Torture (Siren Book 2) (3 page)

Chapter Four

Milla

Obviously subtlety won't work here. Somehow, he manages to redirect everything, make it about something else. Even chancing my participation in his discussion... still nothing. Just him prying, and prying, into the wrong things.

And... he rattles me. Even trying to adhere to my less-is-more, don't give it to him unless it serves my purposes philosophy, he's
still
somehow gotten more of me than most people ever do. I can't stick to backstories, can't outright lie to him. I'm twisting, like a fish on a hook, and lord only knows what he'll do to me when he actually has a chance to lever it for something.

I don't want to admit he got to me. Patricia Roane's death... it was the moment I knew what needed to be done, but it wasn't my
doing
. I knew she spent a
lot
of time sneaking into the work crews' restrooms; all the women on site did. Once, she looked embarrassed, and said “stomach flu” to me, before she fled, but most of the time she didn't bother justifying herself, and nor did we. It's not like any one of us saw it happening all
that
often. Just often enough for there to be sneering jokes about how she thought the office workers couldn't think her shit stank.

It's haunted me, since. What I would give to be the one who killed her, not some fluke of nature set in action by her own choices.

Yes, I was the one who found her. But if he knew the
real
reasons it upset me...

I rush through the evening's preparations while they sleep. Another container of sustenance, a few wires to connect when I get back, and a morning of fun awaits. I take a few more minutes to print a single sheet, and shove it into the cooler.

They're mostly out, but beginning to stir when I open the door from the outside. A little more chloroform to buy myself some time, and catch my breath. Sealed back in, the container in its new cage, the show ready to go on. I lay down, hold the rag close enough to my face that the overwhelming smell makes me dizzy, and shove it between two of the pipes, before leaning into the wooziness, shutting my eyes, and relaxing myself to sleep.

*              *              *

Denise's shriek wakes me up, bright and early. I shake my head to clear the cobwebs out of it.

Her alarm isn't surprising, since in a space like this, you notice even the most minute changes. And the one I worked on earlier certainly isn't minute. In the rear corner of the room, where there was an empty cage likely meant to store tools and such when the
Siren
was operational, the cage now has the meal-drop cooler in it. There's more changes than that, but they haven't discovered them yet.

“What the—” I mutter under my breath, in case either of the others are paying attention. It's exhausting, living this kind of double-life, but I wouldn't give it up. A yawn eats up anything else I might say, and Allen looks at me.

I haven't quite decided how I should play the reaction—should I joke it off, since this is routine to them by now? Should I react to it being a reminder of our forced helplessness? Which is more useful right now?

Calder flashes me a little smile. “Guess it's breakfast time...”

Allen overhears, and glares at him. Guess that means that distress is the better option. I tense up, and bite my lip, moving closer to it as they do.

“Any clue how to open it?” Calder asks Denise, since she's been looking at it longer. She points to the bottom of the cage, where there's a key within reach. The bars aren't too far apart; any of us should be able to reach in there easily.

“Ah. Gotcha.”

Calder steps closer, but Allen shoves him back. “I've got it.”

“Okay, whatever. Knock yourself out.”

Denise bites her lip, and then spits it out. “What if it's a trap? The containers have never been this obvious before.”

Allen laughs, his voice shrill and cutting, but stops pretty quickly—she has a point. I don't like making things easy, or letting them relax. The food drops are usually hidden, or difficult to reach. He looks at it another second, torn between charging forward toward the goal, and heeding his instincts. He shrugs a little apologetically, stepping closer, inspecting the cage closely, his apparent decision that caution never hurts. “Well, we're not just gonna sit here and stare at it. Trapped or no, we've gotta eat.”

Before anyone can argue, he shoves his arm in, and the static zap and smell of singed flesh draws a shriek from me even though I knew it was coming. I'm not the only one to cry out, though. Allen withdraws his arm with singe-marks at his shoulder, and no key. “
Fuck
.”

The smell isn't quite overpowering, but it will be in a minute, when someone tries again.

“Well,
now
what?” Denise growls. “Knowing doesn't actually
help
.” The anger seems to be a smokescreen—and a bad one, at that—for her fear. She tousles her hair with one hand, rather more forcefully than simply smoothing out a flyaway tickling her face. I'd guess she's choking back a panic attack. The smell of the electricity might be slightly different than the red-hot metal, but it's close enough to remind us
all
of what might await whoever reaches in next.

Calder examines it, as closely as he can without touching it. “How bad
was
it?” he asks Allen. It's a dumb question to ask when the man's shoulder's still smoking.

“
You
try it, pretty boy.”

“If that's what we want to—”

“
No
,” Denise insists. “He
wants
us to get in there. There's gotta be some other way, other than playing to his whims.” I have to bet that if Calder wasn't here, Denise'd be the ready leader of the group; she doesn't seem inclined to speak up often, but she's on point when she does. And less afraid to stand up to Allen than I'd have thought.

Calder cocks his head. “I'm of the same mind; I'd rather starve than be someone else's entertainment like this. But how long do you think they'll give us?”

He glances at me, and I shrug, wide-eyed.

Allen's fuming—whatever issues with authority he had before, they're bubbling to the surface, and
fast
. It's exciting to watch. Except that I don't like being the focus of at least some of his fixation. But Calder's treatment of him seems to have hit a nerve; he's tired of a lifetime of watching guys like Calder lead, and he seems to want to exercise some power of his own.

