Pursuit (21 page)

If none of that worked, then he would have to consider squeezing his current visitor into his ring of
C
. It had been quite a while since his halfhearted promise of abstinence; he felt he could give up his pledge and rekindle his scarlet rendezvous.

He would have no choice. The Cheryls of the world would force him into his former mischief. The devious slut.

By the time he arrived at Bait Shack, he was livid.

C
heryl awakened from
a dream in which an enormous bird trapped her in a cave of twigs papered with old comic books. In the smoking, vaporous atmosphere, the bird pecked his way into the nest as Cheryl tried to cover herself.

In the dark, a sliver of light sliced through her escape gap in the plywood wall. Cheryl had figured out a way of unscrewing the pesky lightbulb so she could sleep. She stretched out on the thin mattress.

She thought about the last few moments. A dream, with its fantasy bird screeching to get to her. The slamming of a car door. She hesitated, realizing that the door was not part of the dream but her reality. He was back. Her four-walled universe was about to resume.

Her escape hatch, only half done. She'd made progress, but there was still a ways to go. The noise made by the wooden barrier changed, the solid resistance became more resonant. In certain places, her makeshift knife pierced the patterned rectangle and went through the wood. While squinting through the slight hole, she saw something that looked like glass. She remained quiet.

Cheryl knew she had to once again get to her job at the window and reminded herself about the lightbulb and the fact that the shithead might pop in at any minute. She rolled off her mattress and went to the door. Bracing her right foot against the corner of the papered wall where she suspected a concrete block made a convenient bulge, she levered herself up until her left foot was atop the doorknob 90 degrees from the corner wall. She poked her right index finger into the wire cage that protected the now-extinguished lightbulb. Initially, she'd unscrewed it a quarter turn. She hooked her finger into the curlycue low-energy bulb again and relit it, hopping down just in time to hear the basement door bang open at the top of the steps. King was singing his rendition of “Heigh-Ho, Heigh-Ho, It's Off to Work We Go.”

The pass-through for the food slid open. “Buckle up, Snow White. We're going for a ride,” hissed the no-nonsense voice.

Cheryl saw just a bit of the man's face as he bent sideways to look into the room. The light blinked on and off several times as King played with the switch. The door opened, the light switched off.

“Put on the hood, sweets. It's time to earn your keep.”

The light coming from the stairs helped Cheryl see a dark outline of an undersized man in the doorway. He tossed the hood toward the cot.

“Let's hustle now. Don't give me trouble. I'm not in the mood.”

Cheryl picked up the hood and then positioned herself against the far wall from the cot. A soft flake of light shining down at an angle across the floor crept halfway up the wallpaper. Her efforts on the window escape were showing up too nicely on the basement wall. She stepped
forward, trying to position herself between the light patch and the man at the door.

“Where you going, dumpling girl? I didn't tell you to shake it. Are you anxious to trot upstairs with Ole man Studley? Your time is coming, darling.” He laughed. “Put on the hood, cheerleader.” He shuffled back and forth in front of the door.

Cheryl pretended to struggle with the hood.

“Who fight? We fight. Red and gold, fight, fight!” He laughed. “Thank you, thank you ver mush.”

She waited. The man slid closer into the room.

“I don't want to take away any of your recreational privileges, my dear, but—and this is a big one—if you don't get your cute butt out of this room in the next five seconds, I'll beat your rosy-cheeked face to a pulp.
Do you hear me?
”

Cheryl took another step toward the man to hide the light streak and then jammed her finger down her throat, attempting to throw up as King came scuttling across the room. He grabbed her by the shoulders as Cheryl doubled over trying to stir her bile. She coughed several times and then pulled the hood farther up toward her nose and projected her warm vomit into his face.

He screamed and jumped back from the green mess. “You dirty, stinking little bitch! I'll kill you! I'll kill you!” He swatted at his face, wiping off the sardine-laden slop. He beat his hands on his legs and staggered around her.

King slipped on the vomit, letting out a less than manly yelp. “Why did you do this to me? Dammit! I've been decent with you. I've fed you and offered my physical self to you in a gentlemanly fashion.”

Cheryl would not let this slug of a man dominate her. She placed her hand on his arm. “Oh, please, Mr. King.
Have mercy on me. Just give me a moment; I truly will cooperate.”

He yanked his arm away from her.

“Could you find it in your heart to allow me a few more days to adjust?” She clasped her hands to her knees and choked as if to vomit again.

“No one has ever . . .” He turned to her half-hooded face. He couldn't finish.

The door closed, and the caged light went back on. The fan and motor switched on and off, back and forth. The light blinked a few times.

Cheryl realized he was beginning to lord over her simply by his presence. She wanted it over. If she confronted him, maybe he could be shamed into allowing her to leave, but she knew her fantasies were childish. She resolved to keep at her work, to sardine-can her way to freedom.

