Iron House

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

There was near-perfect silence in Elena’s room, stillness as every muscle strained against the iron bar on the headboard. Her feet pressed the wall, widely spread and white from the pressure. The cuff cut cruelly into her wrist. It bruised bone, tore skin, but she pulled harder, sweat popping on her face, her free hand on the chain, fingers slippery-wet, three nails already broken. The other manacle scraped up the length of the iron bar, peeling white paint as it moved. Elena dug deeper, and it hurt as if the bones in her narrow wrist were burning.

She pulled harder, misery in her back, now, legs shaking as she built a sheltered place in her mind, a tall, square room with soft floors and cotton sheets that touched her skin like feathers. A cool fountain gurgled in the corner. There was music, and Michael waiting beyond a closed door. She tried to feel it, thick stone walls and a breeze on her face. For long moments, the vision held, then the sound of gunshots brought it crashing down.

They were loud and close, concussions she actually felt. She sat up on the bed, handcuffs forgotten.

What was happening?

She had no idea. Everything felt compressed after the noise, the stillness absolute.

Then voices. Another gunshot.

And screaming.

God, the screaming…

Elena held herself still, and knew she’d never been so scared. Not when Jimmy took her from her hotel room. Not when he doused her with gasoline. This was so sudden and absolute, a handful of seconds and screaming like she’d never heard, a horrible, animal sound that went on and on and on. She watched the door, knowing that it would open and she would be the next to scream and die. She knew it, felt it as sure as anything.

But it didn’t happen.

The screaming faded and she heard a door slam, then the noise was outside. Elena got off the bed and moved for the window.

Cuffs.

Damn!

She gripped the iron frame and pulled the bed across the floor. At the window, she had a view of the yard and the barn on the other side of it. A low moon hung over the trees, and in its light she saw Jimmy dragging a man across the dirt. She couldn’t tell who it was, but thought maybe it was Stevan. Jimmy had him by the foot. The barn rose above them, and its shadow obscured them until Jimmy opened the door and light spilled out. Then she saw them clearly: Stevan on the ground, clutching his leg; Jimmy in the open door. He had a baling hook in his right hand. She could see it clearly-dark metal, a vicious point-and remembered them from childhood, from long days on her grandfather’s farm.

Stevan had his hands up, now. Voice lower.

Begging.

“Oh, God!”

The words escaped her throat, and she felt her stomach lurch as Jimmy swung the hook in a fast, looping curve that drove the point through the palm of Stevan’s hand and jerked the arm tight. For a second, the image froze-arm extended, hook rising from a palm stained black-then Stevan screamed again, feet drumming dirt as Jimmy dragged him into the barn.

For a moment more, light spilled out on the yard, then the door closed and Elena found herself alone in the still, hot air of the silent house. For long seconds, she was paralyzed as the scene flashed again in her mind. She saw the glint of steel, then yellow light and crazy shadows as the taste of fear rose like acid on her tongue and her ribs ached from the hard, sharp stutter in her chest.

“Michael…”

His name fell soft from her lips.

“Please…”

But Michael couldn’t save her. That was real; that was fact. She felt horror and panic, the ache in her arm as she stared around the room and found nothing there. If she was going to escape, she realized, she would have to do it on her own. Not later or tomorrow, but now, while Jimmy was busy. Because she knew one thing with certainty: he’d left her alive for a reason. And whatever that reason might be, it would not be good for her.

So she attacked the bed. She didn’t care about noise, pain or saving some last reserve of will. This was about survival, about whatever time she had left. She tore at the metal frame. She ripped off the mattress, then lifted one end of the bed and slammed it down over and over. She drove it against the wall, kicked hard metal and leaned on the cuffs until her arm was slick and torn and red. It lasted for a long time, until she was exhausted, worn and shaking weak. But she never gave up, never cried.

Not until Jimmy came.

It was dawn. His clothes were dripping wet, and even his hair was spiked red. Bits of Stevan spattered his arms, the backs of his hands, but it was the calm that scared her most. He walked through the door as any man might at the end of working day. Breath exhaled in a light puff; small shake of the head. As if to say, You wouldn’t believe the day I had. Elena pressed into the corner. He stepped into the room, lit a cigarette.

“That man…” He took a drag, shook his head and pushed out smoke. “Tougher than I thought.”

The lighter snapped shut, and Jimmy shoved his hand into a pocket, kept it there. Elena went totally still, eyes on the cigarette, the stained fingers.

“Still…” Jimmy looked pensive, but content. “Lots of time, you know.”

“Is he…”

Her voice cracked, and Jimmy picked up the thought.

“Is he dead? No.”

He was still too calm. Too matter-of-fact. Elena waited for the bad thing that was coming. “Why are you here?”

A shrug. “Thought I’d make coffee.”

“Please, let me go.”

“Maybe some breakfast.”

“What do you want with me?”

She was losing it; she was going to lose it.

Jimmy took a final drag, then pulled his hand from his pocket and dropped a bloody ear on the floor.

“Nothing yet,” he said.

And Elena lost it.