Chapter 37

Yukiko had the impression of an echoing space around her, though the sack pulled tightly over her head made it difficult for any of her senses to operate sufficiently to make a considered decision. The rough hessian chafing the tip of her nose and forehead smelled strongly, but under that she could detect a loamy aroma of rotting wood, must and vegetation. The ground beneath her was solid enough, but felt as though she sat beneath some great overhang of earth poised to tumble down and crush her beneath its colossal weight. She wondered if this must be how it would feel to lie in an open casket, waiting for the grave to be backfilled on top of her, burying her in its cold embrace.

Is this how her dear husband had felt as she stood over his grave, dropping a handful of soil on to his coffin lid? She hoped that his soul was not trapped within his casket, but had been set free to fly to the promise of heaven. Had he though, had he been embraced by his God, or sent for judgement for what he did to Charles Peterson all those years ago? Was she to be judged next? The sensation made her shudder, though she forced the disgust from her and tried to sit a little straighter. It wasn’t an easy task with her hands bound between her shoulders, a loop thrown over her head and secured under her chin. Doing so made the rope nip at her wrists and throat, but she didn’t care.

Something very important had struck her.

These men intended to kill her, but she was not afraid.

If they only desired her dead, they would have killed her back at the house when first they’d surprised her and knocked Bridget unconscious. They had an agenda to complete first, and while they played out their game there was an opportunity at escape. While there was a way out — however slim her chance at freedom might be — there was still hope. Jared would not rest until he had come to save her. Joe would not rest. He too was a good son. Hope emboldened her. It reaffirmed her determination to see this through to the end. She would be strong, the way her ancestors were strong. But if she were wrong — if she were to die — she would be brave and face her slayer. That also was the way of her ancestors.

She guessed who was behind her kidnapping. Never had she got a look at her captors because the sack had blinded her too quickly, but she was under no illusions about who they were. The big one who’d sat next to her all the way here, poking her with the point of a walking stick to check she was still conscious, was Sean Chaney. Her understanding brought a trickle of unease she could not give complete description to; she should fear the man, for if anyone wished her harm it ought to be him. It was because she pointed the finger of blame at him that her son, Jared, had hurt him. Jared had not told her the specifics, but she thought that before this Sean Chaney had not walked with the aid of a stick. Yet she did not fear Chaney. He was a bully and a coward, one who had not stood up to Andrew: a man twice his age. But she did fear who it was that Chaney intended handing her to. No. It wasn’t fear of the man himself, but of what he might do to her. Would he punish her the way he had the others? Tennant and poor Takumi? Firm as her resolve was to face death with her chin held high, the thought of immolation sent a qualm of abhorrence through her tiny frame. She could not discount the irony here: Charles Peterson had died in a cellar, and now it seemed that history would repeat itself. She did not expect pity; the son would do anything to complete his mission to avenge his father’s death. But then there was irony in that statement as well. Her son also had a father to avenge.

It would be easier for Rink to concentrate on his mission if she was not a shield before his enemy.

She must be stronger. She had to get free so she did not burden her son.

She pushed up from the stool on which she’d been sitting. She twisted at the ropes around her wrists. Oh, how she longed for the vitality of youth once more. Her old woman’s arms did not have the strength to loosen her bonds, her arthritic fingers unable to untie the knots. Yet she had to try.

‘Sit down.’

The voice snapped from above her.

She knew that voice. It was the same one that taunted her husband as she’d sneaked up on the killer, intending knocking him out with the vase she’d silently lifted from the hallway cabinet.

His boots rang on the short flight of stairs down which she’d been carried earlier.

‘I said sit down, bitch.’

Before Yukiko could respond to the order, hands grabbed her shoulders and forced her down. She resisted momentarily, but she was nothing in his hands. She fell back, only stopped short by the seat of the stool smacking against her backside. The hands holding her steadied her with brusque efficiency. Then the hands moved away. Yukiko sat, her arms aching as she twisted them to a position where it would relieve some of the pressure on her throat. She lifted her head as best she could.

‘Am I not allowed to see the face of my murderer?’ she asked.

‘All in good time.’

Yukiko thought that there was no good time. It was a poor expression. Though she would not tell him so; it would only give him satisfaction.

