The cabin, p.15
The Cabin, page 15
When I was a kid, they called me Slap Hands because I beat everybody in this slapping game we used to play. One guy holds his hands out and the other rests his ever-so-lightly on top. The guy on the bottom has to flip his hands over and slap the top guy’s hands. If the top guy pulls away before the bottom guy can whack him, they switch positions.
I was the champion of my neighborhood. They’d line up, and I’d take them out one by one, playing until my palms were red and bloody. I had the fastest hands around, and I was proud of it.
When we lived in Vegas, I used to watch the magic guys do their tricks on the street corners for spare change. I started thinking I’d be good at that because of my fast hands.
I saved up and got a magic kit. I learned to pull quarters out of kids’ ears, hide marbles up one sleeve and have them come out the other, make playing cards disappear. My mother made a big fuss over me. I guess she liked it that I was doing something with my time besides getting into trouble. One day she pretended to pull two tickets out of my ear. They were for a big magic show at the MGM Casino.
I swear that show was a revelation. I’d thought I’d found my calling. I wanted to be a magician in a black tux, with beautiful girls prancing around me on stage. But Hal found out my mother spent money taking me to the show.
He tossed the house, slapped Mom around and threatened to smash my fingers if I didn’t knock off the tricks. I learned right then and there not to attract attention, not to think more of myself than I ought to. My magic had to be the quiet kind. The only skill I focused on after that was making things disappear from the local liquor store.
I closed my eyes and listened to the chatter of the boy and his mother in the kitchen. She was putting on a brave face for him, and he was so happy to be with her he’d forgotten all about me. I understood now why Chuck hated her so much. She was everything he wasn’t.
Her arrival had gotten me all confused. On the way back to the cabin from the shovel mishap, I’d pretty much decided I was going to kill Devon just as soon as I figured out what the green shirt meant.
After I got rid of him, I figured I could get the kid some cough medicine to make him sleep and take him with me down the hill. The cops might not recognize me with a kid in the back seat, but if they did, he was my wild card.
Now Fiona was here, and I didn’t know what to think. Was she sent to be a help or a hinderance? Was she sent at all? She’d have been uncooperative if I’d dispatched her husband, and maybe that was why the green shirt stopped me. She was fierce, and she was loyal. He didn’t deserve her.
I heard the sizzle of batter in the frying pan and opened my eyes. Devon was awake. He stared at me with a look that made me decidedly uncomfortable. He was like one of those zombies on the TV. One minute they’re shuffling and pathetic, the next they’re trying to rip your head off. Whatever I did, I’d have to do it soon. He was unpredictable.
“What do you want?” Devon’s voice was a growl. “I gave you money. I can get you more, but I don’t think that’s going to satisfy you, is it?”
“I’m thinking it through,” I said. “After that trick you played out in the woods, you’re lucky to be alive.”
“Why didn’t you kill me?” He sounded defiant.
I grunted, but I didn’t answer him. I wasn’t going to tell him about my talismans, about the things the stars and colors and numbers spoke to me. That was my magic, and it was private. “Your wife is making pancakes.”
“I asked you a question,” Devon said. “What do you want?”
I gazed into his eyes for a long moment. They were black and dead in the dim light—zombie eyes. “Freedom,” I said and pushed myself off the couch. “I’m going to check on the status of the pancakes.”
MOLLY: Fiona was right about one thing anyway. Rico wants freedom, but what freedom means to one person may be very different than what freedom means to another. A woman in a well-paying nine-to-five may think of freedom as an investment portfolio that allows her to quit her job, while a woman in an abusive relationship wants to get safely away from her abuser.
The meaning of the word has significantly changed for Devon in the past couple of days. He’s learning something about freedom, or the lack thereof, that he never knew before.
Let’s get back to Devon.
7.4.5
DEVON
Devon watched Rico disappear into the kitchen and despair filled him like black sludge. Danger had just entered a small space with his wife and child, and he was helpless. He struggled against his bonds, a violent, useless gesture that did nothing but tear the skin around his wrists and cause a sharp pain where he’d been wounded. A moment later he felt wet warmth dampen his bandages.
He lay still, panting. This wasn’t doing anyone any good. He had to think. His gaze skittered around the living room, seeking something to cut the ties at his wrists and ankles.
“Haven’t had pancakes in years.” Devon heard Rico talking from the kitchen. His voice was pleasant. “My mom used to make them for me, too.” Devon assumed that was addressed to Caleb.
What was he doing? Trying to create a bond with his family? Caleb didn’t answer, or if he did, it was so low Devon couldn’t hear him. Caleb was terrified of Rico, and that comforted Devon somehow. Rico couldn’t lull his child into believing there was no danger. Caleb knew Rico was a rattler, but Fiona didn’t.
What if she didn’t appreciate how dangerous Rico was? What if she didn’t take the situation as seriously as she should? Devon hadn’t. He’d been a fool.
That thought drove him to search the room for solutions again. The brick hearth caught his eye. It was low enough for him to reach with his shackled hands, and it was rough.
