Chapter 21
While the woman slept, Lance grabbed a tarp and his gear, and went back to the clearing. Belinda’s carcass was still there, cold and bloodless. Luckily, the lion had not punctured the gut when she had attacked. Belinda had appeared to be more savaged than she actually was. He burned with the urge to lay an ambush for the big cat. He quickly field-dressed the dead animal, leaving the organs behind, and hauled her back home. He hung the carcass in the shed to age. His mouth set firm as he thought again of the troubles that had beset him of late. His unsuccessful installation of the fence, the cougar, and now, the mysterious, injured woman in his cabin. But mostly, his thoughts were on the woman as his hands performed their routine tasks.
Entering the cabin again, he assured himself she was still sleeping, as peacefully as possible under the circumstances, and then moved to the bathroom to wash up. What a quirk of fate, he thought as he dried his hands and face.
Chapter 22
Brook tossed and turned for several hours. Lance went about his chores, coming in to check on her from time to time. Very late in the evening, Brook awoke, foggy but attentive. Pressure from her bladder had finally wormed its way through the layers of sedation. She became aware of a man moving about in the same room with her. Although she didn’t want to bring attention to herself, she just couldn’t wait. She called out, her voice raspy and barely audible. “Mister, I need to use the bathroom, now. I mean, NOW!” If she didn’t get to a toilet, she was going to wet the bed.
Lance turned from the stove where he was simmering some meat for a stew.
“You’re awake,” he said in a conversational tone. He was relieved to hear she needed the bathroom. He had been worried she might have sustained an injury to her urinary tract, something beyond his basic skill to detect, some internal damage or infection. This was a good sign, in his opinion.
She struggled to sit up. “Please, I need to go, NOW!”
He moved quickly to her bedside. “Better let me help you,” he said. “You probably shouldn’t put any weight on those feet just yet.”
Brook shied back but realized she needed his assistance. She let the man lift and carry her to a small room that held a strange-looking toilet, a table with a large bowl on it equipped with a hand pump, a mirrored cabinet, and several towels hanging from pegs. In the corner was an old claw-foot bathtub partially hidden behind a curtain.
The man stood her carefully in front of the commode, supporting her with one arm to ease the burden on her feet. With efficient movements, he quickly pulled the sweat pants down and lowered her to the toilet. It happened so fast, she was seated before the embarrassment could take hold.
“Please,” she said in a small voice, humiliated by her vulnerability. He looked down at her, his eyebrows raised in query. “Please don’t watch me.”
“I wouldn’t,” he said, surprised. “It never even occurred to me to do so. I’ll wait outside the door. If you need me, I’ll be close by. Just call. I’m just going to go add the vegetables to the stew.” He backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Brook worked to release her urine and had to concentrate in order to do so. She was still very sore and the flow, when it finally came, felt like battery acid pouring from her. She squirmed on the seat in an attempt to lessen the pain. After dabbing gently with tissue, she was relieved to see no blood on the paper. She felt somewhat clearer in her mind, but still lethargic and drugged. Her body was a mass of various aches and pains, but her feet seemed to be the worst. Worse even than her privates which throbbed with a dull unrelenting ache. Sharp pains, dull pains, deep pains, surface pains…she had them all.
She remained seated for a few moments.
Where am I?
She couldn’t remember how she got here, wherever ‘here’ was. And this man, who was he? Why was he being so kind to her? He had obviously cleaned her up and dressed her wounds. She noticed the bandages and gauze wraps on her legs and feet. What did he want with her? She didn’t trust him, not one little bit, although the reason for this was vague and just outside her ability to grasp. She shook her head to clear it, but all she got for her effort was the resurgence of a headache that had been lurking in the background, just waiting for its chance to reemerge. Putting her hand to her head, she was horrified to discover her hair felt matted and filthy. What had happened to her?
She was so confused. With a shudder, she found she easily remembered Jase and his
friends
. And her captivity, the days of relentless abuse, and her escape as she dashed out the door to sweet freedom. She remembered the deer and the car spinning out of control. She also remembered jumping from the car and then falling down the slope. These incidents were crystal clear. After that, things became hazy. Sorting backwards through what recent memories she could dig up, she recalled running in the forest on painful feet. But how had she gotten here?
Her heart flipped suddenly. The memory of the man outside the door howling over a dead body came rushing back to her with chilling clarity. She had to leave this place! The man in the next room was a killer! Maybe he was even part of the gang that had kidnapped her. For all she knew, he could be their ringleader, the man they answered to. Either way, he was dangerous. She had seen with her own eyes the result of his violence. A sob caught in her throat as she thought of the poor victim, bloody and slashed apart by this vicious stranger. She could be next! Her long nightmarish ordeal was not over. Like a horror movie, it had merely changed locations and actors. She was still not safe.
Brook fought with the baggy sweat pants and managed to pull them up while sitting by lifting first one side of her rear and then the other. Her sore muscles reminded her of the strain she had endured. She tried to stand and was immediately punished with a blinding hurt that shot from the bottoms of her feet up through her thighs. She cried out.