‘First,’ her tormentor went on, ‘you’re going to listen to me.’

‘It’s difficult hearing anything from beneath this hood. You may as well take it off; you’re going to kill me anyway, so what’s the difference if I see your face?’

‘You’ve already seen my face, that’s not the reason the sack’s staying put. It stays because I fucking say when it comes off. Not you.’

Yukiko would have preferred the hood to be removed sooner rather than later. The more time she had to study her surroundings, and to devise a way out of this predicament, the better. Still, there was little she could do while the brute was here in the cellar.

‘What are you planning on doing to me?’ The question surprised Yukiko, because she had not formulated it in her mind before asking.

‘I’m going to kill you. What else?’

Yukiko would not allow herself to slump: she would not show she was fearful.

‘You have nothing to say to that?’ asked her captor. ‘That’s probably best, because there’s nothing you can say that’ll change my mind. When I set off on this, your death was always marked.’

‘I’m not afraid to die.’

‘Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean a thing to me. I’m going to kill you even if you beg and plead. Your lies murdered my father and that’s unforgivable.’

‘Your father died because he was a rapist and child molester.’

Without warning a blow to her head knocked Yukiko off the seat and she went down hard on her side. The slap was more of a shock than a powerful blow, but pain screamed through her frail body from the collision with the floor. Before she could recover, hands grabbed her and hauled her back on the stool. She sat gasping for a long moment. Fingers grasped the collars of her blouse and yanked them tight. She was pulled forward, and even through the sackcloth she could feel the heat of anger radiating from Peterson’s son.

‘Those are the last lies you’ll ever utter about my father,’ he growled.

‘Charles Peterson was a sick monster who beat and raped little girls. You do understand that, don’t you? You know what kind of monster you’ve sanctified?’

Her captor let out a wordless growl.

Suddenly Yukiko felt weightless, and it took a moment to realise that she’d been lifted bodily from the seat. By the time understanding struck she was already on her back and unable to avoid the kick aimed at her body. The boot slammed her in the gut, forcing the wind from her lungs.

‘Hey, for Christ’s sake! Take it easy, will ya? We need her alive.’

A second set of feet descended the stairs, accompanied by the pecking of a walking stick on each alternate step.

‘We don’t need her. All we need is that they believe she’s still alive,’ her tormentor snapped.

‘They might ask for proof,’ Sean Chaney pointed out.

‘Then I’ll send them her lying tongue gift-wrapped in a fucking box!’

‘Don’t ruin this now, buddy. We’re close to winning this battle. But if you lose it with the old girl…’ Chaney leaned close to her. ‘Kicking her like that, she’ll be dead in no time.’

‘She’s tougher than she looks. I already pistol whipped the old bitch once and she survived.’

‘Trust me. She won’t last long like this.’

While Yukiko was still gagging, her abdominal muscles clenching in response to the kick, she was snatched up by her feet and dragged across the floor.

‘So give me a hand here, goddamnit,’ her abuser said.

Both men must have held her then, because she had the impression of more than one set of hands lifting her back to her feet. She was thrust against an upright pole this time. One of her captors jammed a forearm across her chest, holding her secure.

‘I can’t… breathe…’ Yukiko wheezed.

The pressure went from her chest, but it wasn’t a token gesture of pity. It was so the man could press both hands against her shoulders. Something slithered down over Yukiko’s head, coiling at the nape of her neck. While she was still trying to make sense of the new sensation an arm was shoved behind her back. The rope between her shoulder blades parted with a deft cut of a knife. Her hands dropped but didn’t part, and she realised that, though the rope that cinched her hands to her throat had been severed, she was not free. Still, her position was not as untenable as before; at least she had some freedom of movement in her upper body. It made breathing much easier, but now each exhalation came as a soft pant.

‘Don’t move.’ The order came from Chaney. His voice was gentle. Was there a hint of remorse in the man? Something that she could play on, use to her advantage?

