Hellbox

18

KERRY

She couldn’t pick the lock.

The twisted-together tacks weren’t strong enough to hold and snap the tumblers, she didn’t have the necessary skill, and her fingers and wrists became too crabbed from the effort to maintain pressure. All of that, and the debilitating heat forced her to quit after… what, one, two, three hours? Her sense of time had become nonexistent. She could no longer even remember how long she’d been imprisoned.

All that work with the chair and the TV set and the tacks, all for nothing. Futile time-passers. False hope. Even if she’d been able to spring the deadbolt, she wouldn’t have gotten away. She accepted that now. The pit bull would have torn her apart the instant she tried to slip through the door. The sounds she’d made with her makeshift picks had alerted the animal again, started it barking, brought it close. Very close. When the racket ceased, she’d heard the dog just beyond the door, snuffling and growling. That convinced her its lead reached all the way to the shed. And of just how vicious it must be.

Now, she sat limp with her back against the door, her legs splayed out. She knew she should try to put the room back in order before Balfour came again, right the armchair, somehow get the television back up onto the bench, but she couldn’t make herself do it. Didn’t have the strength or the will. Apathy had set in. In a little while, maybe she’d be able to overcome it. And maybe not.

The near-darkness coiled around her, sticky, stifling. She had shut off the lights before she started work on the lock. Didn’t need light for that kind of chore; it had to be done by feel.

Done, she thought dully. But not the chore-her. All done.

She would never get out of here. Never be rescued-if Bill were going to track her down, he’d have done it by now. Completely at Balfour’s mercy, and he would show her none. His acts of cruelty so far proved that. Sooner or later, one way or another, in this shed or somewhere else, he was going to kill her.

Dying had never particularly frightened her. She’d had too much experience with the concept-the deaths of her father and Emily’s birth parents, the times Bill’s life had nearly been lost, the cancerous cells in her breast. Death was natural and inevitable, you couldn’t escape it. But the way your life ended… that was what terrified her. The cancer had been bad enough, the thought of wasting away in a sick room, dying by degrees the way Jake Runyon’s wife had. But this was worse. This was the ultimate horror. Suffering death at the hands of a madman. Alone, with loved ones far away and no knowledge of her fate, facing years of not knowing in the event her body was never found.

Bill, Emily, Cybil. Their faces swam dimly across through her consciousness. She wouldn’t see any of them, hold any of them in her arms again. Gone from her. And she gone from them. Alone.

Emotion overwhelmed her. Not fear, she was beyond fear, but a kind of terrible grief. She didn’t try to fight it, simply gave in to it. Dry, wracking sobs shook her body; she heard herself mewling like a child. The breakdown lasted a long time, or seemed to, finally ending in a series of heaving hiccoughs that left her drained and exhausted. Gradually, then, her mind shut down and let her escape into a sleep so deep it was unbroken by nightmares.

It was late in the day when she awoke. Not dark yet-fragments of daylight still filtered in through the chinks in the wall boards-but late enough so that her prison wasn’t quite as suffocatingly hot. A sharp breeze had begun to blow; she could hear it whistling, flapping a loose shingle on the roof.

She sat listening for a little time. The dog, wherever it was, was quiet, and there were no other identifiable sounds.

The sleep had had a cleansing effect on her mind. More alert now, more in control of her feelings. But her body was a mass of grinding aches, her throat so dry her tongue seemed fused with the roof of her mouth. Water… the last of the water. She rolled onto one hip, then onto her side, groaning at the pain from stiffened muscles, and used the doorknob to lift herself upright. Slitted her eyes and switched the lights on. Held herself braced against the door until she was sure she was steady enough to walk, then moved slowly to the bench.

With one hand on its edge for support, she leaned down to pick up the dog dish with the water in it, straightened slowly, and used both hands to raise it to her mouth. A crack in her chapped lower lip broke open and began to bleed when she pressed her mouth against the metal rim. The water was as warm as bathwater; she couldn’t swallow the first sip, moved it around in her mouth until it dissolved some of the dry cake and freed her tongue. Then, when she tilted her head back, her throat muscles unlocked and let the wetness trickle down.

Three more sips, swirled and swallowed the same as the first, and the dish was empty. Kerry set it on the bench, turned to survey the room. Put things back together or not? Yes. The apathy was mostly gone now; she was not going to just sit and wait passively to die.

She moved across to the armchair, struggled to shove it into an upright position. A piece of the torn cloth showed along one edge; she toed it out of sight. Now the television. Foolish to try to pick it up and carry it to the bench. Push it over there, close, and then summon enough strength to lift it up Outside, the pit bull resumed its barking. The sounds had a different cadence than before, the loud rumbles interspersed with little yips. Eager sounds. Welcoming sounds.

Balfour was out there in the yard.

She knew it even before she heard him call out the animal’s name, tell it to shut the hell up.

Panic spiraled in her. He might not have been able to tell at a distance that the lights were on, there was still time to turn them off. But when he opened the door, he’d put them on himself, he’d see the TV set, he’d see her Eyes, his eyes!

The panic gave way to fury. She staggered ahead to the door. The twisted-together tacks were on the floor where she’d dropped them, their sharp points gleaming faintly in the glare. She snatched them up, then flipped off the lights. Stood with her arms raised, one slender piece like a miniature dagger in each clenched fist.

He was at the door now. His key scraped in the lock.

As soon as he opened it, she’d hurl herself at him, plunge the tacks into his eyes. Even if the dog tore her apart afterward, dying in agony would be worth it because he’d be dead, too.