Little Sister (36 page)

She could hear him rummaging around, but she did not look. She did not want to see him approach her. Let it be fast, she thought.

He was beside her now, his breath fetid on her face. You can take it, she thought. Picture yourself getting revenge.

Even as she thought it, she heard his voice close to her ear. “Time to wash up,” he said.

Beth’s eyes flew open, and she stared at him, as he leaned back on his heels. In front of him were a Thermos, a dirty rag, and a bar of soap. She watched in horrified amazement as he poured some water out of the Thermos onto the rag and wiped it perfunctorily across the soap. Then he looked up at her. The expression in his eyes was all the more frightening for being so very detached. He reached the rag out toward her face.

Beth cringed, and her flesh crawled as the tepid water on the rag touched her cheek.

“It may be too late for this,” he said. “You’ve brought so many germs into this place it may be contaminated. This place already smells from your being here. We have to wash you first. Clean you. Hold still.”

He rubbed the rag across her face in a rough, circular motion and then began moving down her neck. Once he stopped and wet the rag again from the Thermos.

“You were raised like a pig,” he said. “I was raised the right way. I was always clean. I did as I was told. ‘Don’t speak, stay here, be clean. And no one will ever have to know. I’ll protect you from them. If they catch you, they’ll put you away in a dark prison. Things will crawl over you in the night.’ But do you know what?”

Beth shook her head. He was rubbing her flesh as if he were sanding it with the rag, his eyes intent on his task. But his words made no sense. He seemed to have slipped over the edge. “Here’s the joke.” He laughed. “I was already in prison, and I didn’t know it.”

His spittle landed on her cheek as he spoke, and his eyes were lit by some inner madness. She realized, watching him, that there would be no reasoning with him, no compromising with his plan. She was shivering uncontrollably, the water on her skin evaporating in the frigid air and turning her skin blue.

“Now,” he said, “this is what you want to do to Francie, and it’s up to me to save her from you. She has to be free of you.”

He pushed the strap of her bra off her shoulder. “I’ll take this off,” he said calmly as he ran the rag down the slope of her chest.

Beth felt everything in her recoil from that hand, which slithered like a snake across her breast. She knew in that instant that she could not just submit to it. No matter what happened. She jerked her shoulder out from under his grasp. “Get away from me,” she shrieked at him. “No!” The revulsion came in waves, loosening itself in screams. “You’re crazy. Don’t touch me.” He rocked back, shocked for a moment, and then he reached out and hit her, as hard as he could, across the face.

Suddenly he gasped. “Quiet,” he snarled. Beth opened her eyes and saw him pick up the gun and hold it trembling in his hand as he stared at the door, and they both heard the sound of footsteps coming across the bridge.

Beth hesitated for a moment, then she cried out, “Help.” Andrew turned on her in fury, and they both heard the growl outside, followed by insistent barking on the other side of the door.

Andrew’s stiffened body relaxed, and then his chalky face broke into a malevolent smile. The dog rooted around the door for a minute, continuing to bark. Then, frustrated by the lack of response, it retreated back across the bridge. Andrew ran to the door and opened it a crack, peering out.

“He’s gone,” he said.

Beth slumped back, her fleeting moment of hope crushed. Andrew turned a vicious smile on her. “Help.” He mimicked her. “Asking a dog for help. Very good.” He shone the flashlight on her face, which was bruised from where he had struck her earlier. Beth winced and tried to turn away from the blinding beam of light.

“Disappointed?” Andrew asked. “You shouldn’t be. I told you nobody ever comes here.”

Beth leaned back and closed her eyes again, trying to block out the sight and sound of him. She licked her lips and heard him put the gun and the flashlight back down on the floor. Then she heard something else. Without opening her eyes she said, “What’s that?”

“What?” he said.

“Listen.”

She gazed boldly at him, and in that moment he heard it. It was a faint, blaring noise, long, steady, and shrill. It cut through the quiet night like a high-pitched foghorn.

It took a moment to register, and then he jumped up. “That bitch,” he said. “She’s leaning on it. What is she trying to do?”

“She’s trying to get help,” said Beth.