“Hello? Are you alright?” the man called from the other side of the door.
“I’m okay,” she answered, biting her bottom lip. Her heart raced weakly, and she panted from fear and from the sheer effort required not to weep. She had no choice. She would have to play along until she found a chance to escape.
“I can’t figure out how to flush,” she said, trying for a diversion to buy time. She didn’t know what followed the incident in the forest after she saw him cradling the dead body. Try as she might, she could not recall what happened next. She simply woke up here in this man’s house.
“It’s a composting toilet.”
Silence.
“I’m coming in to get you,” he said. Hearing no protest, he opened the door. Brook stared at him like a frightened doe. “You don’t flush.” Showing her the bucket of peat moss, he explained how the composting toilet worked.
He picked her up and carried her back to the bed. Her arms were around his shoulders and she couldn’t help but to inhale his clean musky scent. She had been wrong about his hair, she thought. It was long and wild, but not dirty. The closeness made her uncomfortable and she looked away, but not before she noticed the shiner he was sporting.
He must be a real rabble-rouser, or maybe his last victim fought back.
The thought sent a chill up her neck.
“What happened to your eye?” she asked, trying for a casual tone.
“You,” he stated simply. “You socked me.”
“
Me?
” She wondered if he was angry with her. If so, he didn’t show it. She could hardly believe his words. “I’m sorry; I don’t remember doing that.”
“You were scared. Don’t worry about it. It’s no big deal.” Gently, he sat her on the bed and she pulled her arms away.
“Who are you?” Brook asked in a small voice.
“My name is Lance.”
“I thought your name was Gilbert,” she blurted.
Now, where had that come from?
His laughter made her cringe. “No, no. Gilbert’s my goat. I’m Lance.”
“Oh. Well, I heard…something…I don’t know.” Her thoughts were muddled. Then feeling an odd need for courtesy, she continued, “Thank you, Lance. My name is…”
“Brooklyn. I know,” he interrupted her. His smile was there and gone almost before she saw it. “Brooklyn from Denver. I took a peek inside your purse. I wasn’t snooping, by the way; I just wanted to find out who you are.”
“That’s okay,” she said, not sure she believed him and not really comfortable with him going through her purse. But what could she do about it? Nothing. Maybe he had been looking for the money and credit cards Jase had taken.
Her arms shook as she eased herself back against the mattress. She hated being so helpless. She hated even more the weariness that fell over her once her head hit the pillow for it left her vulnerable. “Can I have my purse back?” she asked timidly, raising her head. It became critical that she have the bag with her, a need that bordered on desperation.
“Of course,” he said. He retrieved the purse from a shelf and placed it into her hands. She clutched it to her chest like a baby. Lance pulled the blankets up over her, covering the purse also. She sighed her relief and relaxed a little.
“I want to go home,” she said as waves of drowsiness threatened to engulf her. “Please let me go.”
“I wish I could do that,” Lance said, pity softening his voice. “But we’ve got nearly a foot of snow outside and it’s still coming down. We won’t be going anywhere for a while.”
She glanced toward the windows for confirmation, but they were covered by heavy interior shutters. He was probably lying to her, trying to trick her. Confusion still fumbled around in her brain, skewing her perceptions.
“I just can’t think why I’m here,” she said sleepily. “How I got here.”
“It’s possible you have a concussion,” he replied. “It’s going to take some time to get your thoughts organized. That’s the way it is with a head injury. You’ve been badly hurt.”
“Did you hurt me?”
Shocked that she would think such a thing, the denial formed on his lips. But before he could answer her, she slipped away into slumber again. He tucked the blanket around her and pushed her dirty hair away from her forehead. He would need to wash that hair soon, he thought. For now, it was time to clean and dress her wounds again. He went to the stove to stir the stew, and then gathered his first-aid items.
Nursemaid Lance
, he thought wryly.
Poor woman. I feel so sorry for her. But, damn, I sure wish she wasn’t here. How am I going to get rid of her without drawing attention to myself?
Chapter 23
Brook inhaled the savory aroma of food simmering. She was warm and comfortable, her familiar aches and pains dulled to the point of disappearing. Looking down, she was surprised to see Lance at the end of the bed tying each of her legs to a sturdy wooden bedpost. The rope was scratchy and chafed against her skin. She tried to sit up but felt as if heavy weights were holding her down. She realized she was bound at the wrists, and a rope stretched across her chest pinning her to the bed. Panic struck her and she struggled against her restraints. Her body was unresponsive, her cries faraway and faint to her ears.
“What are you doing?” Her words were slurred; her mouth would not cooperate. She was drugged.
“Oh, just making sure you can’t move,” Lance said in a friendly voice. “Those feet are infected. They’re going to have to come off.” He reached down to the floor and held up an impossibly large hunting knife. It glinted from the glow of the lantern on the bedside table.
Lance ran a finger along the length of the blade, testing its sharpness. “Probably should use an ax, or a saw, but I don’t feel like going out to the shed, so I think we’ll just make do with this. It’ll take a little longer, but just bear with me. We’ll get through it.”
