is nothing but a humiliated husk of a word.

“Don't be embarrassed. There's nothing worse than getting your hopes up for nothing, especially when you have a whole heap of pressure on you.”

“Thank you.” His understanding is an exquisite relief.

“Look. Me and Ma will be there Saturday. We'll be there to watch you. Okay?”

“Okay.” The girl feels a little better, knowing her best friend will soon be there.

“I'll say prayers for you. I'll tell Ma to say some prayers for you, too. She'll tell her small group and then you'll have a whole heap of people praying for you and rooting you on, okay?”

“Thanks, Caleb.” A warm wash of love for the boy comes over her. His lack of judgment, his unwavering support, it all means so much.

“And, Ruthie, it ain't fittin' for them to fight in front of you like that; it ain't fittin' at all.”

And just as quickly, that love disappears. Why does he have to talk like a redneck? He's smarter than that, should be better than that. It just shows why Caleb could never be a part of the Carver clan. The Carvers are about being the best. Caleb is so close to that, so close to great. But he's not. He's on the other side of the line.

“Thanks, Caleb,” she says again, her voice cold. “I gotta go.”

His redneck ways have always been an irritant, but now, in the moment when she most needs him to be perfect, it brings home everything that's wrong.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE WOLFMAN CONTINUES TO ROOT
around in the kitchen as I lie facedown on the couch. Address memorized, I stare at the hunting magazines.
N
ever in a million years would I have guessed his name was Jerry T. Balls.
What kind of a name is Jerry Balls? In a different world from this one it would be funny. Thing is, he doesn't look like a Jerry, and that name doesn't ring a bell. I can't remember what they called him when he worked for us, but it wasn't that. To me, he looks like a Wolfman. He will always be Wolfman to me.

His home address is two towns over from mine. If his plant job is around there, he's making one hell of a commute. No wonder I was alone for so long.

During our next card game it will be my goal to find out where this cabin is. Maybe even how far away from civilization. But first and foremost—food and water. I need to get some fuel into my
body. Once I make my escape, I'll need all the energy I can get.

The heavy steps of Wolfman are coming closer. I tense, waiting; the nerves on the back of my neck prickle as he looms over me. So close his breathing ruffles my hair. His breath is sour.

He says, “You stink.”

Out behind the cabin there is a garden hose, and I am being sprayed down with it. I'm naked. I'm freezing. My body convulses with cold. My underwear now sits on the end table with the rest. Everything in me wants to curl up, hide, cover my face. But it's not going to happen. Standing straight and tall, my eyes open and on the Wolfman's, I try to think about nothing but the water dripping down my face and pulling every little droplet into my mouth.

I'd hoped to get food before I left. I'd hoped to get more information and a kitchen knife. I'd hoped to maybe steal his truck. Those things didn't happen. This is what did, and this is what is important:

I am outside.

He didn't bring his gun.

But he did bring a whole new expression to his wolf eyes. He's done thinking, done planning, done preparing. Things are about to get real. I can feel it. I recite my goals.
Number one, I will not be raped. Number two, I will escape. Number three, I will bring him to justice.

“Turn around and bend over.”

My pulse quickens.

I turn very slowly, catch some of my red hair in my mouth
and suck the water from it. Bending over, I drink as quickly and as much as I can, even using my hands to cup the water. He says nothing. All the while I'm listening for even one footstep forward. These moments are precious. This water is precious.

Then the water becomes uneven. Instead of a steady spray against the back of my neck, it travels down my body, off it ­altogether, and then back to my neck.

Curious, I hang my head down and glance through the space between my ribs and my arm. He's masturbating. He had to juggle the hose and his zipper. That's why the spray of water didn't stay steady.

But it's not revulsion that strikes me. It's something else. I think:

This is good.

This is excellent.

Taking the tiniest steps, I inch away from him.

When I go, I want as big of a head start as I can get.

Inching, inching, inching, I'm amazed he doesn't realize what I'm doing. Inching more, drinking water, inching more, drinking water, and perhaps best of all, feeling smarter, better, superior to my opponent. It is the fuel that feeds me like none other. What is this but a contest? A competition to be won or lost? A competition I am going to win.

There, a crack of a twig. Glancing back again, jockey-style, through my armpit, I see he's putting himself away.

Now.

I spring forward and am in full stride before he even moves.
Instead of heading for the driveway, I speed toward thickets of mountain laurel. Being small can be an advantage. I'm hoping the tangle of limbs will let me slide past and hold him back.

Behind me he charges, a thundering rhinoceros.

Into the woods now. Branches and twigs and leaves and even thorns don't seem to touch me. Or maybe I just can't feel them. Everything I am reads the terrain ahead. Left, right, duck, jump, racing and maneuvering and pushing my body to its limits. After only a handful of minutes, I register the fact that the crashing behind me has stopped.

He's gone to get his gun.

I don't slow down.