Andrew kicked into Beth as hard as he could, and she fell sideways on the floor. He grabbed her scarf from the pile of clothes and jammed it into her mouth. “She can’t do this to me,” he said. He ran from the hut, stopping just long enough to shoot the bolt behind him.

THE COLD ROSE THROUGH THE FLOOR,
and Beth felt as if she were lying on the icy surface of the lake itself. Everything in her ached with a deep, threatening kind of pain, as if it would overcome her if she moved. She heard his footsteps pounding across the bridge as he headed back toward the truck and Francie.

At the thought of Francie her heart felt as if it were being squeezed, and hot tears spurted from her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. He would be enraged when he reached her. There was no predicting what he might do. Francie had betrayed him, called for help, refused to obey. It was treason. The thought of those maddened eyes turned on Francie sent a shudder through Beth’s body that had nothing to do with the cold. She struggled to pull her hands apart, and the wire burned into her wrists. She wondered if Francie knew the danger she was in. He would be coming after her, ready to kill. Maybe someone would hear the horn and rescue her. It was the only hope.

Beth could picture Francie there, leaning on the horn, her glasses resting on the end of her nose, that defiant look on her face. It was a look she had often turned on Beth those first days, a look that could infuriate her. She had labeled it petulance and snottiness. Now she recognized it as Francie’s shield. It was her armor against a life that constantly hurt her. She was like a little guerrilla fighter, determined not to give in to the extraordinary woes that life seemed to hurl at her. And that one, unreadable expression was her badge of grit.

Beth marveled for a moment at her sister’s bravery. Alone and

defenseless in that truck, she had acted, not just waited to see what would happen. She had waved a red flag at the bull, knowing that she would enrage the beast and knowing she could not protect herself against him. But she wasn’t just going to sit and wait for the ax to fall. She had chanced it.

Through her tears Beth felt a rush of pride in her sister that transcended even her fear. She wished she could shout to the world, “This is my sister. She did not just give in.” But in the next moment a wave of hopelessness crashed over her as she acknowledged the danger they were in. They would probably not even survive to whisper it, much less to shout it.

The door of the skating hut rattled, and Beth heard the bolt slide back. She jerked up from her slumped position. He couldn’t be back already. The horn was still blaring. The door was pushed open, and moonlight illumined the slight, bespectacled figure in the doorway, moonbeams glistening on her ash blond hair.

Beth stared at her for a moment and then tried to say her name, but she made only a gurgling sound through the wad of scarf in her mouth.

“Beth?” Francie glanced back over her shoulder and then rushed in and pulled the scarf from Beth’s mouth. “Oh, my God. What did he do to you? Are you okay?”

Beth nodded. “I can’t believe it. How did you…”

Francie pulled the wire clippers from her pocket and reached for Beth’s wrists. “Hold still,” she said. She clipped the wires off Beth’s hands and then gathered up the pile of clothes and handed them to Beth, piece by piece. “I didn’t know what I’d find in here,” said Francie. “I feel sick.”

Beth rubbed her numbed wrists and then pulled on her shirt and jeans, which Francie had handed to her. “How did you get away? And the horn?” she whispered. “Oh, God, I’m so glad to see you.”

“He didn’t tighten the wire on me like he did on you. ’Cause he loves me, I guess,” said Francie with a grim smile. “I hooked the wire over the door handle and wriggled my wrists out. While I was doing it, I accidentally beeped the horn, and that gave me an idea. When I got out, I wedged a stick between the seat and the horn, so it would keep on blowing.”

“Brilliant,” said Beth delightedly as she shrugged on her jacket. She grabbed Francie’s hands to squeeze them and saw, even in the darkness, the bloody, abraded wrists. “Oh, Francie,” she said. She lifted one of the wounded hands and pressed it to her own cheek.

“I came down the path,” Francie continued, “and hid by the foot of

the bridge. He passed me on the run. Didn’t even see me. But we have to get out of here quick. He’ll be back as soon as he finds it.”

“You’re right,” said Beth.

“I think we should go out across the ice,” said Francie. “I know this lake, and our car is over that way.” She pointed in the opposite direction of the bridge. “We’ll never get around the lake through the woods. He’d catch us. But if we cross the ice, we can get right to it.”

“As the crow flies,” said Beth. “Will the ice hold us? It’s been raining.”