Devon lifted himself onto his elbows and paused, breathing deeply until the pain in his side passed. When it dulled, he scooted himself along the floor the few feet to the fireplace and fell against the bricks. He paused again waiting for the pain and nausea to pass. When they did, he lifted his wrists behind him, found the brick ledge and began to saw at the bonds.
“Why don’t you sit and eat with me,” Rico said. Devon heard the lust in his voice. He was attracted to Fiona. He wanted her.
A pipe burst in the basement of Devon’s soul and panic flooded in. He wanted to scream, to rage, to beat his chest, race into the kitchen and put a fist into Rico’s ugly face. He ground his teeth and sawed at the plastic tie with renewed strength.
“I’m still cooking.” Fiona’s tone was bland, as if she didn’t hear his desire, but she did. Of that Devon was sure. They’d had conversations about this.
Fiona had both male and female clients and had learned to create hard and firm boundaries with certain ones. Why do they think women who provide a service are available to service all their needs? she’d said. They’d laughed, and Devon had offered to punch out the offender. She’d assured him she could handle things.
But could she handle Rico? He wasn’t a stressed-out accountant looking for release, or a smarmy dentist craving a quick thrill with his Pilates instructor.
Devon began to sweat. The fire was hot on his back. He yanked at his ties again. The brick ledge wasn’t sharp enough. It would take all night to saw through the plastic.
He looked over his shoulder into the flames. Could he melt it? A log crackled and spit behind the screen. If he could stand the heat, maybe. There was no way to put the ties into the fire without putting his wrists in with them.
A low laugh echoed across the kitchen tiles and into the living room. “I’ll have another one of those pancakes,” Rico said.
“Can I untie Devon so he can eat?” Fiona’s voice held a rebellious note.
Rico laughed again. He’d never laughed this much before. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“How’s he going to eat?” she demanded. Don’t demand, honey. Play it cool. Devon threw his thoughts at her.
“You can feed him if you want to.” Rico, the big man, was going to let her take care of Devon. He raged at Rico’s arrogance and shoved the fireplace screen aside with his shoulder.
Devon pushed himself up until he sat on the hearth then shoved his hands toward the flames. The heat was bearable for a moment, then he felt the burn. The pain quickly became so great it overwhelmed the pain in his side. It roared up his arms. Devon shut his eyes and held on.
One second passed, two, three, and he couldn’t take it any longer. He pulled his wrists from the fire, but the heat remained. He was blinded by it for a several seconds. When he could see again, he yanked at his ties. They stretched like cheese on a pizza for a split second then hardened to a stop.
He inhaled and exhaled readying himself for another round in the fire, but an idea formed in his mind. Rather than shove his hands into the flames again, perhaps he could wiggle them through the stretched opening. He began to twist his wrists and pull. Each time the zip tie rubbed against his burned skin, he wanted to scream, but he kept on.
“Devon?”
He stopped, eyes snapping toward the sound of his name. Fiona stood in the kitchen doorway, a plate in her hands. “I brought you some food.”
He gave her a wan smile.
She hurried across the room, set the plate on the fireplace and examined his wrists. She gasped. “What did you do to yourself?”
“I have to get out of these ties. I don’t know what he’s going to do next,” Devon said.
“Not like this.” Her words were a whispered hiss. “You’re a mass of blisters.”
“He likes you, Fiona.”
She stood and walked to the bookshelf where she’d left the first aid kit. “I know.” She knelt next to him again and began smearing antibiotic salve on his burns. It hurt almost as much as the fire had, but he didn’t complain. The slickness might help him pull his hands through the tie.
“You don’t know him,” Devon said.
“Not him, but people like him.” She recapped the tube of antibiotic salve and reached for the roll of gauze.
“No gauze.” Devon jerked his head toward the kitchen. “He’ll see it.”
She gripped the white roll and glared at him as if deciding whether or not she’d acquiesce. “He’ll see the burns.”
“He might not notice them.”
She dropped the roll into the kit again. “Why did you do that? I’ll find a way to help you. You need to trust me.”
“You don’t know what he’s capable of. He killed a man. Bob. A neighbor. Just slit his throat.”
She didn’t look shocked. She picked up the plate and thrust the fork into a big bite of pancake. “He and my brother were friends. I guess I know how evil he is.”
Devon ate obediently. He wasn’t hungry, but he’d need his strength if they were ever going to escape. When he was done, Fiona took the plate and headed toward the kitchen.
“Fi,” he said.
She halted and turned toward him.
“Watch yourself.” He mouthed the words.
She gave him a quick nod and disappeared through the kitchen doorway. Devon was too exhausted by pain to work on his ties. Instead, he scooted down to the floor and rested his head against the bricks. He’d try again that night, after Rico fell asleep.
Ten minutes later, he was roused from a doze by the bump of a little boy against his chest. Caleb cuddled against his father, and Devon wished he could wrap his arms around him. “How’re you doing, buddy?”
“Okay.” Caleb’s voice was small.
“Where’s your mother?”
“In the kitchen with Rico.”
Devon could hear the distress in his son’s voice. “What’s she doing?”
“Cleaning.”