While Calder and Denise debate, Allen reaches in with determination. The electric hum increases, as does the smell, and he yells, bracing his weight against the electrified wire cage. He's not quite in deep enough, and as he leans into it further, the wire presses into his face. Calder, idiot that he is, reacts by reaching to haul Allen back. But Denise kicks him in the knee with her injured foot. He looks at her curiously, but returns to his previous plan, and she kicks him again, tears in her eyes from the pain of it.

“Don't be stupid—it's not fire. You can't pull him away without hurting yourself.”

“But—”

She looks at me for help, and I take my eyes off Allen's struggles to reach the key, despite his spasming fingers and burning flesh. For the moment, I've got to preserve my place in the group. I turn my back on Allen, standing in Calder's line of sight on tiptoe, and forcing him to look
only
at me. I have no idea what's in my eyes; I have no idea what he's seeing, and that's dangerous. He stares at me like I'm an apparition, and Denise takes my lead, stepping closer to him, until the two of us can back him away.

“There's only so much you really
can
protect someone else,” Denise says, sadly. It makes bile rise in my throat, knowing how rarely she
has
tried. And at least in this, even if you cut out the obvious, I'm no better than her. It's an amusingly bitter thought.

Allen yells behind us, louder, and then his cries cease. Denise and I turn, and Calder shoves between us to approach him. I seize Calder's arm and pull him close. “He doesn't like authority—he doesn't like not having a say, or having others challenge him. What've you done so far
but
challenge him?
Don't
undermine his choice.”

He glares at me, startled, but nods.

Allen's got the key. He grins despite cracked and singed skin, and hair that's coiled into much tighter curls from the heat. He glares at Calder as Calder puts out his hand.

“Thanks. Want me to open it, or do you want the honors?” Calder can't quite manage a smile, but hopefully the olive branch will be enough.

Allen's grin turns from triumphant, to shy. “All you, man. I'm not a sucker for punishment.”

Calder accepts the key from him, and turns back to the cage. His hands sizzle briefly as he slides the key home and braces the door to twist the lock open, but he manages it without mishap. As he pulls the door open, the wire closing the circuit snaps, disabling the cage.

Denise and I both stumble; possibly the appropriate thing to say should be 'thank you', but it feels wrong for the context.

“Do you still have that neosporin?” I ask her, and she beams, happy for the excuse to do something.

“Give me a sec—I'll get you fixed up.” She leads Allen away, limping, and I turn back to Calder. I'm somewhat disappointed at the payoff of that, but it was still fun ruffling Allen's feathers.

The door swings open, but he glances at Allen and doesn't attempt to pull it open. Instead, he steps toward me, leaning into me close enough to whisper something. “You were right. Thanks.”

Once the whisper is done, he doesn't retreat, just stands close enough to press his nose into my hair.

“You okay?” I'm frozen, unable to retreat, but uncertain why he's still there, and it lingers in my tone.

“Just fine. It was just a little hot to touch.” He nuzzles my hair before adding, “I'm just trying to get the smell of burnt skin out of my nose before I throw up.”

I snort. “Well don't throw up on me, then.”

“Whatever you say.” He pulls away, hearing Allen and Denise on their way back. He calls toward Allen, “Thought you should see our prize first. Want me to haul 'er out, or have you got a hand free?”

Allen waves his hand noncommittally, and Calder hides his nervousness to lean into the cage, and tug the cooler toward the door.

Once it's on the floor in front of us, I let the others crowd around. My heart's racing, my blood pumping as though it's trying to clear the burned smell from my lungs through sheer force of effort. At least I don't think I'm gonna keep them in here too much longer. I couldn't take this smell.

“Thanks for smoothing that over,” Denise whispers to me, as the men unpack their picnic, and the paper I included. I nod, quietly. The paper catches the light when it falls out as Allen hefts a plastic bag. He reaches for it.

“What's that?” She pushes forward to take the note from Allen's hand, and reads the names, one after one.

“Why—” Allen asks, before rethinking his question. “Why was that in there?”

“Something he wants us to know? People we should know?” Denise asks, knitting her brows together, and turning the paper over. “There's nothing else on it. Just names.”

Calder stares at the page a little too long. Maybe I'm getting through to him.

“You okay?” Allen asks, though he seems far more preoccupied in the salami sandwich at the top of the pile.

“A few of these—I've seen them on other paperwork. Who are they?”

I lean over his shoulder, pretending to read, as the discussion starts.

“Well, Wilkinson is
vaguely
familiar. Think he broke his leg or something?”

“Darnell had an open complaint, I think. Don't remember the specifics.”

It disgusts me. That's
all
they can come up with? Either they're keeping quiet to avoid passing judgment on each other, or they truly
don't
give a shit.

They nudge something loose in Calder, though. “Oh yeah. We cut Wilkinson a hefty check for that.”

“
What?
” It sneaks out, before I can tell my damn fool mouth to keep quiet.

“What's wrong, Mil?”

“You cut Wilkinson a check?
Jim Wilkinson?
”

“Yeah. Fifty k or so?”

No. No he sure as hell did
not
. Wilkinson ended up homeless, unable to afford the physical therapy that could have gotten him back to work. He lost a good big of mobility, and gained a pronounced limp.

Since I've let too much slip already, I have to play this carefully. “I
worked
with Wilkinson. He lived in the neighborhood. He might still be living there under cardboard.
No one
gave him a goddamn
thing
.”

Calder's voice shakes when he replies. “Well that's one person we know, then. Any other takers?”