She opened a Cup Noodles container and ran tap water into it. It would take about an hour of soaking in cold water for the noodles to become palatable.

Other than her hands blistered raw from the constant sawing with the makeshift knife, the cans worked well. After a great deal of sawing, the cans would lose their body and collapse, but they were still effective. She had used a couple of tins so far, depositing the empties into the refuse bag so that King would not become suspicious. She had no idea how long she had been in her tight little quarters. It seemed more than a week; maybe less than two. Once again she climbed onto the efficiency refrigerator and traced the carved scratches in what she thought of as her “life's work.”

Cheryl toiled at the plywood panel. She promised herself early on that she would not be violated by him. She would stash her sardine knife in her sock, or wedge it into
her hair, or somehow take it with her up those high, dark stairs.

He came down the steps. Again. The food slot opened, and he tramped back to the top of the steps. His shoes sounded as if he wanted to make a point.
I'm here. Listen to this. What do you think of these boots?
And then guitar music. It was just humming, melodious guitar chords that couldn't be sustained, and then the inevitable story.

Oh, Charlie Wiggles lived down the way.

Sittin' on the porch most every day.

Oh yeah, dum ditty dum dum. Oh yeah.

Charlie had an ugly wife.

Dangdest thing I'd seen all my life.

Oh yeah, dum ditty dum dum. Oh yeah

It went on for too long, the words as bad as the music. Cheryl clapped, but with each meeting of the hands taking twice the normal time.

“Wake up, little Susie, wake up! Get your lazy backside up!” he shouted.

If he left tomorrow, she would saw her way out.

The last several sessions became less confining. She called them “sessions” instead of days, since only fragments of light messaged the passing of time.

She turned out to be the worst guest he'd ever had. Smart aleck and mean-spirited, not content and resigned like the others. He knew he would have to dispose of her.

He grew restless; the girl, a nuisance. Going through his collection of movies, he came upon an always-enjoyed
snuff film reenactment. It looked as if it had been shot in Mexico or the desert. The lead actor strutted about naked except for his black Western hat and boots. These boots reminded him of his own special midcalf walkabouts—not exactly Tony Lamas but bought online for $49.99, with a false set of laces in front that took the onus off the three-inch heels. That, along with the disguised thick soles, gave him an eye-to-eye advantage he had not enjoyed previously. His fists clenched when he thought of the vomit cleaned from his boots after Miss Nymph greeted him with her earlier projectile display. He mused that she wasn't worth the trouble if there wasn't the potential of a true romance—which he doubted in his imagined generous heart. Maybe it was time. He'd think upon it tomorrow and come home to do the deed.

J
ulie and Todd
checked out where they thought the abductor might have parked when taking Billie and Cheryl. Julie took the right side of the run-down housing development. No answer from the first two shacks. She stood on the rickety wood porch of the third.

“Good morning. Sergeant Worth, State Patrol. We're looking into an incident that happened on the other side of the woods in the Thousand Pines development.”

The man's unkempt beard and filthy wifebeater undershirt matched his well-used hut. “If it happened over at Snobville, why you askin' me?” He moved to shut the door.

“Hold it.” Julie opened the screen door and pressed her badge up close to the man's face. “Maybe you didn't understand me. The police have reason to believe that the suspect”—a sour, sweaty odor made her take a step back—“may have parked his vehicle near your residence.” Julie indicated a spot across the road.

“Who am I? Houdini? Why the hell would I pay attention to some thief's car? I'm a busy man. Take a hike, babe.” He slammed the door. “Gestapo bitch.”

Under ordinary circumstances, she would have let it go, but these weren't everyday conditions.

A Black Sabbath anthem blared as she again opened the screen. She pounded on the door, still with badge in hand. “Police! Open up!”

Todd jogged up to the front of the house. “What's up, Sarge? You need help?”

“Check the other side of this unit. Not sure about this guy.” She pounded and shouted once again. No answer. Pocketing her badge, she unholstered her weapon and cupped her hands at the door's window. She made out the torso and legs of the man using a kitchen ladder to pull himself up through a skylight door in the slanted roof.

Julie stepped off the porch and took several paces. “What you doing up there, asshole? You want to go to jail? Let me see your hands. Now!”

The man stretched out on the roof. “I don't know shit. Why you pissin' with me?”

Todd came around the back. “Did he split?”

“No. He's on the roof.”

His .45 in hand, Todd stepped back to take a look at the man. “Put your hands in the air, above your head.”

“I'll fall. I'll lose balance.”

“Tough shit, asshole. What are you wanted for, Jack? You on probation? What's up?”

“I don't like cops.”

“Yeah, right, get in line. Listen, amigo, if I have to come up there, someone's gonna get hurt.” Todd turned to Julie. “How'd he get up there? From inside?”