Sawbones

Chapter 8

Laura Jones — Not quite dead yet

It’s dark, and it’s raining. Again. Laura tries to get comfortable, but she can’t. The cable-ties dig into her wrists and ankles, not quite tight enough to cut off the blood, but tight enough to hurt. There are more cable-ties looped through her bonds and a set of rings bolted to the Winnebago’s floor, making sure she doesn’t go anywhere. Her head’s pounding. The gag doesn’t help much either.

She’s sitting with her back to the stove, rocking back and forth as the motor home bounces through yet another pothole. Trying to brace herself so the noose around her neck doesn’t choke her as the Bastard driving weaves his way along some God-forsaken back road.

Laura closes her eyes and tries to doze. Maybe if she can get some sleep she wouldn’t be too tired to come up with a plan.

A final lurch and the Winebago stops.

One of the other girls — with a bruised face, her eyes like something caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck, starts to cry. Her sobs are muffled by the gag. Not loud enough to drown out the sound of rain hammering on the roof.

There are four of them in here. Laura and three others. None of them much older than nineteen at a guess. All of them scared.

Up front, the Bastard is singing softly to himself — some sort of hymn — and then he pushes through the curtain hanging between the front seats and the living area. Click — and a pale, half-hearted light flickers through the back of the Winnebago.

The place is filthy, the carpet covered with dirt and stains that Laura doesn’t want to think about. Everything is a mess, the windows covered up with flattened cardboard boxes, held in place with duct tape. It smells of fear and sweat and piss.

Four young women and the Bastard.

He steps nimbly over the crying girl and reaches for the holdall on the table, making sure to steer well clear of Laura’s feet. Once kicked in the knee, twice shy. She tries to tell him exactly what her dad’s going to do to the Bastard when he catches him, but all that escapes the gag is, “Mmmmmgh mmmmmnt, mnnnninmmmmt!”

The Bastard smiles down at her, unzips the holdall and pulls the tazer out, waggling the thing at her. “Now, now. We don’t want to be electrocuted again, do we?”

New Jersey — Wednesday — Two days ago

Brian is such an asshole. Telling her he’s going to Harvard when they’re both supposed to be going to Yale. Asshole, asshole, asshole. She storms out of the cinema, throws her head back and shouts it out loud, “Brian James Anderson is an ASSHOLE!”

Harvard.

And he’s got the nerve to act all shocked when she pours her Diet Coke over his head.

She wipes a tear away with the heel of her hand. She’s not going to cry over him. He’s an asshole and a jerk and she wishes she’d never accepted his school pin. They were supposed to be going to Yale!

She stops on the sidewalk and holds up a hand as a yellow cab goes past. Son-of-a-bitch doesn’t even slow down. Men!

Of course, what she should do is call her dad, ask him to come pick her up, but then she’ll have to tell him why she isn’t getting a lift home. And he’ll ask her what’s wrong. And she’ll start to cry. And then Dad will probably get Henry to kick the crap out of her boyfriend. Not that Brian doesn’t deserve it. .

Harvard. .

How could he do that to her?

She’s not going to cry. She’s not. . Yes, she is.

Laura’s so miserable she almost doesn’t hear it — a pitiful mewing sound. A kitten, in the alleyway. She peers into the dark space between a hair salon and a flower shop, both closed for the night. There’s a cardboard box sitting in a doorway, about halfway down the alley, caught in the glow of a security light.

She can see a pair of little fuzzy ears moving around in there.

Laura takes a couple of steps towards it, then freezes, and pulls the pepper spray from her purse. Never hurts to be too careful. But there’s no one there, just the cardboard box with a single black and white kitten in it. The poor thing must be hungry. She squats down in front of the box and wipes the tears from her eyes.

“You been abandoned too?” And the tears are there again.

She picks the kitten out of the box, holding the little furry bundle against her chest, turns. . and it all goes into slow motion. A scuffing noise behind her — and she starts to spin round. But she’s not fast enough.

It feels like a punch in the kidneys, and then the electricity kicks in, shooting through the muscles of her back, making everything scream. And as her legs give way, and she starts to fall, all she can think of is that if she lands on the kitten the poor thing will be crushed.

Laura’s head slams into the alley floor and everything goes black.

The back of a filthy Winnebago — Today — Friday

The Bastard pops the tazer back in his holdall, and picks up the cardboard box from under the table, making cooing noises at the kitten inside. “Who’s Daddy’s little angel?” he says. “You are. Yes, you are.” Then he tucks the box under his arm and walks back through the curtain, singing The Lord is My Shepherd as he goes.

The next sound is the driver’s door being slammed.

Laura knows that when the Bastard returns he’ll have another girl with him. And then they’ll be back on the road again. One Step closer to Christ knows what.