“I think so,” said Francie. “I was on it the other day, and it’s pretty thick. Just a little thin around the edge.”

“Let’s try it,” said Beth.

They slipped out the door, scanning the woods as they left, and then dropped down, one at a time, from the bridge to the little island that held the skating house. They scurried around to the back of the house and stared out across the lake.

“I hope it’ll hold us,” said Beth.

“It’s better than being shot,” said Francie.

Beth nodded. “Let’s go.”

Francie stepped out carefully on the ice. “It’s okay,” she whispered. Beth held out her arms for balance and followed her out. A faint, ripping sound below the surface made her stop dead, uncertain whether to go forward or back.

“Come on,” Francie urged. “I told you the edge was thin. It’s okay out here.”

Beth took a deep breath and stepped out, like a sky diver stepping out of a plane. The ripping sound started again, but it ceased as she reached the spot where Francie waited.

Without another word they started across. The soles of their sneakers provided some traction, but Beth could feel her knees wobble beneath her as she tried to hurry along, sliding on the slick surface, guided only by the moonlight. The two of them were like comic dancers on a vast, empty stage, running with sideways steps, flailing their arms occasionally to keep their balance. This would be fun, Beth thought, if it weren’t so awful. She looked over at Francie, who gestured in the direction that they had to go.

As she headed toward it, Francie slipped and landed with a cracking sound. Beth rushed to her, feeling as if she were wearing buckets on her feet. Beth tried to help Francie up but also slipped.

“It’s a wet spot,” said Francie. “Let’s crawl.”

On hands and knees they crawled across the slippery surface. Finally Beth was able to scramble to her feet, the flesh on her hands stinging as if it had been ripped off by the ice.

As she reached out to help Francie up she heard the sound of the car horn abruptly stop. The sisters looked at each other, wide-eyed in the dark. The silence around the lake was eerie. Beth shuddered. Francie pushed her glasses up on her nose. Then she stuck her chin out. “We’re almost there,” she said.

They were more than halfway to the bank of the lake. Clinging to each other’s jacket sleeves, they hurried the rest of the way, adjusting their weight to balance themselves as they skidded along. They whispered encouragement and instructions to each other, each trying to keep the frantic note out of her voice.

“What do you think he’ll do?” Francie asked, clutching Beth’s sleeve as they neared the edge of the lake.

“Don’t think about it,” said Beth. “We’re right there.”

They hesitated for a second, looking at the bank. It was dark around the edge of the ice, and Beth felt queasy looking at it. “It doesn’t look frozen,” she said.

“I know,” said Francie. She turned and glanced back toward the hut. “Look,” she whispered.

The unsteady beam of a flashlight was visible bobbing across the bridge toward the skating house. They both watched it for a second. Then Francie turned and looked at the shore with a calm, assessing gaze. “It’s not deep here anyway,” she said.

Letting go of Beth, she made a few running steps and leaped out across the dark edge to the bank. She scrambled to her feet and held out her hand to Beth. “Hurry.”

Beth crouched down and pushed herself off. One foot hit the ice with a splitting sound, but the other extended out and landed on the shore. She threw her weight forward and fell into the bank.

Francie helped her up. They looked back and saw the flashlight retreating across the bridge. “How far to the car?” Beth whispered.

“It’s right up the hill through these woods. Not too far,” said Francie.

“We’d better run,” said Beth. “You know the way?”

Francie nodded and began to scramble up the bank. Beth followed right behind her, finding a foothold and rising to her feet. “I think we’re okay now,” said Beth.

“Oh, no, you’re not.”

The beam of a flashlight hit Beth full in the face. She threw a hand

over her eyes as Francie stumbled back against her. They looked up to see Andrew’s face, skull-like above the shaft of light. He held the gun trained on them. “Don’t bother running,” he said. “You’re not going anywhere.”

THE CRAZED SATISFACTION OF VICTORY
was in his eyes. He had won the game. Their terror was his prize. He looked as if he would burst with the gruesome joy of it.

Beth and Francie stared in disbelief at the distorted, leering face. As they looked at him they heard a man’s voice, thin and faint, drifting across the moonscape of the lake calling, “Mick, here, boy. C’mere, Mick.”