The clatter of dishes was proof of Caleb’s words.
7.4.6
FIONA
The kitchen window wasn’t well insulated, and frigid air leaked into the room, encasing Fiona in its web. She wasn’t sure which was worse, the cold or the conversation. She’d sat across from Rico to learn more about him so she could bargain for their lives. Instead, she found herself asking about her half-brother.
“You said before that Chuck’s murder was a mercy killing. How do you know he was going to die?” she asked.
He raised a shoulder and let it drop. “He was sick. Real sick.”
“Must have been inconvenient.” She didn’t try to keep the sarcasm from her voice.
Rico’s face hardened. “I didn’t think you cared about him.”
“I don’t. I didn’t.” Then why was she asking all these questions? Gwen had suggested she was obsessed. Maybe she was. She couldn’t seem to let it go. “How did you do it?”
Rico blinked. “Why do you care?”
It was her turn to shrug. “Curiosity.”
“Want to be sure he’s really dead?”
“The police called me. I know he’s dead.” Anger flared inside her, and she slammed a hand onto the tabletop. “He killed innocent people. He made my life a misery for months. He brought shame on my family. I want to know if he suffered at the end.”
A smile cracked the solid blankness of Rico’s face. “Revenge. That’s what you want.” It wasn’t a question.
“What I wanted was for him to rot in prison for the rest of his life.”
The stranger pushed his chair onto two legs, the smile widening. “You are not what I expected.”
Fiona felt her cheeks grow hot. She wiped one of them as if she could erase the blush. “How would you know anything about me?”
“We were cell mates, me and Chuck. At San Quentin first, then in San Bernardino. He talked about you all the time.”
She wanted to ask what he said, but she didn’t want Rico to know she cared. She didn’t want to care.
A flash of memory invaded the kitchen. She was twelve, sitting in her beautiful room in her beautiful home in Laguna Beach, the sound of ocean waves crashing outside her windows.
She was reading The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, fully immersed in Peter, Susan, Lucy and Edmund’s adventures when the loneliness hit her. She lay the book down and gazed at the crown molding surrounding the ceiling. She had so much, but at that moment she’d have traded everything for a sibling.
If Chuck—as Rico called him—had come to her after their father had died, had explained what had happened, she’d have given him half her inheritance. She’d have been his family, and he could have been hers.
“He hated you, but I guess you know that,” Rico said.
“The feeling was mutual,” she said.
The front legs of his chair came down with a thump. “I think he had you all wrong.”
“How’s that?” Fiona’s cheeks blazed again. It was as if some childish imp from her past had taken control of her tongue. She, adult Fiona, couldn’t care less if Three-Buck Chuck hated her, but the little girl inside wanted answers.
“He said you were entitled and stuck-up, that you wanted everything for yourself.” Rico ran a finger across the back of her hand.
She snatched it away and scrubbed it with her other hand.
His voice lowered. “I think you’re a giving person. A very giving person.”
The suggestion behind his words made her nauseous, but it woke her up. She’d sat down at the table with a purpose but had allowed the past to derail it. The present was treacherous and needed all her attention.
She touched the spice grater she’d shoved into her pocket to give to Devon when she could. It was a cold, hard reminder of the task at hand. Her job was to free her family.
“You’re in a precarious position, and I’m willing to help.” She forced a business-like tone into her voice and sat up straighter in her chair. “The police are looking for you, and I’m sure you want to head to the border or someplace safe?” The last two words of her sentence rose in question.
He nodded.
“I think the best plan is to leave Devon and Caleb here, and I’ll drive you to the border in San Diego. We could stop for money on the way.”
He reached a hand toward hers again. She dropped them off the table into her lap and out of his reach. His face tightened. “What would stop Devon from calling for help?” he said.
“Me,” she said. “He’d know I was with you, that it would be dangerous for me if the police came after you.”
He seemed to think that over for a moment, then shook his head. “Doesn’t work. He doesn’t trust me. He’d call the cops.”
“We could take the phones.”
Rico lowered his chin and looked at her through his lashes like she was an idiot. “He could walk to a neighbor.”
“But we could explain to him—”
“No.” The word was a blast. “That’s not going to happen, Fi-o-na.” He separated the syllables of her name so it sounded like three names. “This is what we’re going to do. You, me, and Caleb are going to head down the hill together.”
Rico reached for the salt and pepper shakers and the syrup bottle sitting on the table. He lined them up making the space between them even. “I need three people.”
She didn’t understand, but she knew Caleb must stay here with Devon where he’d be safe. Fiona spread her hands wide, beseeching. “Caleb is a child. He won’t understand.”
“I’ll hold Caleb under a blanket in the back,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “He’s my insurance that you’ll do the right thing at the roadblock. If you do, things will go well. If you don’t... ”
“He’ll be so afraid.”
Rico’s gaze left the condiments and met hers. “You’ll have to explain it to him, then.”
“It would be so much easier for everybody to leave him here with his father.” She kept her tone light as if she was discussing plans for a dinner out.
“I want him with me.”
She tried a different tack. “We can’t leave Devon tied up. He’s wounded.”