The sack was yanked off. In reaction Yukiko screwed her eyelids tight, expecting to be blinded by a sudden invasion of light, but when she opened them again she found she was still in darkness. She blinked around, unable to make out anything in the gloom that hung over them all. It took a few more seconds before her eyes began to adapt to her surroundings, and now she could make out faint lamplight creeping down the stairs from the room above. She was standing against an upright beam that supported sagging rafters. Overhead the ceiling was missing many of its original planks and bars of yellow light cut inside the cellar at oblique angles. They fell across Sean Chaney’s features as he faced her, making the big man look like he was wearing camouflage paint. One beam reflected in Chaney’s right eye, making it soulless, pitiless, and Yukiko realised there was no hint of mercy she could depend on from the brute. Her resolve wasn’t aided when Chaney nodded upwards and Yukiko followed his direction and saw the rope suspended from the rafter above: the same rope that had been dropped over her head a few moments ago. Even as she realised what her captors intended, the murderer yanked the other end of the rope, pulling it taut and ravelling in the length noosed round her throat. Yukiko went up on her tiptoes. She gasped. But then she could breathe once more. She settled on her heels.

‘Don’t worry. I won’t hang you yet,’ said Peterson’s son. ‘There’s something else to do first.’

The man was to her left, swathed in deep shadow. She could not make out his features, but she caught a glint of something metallic. He was holding aloft something Yukiko believed was the knife he’d cut her rope with earlier. Or more likely it was a gun. His father had been shot during his hanging, the bullet fired by her husband. She thought that the son intended replaying Andrew’s original part in the hanging. But she was wrong. She felt liquid spray on to her chest, droplets of it splashing under her jaw. Only when he passed the item through one of those bars of light did she fully understand what he intended. He was holding a can of barbecue lighter fuel and was squeezing its entire contents on to Yukiko’s clothing. He was playing the part of Bruce Tennant.

Despite her previous resolve to meet death bravely, Yukiko flinched.

‘What’s wrong?’ He gave the can another squeeze, sending a ribbon of fuel over Yukiko’s legs. ‘You don’t want this circle to end the way it began? You chose to burn my father, so why’s it so wrong if I do the same to you?’

Yukiko flinched again. Not at his words but at the memory of the flames and smoke billowing from the cellar at abandoned Rohwer. In nightmares she had often pictured the torture, the intense agony that Charles Peterson must have endured. In reality she had not paid witness to his demise, because she had stayed in the car with Rose. But in her dreams she watched the flaming, kicking torch-like figure jerking at the end of a chain, as if she’d been in the cellar with the others. In the nightmares the face eaten away by flame had always been hers. She had always believed those images had been conjured by guilt, as she sought to come to terms with her part in Peterson’s slaying. Now she believed otherwise: they had not been a vision born of empathy for the man’s suffering but a portent of her own death.

‘Don’t… do… this…’ There was a hint of pleading in her voice, and it grated in her own ears.

The murderer took out a cigarette lighter. He rasped a thumb over the wheel and it sparked brightly in the dark. He rasped the wheel again and a guttering flame stood an inch tall. He held the can of fuel in his other hand, aimed at Yukiko’s face so that when next he squeezed it the ribbon of ignited fuel would engulf her like napalm.

‘Don’t.’ Yukiko imagined her face in flames, the flesh melting horribly, peeling from her skull in charred ribbons. It wasn’t something she would allow. ‘Don’t do this. If you’re going to kill me, then kill me, but not like this.’

Her captors shared a look. They nodded simultaneously. Yukiko screwed her face tight, as if that would save her the agony. She stood there, stoically, with only the slightest shiver of her body betraying her terror. ‘So be it. If you’re going to do it, then do it!’

‘Oh, sorry, Yukiko. I’m confused. Are you saying this isn’t how you’d like things to end?’ Her would-be killer grinned, his teeth now flashing in the glow of the flame. He cast down the fuel can and allowed the flame to gutter out. ‘You don’t want that? Good, because neither do I.’

Yukiko shuddered out a breath.

She relaxed her features slowly, setting her gaze on her tormentor as he moved into a beam of lamplight.

‘By the time I’m finished with you,’ he said, taking out his knife,‘you’ll wish you had taken the easy way out.’

Yukiko saw his face clearly for the first time, and more than the blade in his hand — or the continued threat of immolation — it was his features that sent a flutter of dread through her heart.

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