I stopped running a long time ago. The sun was on its way down when I started, and now it's about four hours closer to the horizon. I do my best to keep it in front of me. Heading due west seems smart. It's the easiest direction to follow, headed straight toward the sun, with the cabin at my back. Just as importantly, going west lets me go more downhill than uphill.

The hills here never stop. It's up and down and up and down and up and down. I stick to the ravines as much as possible, taking cover in the folds of the mountains. The ravines are a mixture of soft, boggy ground and rocks. My feet took some serious hits in my race away from the cabin, so I pick my way along the mushy spots. Along with the soft ground and the cover, I'm hoping the ravines take me down to a river, and that river will take me down to a real road. So far it's nothing but deep wilderness.

Wolfman hasn't shown himself, but I know he's out there. I can't see him or hear him, but I can feel him. It's good news for me that he's working with a .45 handgun. He's going to have to get close to kill me. I'm not a huge fan of guns, but Caleb and Grandpapa have both tried to teach me about them. Some of it sank in. Not much, but some.

The good news is, just about every other ravine has a clear, little stream waterfalling its way down it. The bad news is, I'm dizzy with hunger.

There's no food here. No berries, no nuts. I ate a worm I found, but that's it.

Food. It's taken over my every thought.
Food. Food. Food.

I'm not used to autumn being so cold, but then I'm not used to being in the mountains, naked. How long can I survive out here? Especially after the sun sets and the cold creeps in? Panic seeps into me, but I recite my goals and feel stronger for it. Only a few minutes later the worry returns. Anxiety and stress are no friends of mine right now. They burn extra calories. Confidence is what I need.

I stop midway down a ravine. For no reason a sense of well-being comes over me.

Something good just happened.

I've never had a psychic experience before, and I wonder if that's what this is. It's not a thought so much as a feeling. It's related to Caleb. Even though I have absolutely no evidence to suggest it, I believe Caleb has figured out something important. He's called me too many times without me answering. He's getting
suspicious. He's calling Becca, calling Mom and Dad. He already believes something's wrong. Now he's figuring out what.

It might be just the hunger talking, maybe a hallucination brought on by low blood sugar, but I choose to believe it's real. I choose to let it give me strength and hope.

Coming on toward dusk and I haven't lost faith in my epiphany, but my steps are dragging now. I'm hurting. I'm hurting bad. I can't think. I need food.

The moment the sun dips behind the hills I can feel the temperature drop.

My current ravine broadens into a little meadow. I come around a bend, and the meadow expands into a wide-open field. There's a big oak in the center, and beneath that big oak there is a wooden tub.

I know exactly what that wooden tub is. It's bear bait. It's illegal and a practice I hate. Hunters put out a pile of apples. Bears can't resist it, and it lures them into the open, right into the hunter's trap. But I'm thrilled this hunter has put out his illegal bear bait.

Jogging toward the tub, I try not to get too hopeful. Maybe there won't be any apples. But even then, maybe there's a hunting cabin nearby. Maybe I'm getting close to civilization. But mostly I'm just hoping for food.

Collapsing next to the tub, I peer inside and see them. Dozens and dozens of apples. They're not even rotten. Soft, but not rotten. The first one goes down in a second. The second one takes no longer. Never in my life has anything tasted as good as these apples. They're manna from heaven.

My head is buried in the tub when I hear it.

A high-powered-rifle shot.

I sit up tall, like a deer listening for danger.

Everything inside me stops, and for a split second I live in denial.
They're hunting bear. It's not for you.

That denial is destroyed by a bullet. It slides past my left shoulder, a grazing shot that slices my deltoid as elegantly as a scalpel. It is blood and burning and numbness from the shoulder down, but adrenaline hides the pain.

I run in pure animal panic.

A third bullet chases my heels, but misses. I dive into the ravines. They give me cover, and the gunshots stop. He must be on a ridge. Still running, I glance up along the ridgeline. There's nothing to see but trees.

Stupidly, my first thought is that this isn't fair. I didn't know he had a hunting rifle. I never saw it. I only saw the handgun. I didn't know what I was up against. It's not fair. None of this is fair.

“Life isn't fair,” comes the voice of Nana. She has told me that a thousand times. “What matters is how you handle it.”

I'm going to handle it by winning.

The sun has hidden itself behind the hills, and in the gloaming my pale skin shines white in the darkness. I might as well have drawn a target on myself.

Victory is in the details.

I should have known better.

Coming upon a boggy spot, I flop down into the mud and roll, roll, roll, until I'm black and green and brown all over. Above me
is a rocky outcropping, covered by a downed tree. I slip my way between the rock and the tree, my back against the hillside.

Time to pause and listen. And there it is. The sound of footsteps crawls into my heart and my lungs, making it hard to breathe, hard to pump blood through my body.

Leaning my head back, I stare at the ridge above me.

There he is, silhouetted against what's left of the daylight. He is a big, black shape, and in his hands I see the sleek outline of a hunting rifle, a powerful scope perched atop it.

He is coming for me.

I am naked, without a weapon.

My one good arm is now wounded.

I have paid dearly for my meal.