“Oh god!” she cried, her heart slamming painfully in her chest. Adrenaline surged through her in an electric wave. “Please don’t cut off my feet. Oh god, oh god! Please don’t!”
He wiped a rag across the bottom of one foot and it exploded in pain. Showing her the cloth, he said, “Look.”
It was covered with bright red blood and sickly yellow pus. She screamed again and he thrust the soiled rag roughly into her open mouth. Tossing her head from side to side, she gagged on the slimy mess.
“Oh, come on,” Lance cajoled. “It’s no big deal. You’d think I was going to cut off both your legs, for chrissake. It’s just your feet. Don’t be such a crybaby." He smacked his lips. “Hey, I've got a great idea! I’ll add them to the stew! I never waste a good piece of meat.”
He howled in glee, and shook his head, tossing his long hair around like a madman.
“I just love this part,” he cackled as he lifted the knife. “It’s what I do best.”
Chapter 24
Brook came awake with a scream, startling Lance who stood at the table, buttering a piece of bread.
“Brooklyn?” Lance moved towards her, still carrying the knife.
“NO!” Brook screamed hysterically. “NO! Don’t cut off my feet!”
Lance stopped several feet from the bed. “What? What are you talking about? I have no intentions of cutting off your feet.” He stared at her for a minute in confusion and then relaxed. “You must have been having a nightmare, probably triggered by the earlier episode when I treated your feet. You’re fine!”
Brook’s breathing slowed; she realized that her legs weren’t tied down and that the knife Lance was wielding was a butter knife still smeared with some of the yellow substance. “Oh my god! What a horrid dream. It was terrible. Terrible! I don’t even want to think about it.” The dream had been so real, she was shaking.
Brook struggled into a sitting position, moving her purse to her side. Lance went to the kitchen area and traded the knife for a cup of water. He placed it into her hands and she lifted it to her lips.
I’m so thirsty! I’ve never been so thirsty in my life.
She downed the contents in a few gulps.
“More please?” She held the cup out to him, her hand trembling slightly.
“In a minute.” He gazed at her and she involuntarily shrank back.
“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he said in a quiet voice.
“I’m not,” she lied. A dizzy spell hit her. Holding very still, she waited for the feeling to pass. Lance kept staring at her, making her uncomfortable.
“I’d like you to take a pill for me,” he said. “It’s almost midnight and I need to get some sleep. I’d worry less about you if I knew you weren’t suffering. Now will you take this pill for me?”
What choice do I have?
Brook thought bitterly. He could overpower her and force it on her whether she wanted it or not. Maybe it was poison and would kill her. Maybe she wanted to die anyway. Better to die of an overdose than slashed to bloody pieces like his last victim. Maybe he would kill her in her sleep and she wouldn’t have to feel the pain of dying. She spoke none of these thoughts, merely nodded.
He went to the kitchen area and came back with half a pill and more water for her to wash it down. The cup shook in her hand, but she drank it dry before handing it back to him. He took the mug then hesitated, standing over her. She tried to ignore him as she settled back into the soft mattress.
The next thing she knew, the man was back at her bedside, raising her head from the pillow. She didn’t remember falling to sleep, but she must have.
“Can you sit up?”
“Yes,” she said as he helped her into a sitting position. “Is it morning?”
“Very early in the morning,” he answered. “Not even light out yet.”
Brook felt a wave of self-pity at her situation, her pain, and her frailty. It was so strong it brought new tears to the surface. She tried to swallow past the lump in her throat.
“I want you to take some broth,” he told her. “It’ll help you get your strength back.” He sat on the edge of the mattress and reached to the bedside table for a mug.
“No!” she cried, not wanting him close and not wanting whatever he was offering. She remembered with horror the dream about her feet. Then, worried that she might anger him, she continued with what she felt was a logical argument, “I don’t know what’s in it.”
“Just broth,” he replied, his eyes sympathetic. “Regular old homemade chicken soup minus the noodles. Water, chicken, a few vegetables, and some seasonings. I’ll take a sip first so you’ll know it’s alright.”
He filled the spoon from the cup and tipped it over his upturned mouth. She felt herself salivate at the mere sight of the golden liquid.
“See?” he said. “It’s good.”
She nodded, and he began spooning broth into her mouth. The experience was almost an orgasm of taste to her tongue; she was hungrier than she knew. The rich warm broth with its salty flavor and appetizing smell was better than the finest meal she had ever eaten.
“I can try to feed myself, if you don’t mind,” she ventured tentatively.
“Okay, good.” He placed the mug in her hands. Her arms felt weak and sore, but the trembling had subsided. She took a few spoonfuls of the delicious concoction, then laid the spoon aside and drank the rest from the thick rounded edge of the heavy mug. And still, he sat there on the edge of the bed. She wished he would move.
Handing the cup back to him, she lay down again and pulled the covers up to her shoulders. Finally, he got up and carried the dishes into the kitchen area. She breathed a sigh of relief and rolled painfully to her side, facing the room. She didn’t want him sneaking up on her. Her eyelids grew heavy and she drifted off again, the warm cozy sound of a crackling fire mingling with her dreams.