Drawn Into Darkness(69)

I even waited until he was finished sipping his coffee but, with precise timing, slipped it in before he started to get up from the table. I looked up to speak to Stoat as nearly as I could like one human being to another. And in the most natural voice I could manage, I said, “Hey, boss, I’d like to go brush my teeth, okay?”

This was a baby step in the right direction, namely, the bathroom. What I really wanted, desperately, was a shower.

Being filthy was beyond unpleasant, almost unbearable. I could actually feel the yellow scum coating my teeth, the crud forming between my toes, and a disgusting crust developing behind my ears. Not to speak of the cuts, scabs, and blisters on the bottom of my bare feet.

Stoat gave me a long, expressionless look out of his one functioning eye. “You women and your teeth,” he said finally, as if dental hygiene were on a par with lipstick. “No way am I letting you in that bathroom with the door shut, cuz there ain’t no bars on the window.”

“That’s all right,” I said, and the pitiful thing was, I meant it.

“No funny business, now,” Stoat warned. “Me ’n’ my shotgun and my buck knife are coming with you.”

“Yes, sir.” Standing up to lead the way, I added, “I expected nothing less of you, sir.”

“Are you being a smart-ass, Lee Anna?”

“No, sir. Not at all.”

Hefting his weapons in both hands, he stood in the bathroom doorway, blocking the door from closing, as I took my time brushing my teeth and flossing them and brushing them again, ostensibly paying no attention to Stoat but actually very aware of his growing boredom. When he yawned, I about-faced, stepped into the shower barefoot but otherwise fully clothed, slid the shower curtain closed, and turned the water on full blast. I had really good water pressure, and I did not even mind that at first it spurted out freezing cold.

“What the fuck!” Stoat swiped the shower curtain out of the way to get at me and was zinged in his swollen face by needles of water. He jumped back, and I closed the curtain again.

“I’m not going anywhere except right here in this shower, Mr. Stoat, sir,” I sang out earnestly.

“You crazy bitch!” He sounded angry, but not enraged. I judged myself safe for the time being and shed my clothes like a lizard clawing its old skin off. Never before in my life had a shower felt so good, or perhaps so necessary. I soaped myself all over with my sudsy pink ball-of-mesh scrubber, twice. I shampooed and conditioned my hair. I made the mistake of thinking of Justin, which gave me a pang, so in order to counteract it I sang what I could remember of “Girls Just Want to Have Fun,” and actually heard a snort of laughter from the blurry shotgun-laden presence right outside the shower curtain.

I would have stayed in the shower all day if I’d thought I could get away with it, but all blissful relief must end. To maintain my own morale, I kept singing, transitioning to “Achy Breaky Heart” as, spiderlike, I reached out from behind the shower curtain with one arm to snatch a towel.

“What the hell is the use of drying off?” Stoat asked. “You’re gonna get back in them same wet clothes, ain’t you?”

Aaak. I hadn’t thought far enough ahead. Parading in front of Stoat wrapped in a towel would soooo not be a good idea. I stalled for time. “Just let me dry my hair.”

“You goddamn get dressed and come out of there.”

His tone bespoke a loss of patience. I goddamn got dressed and came out of there with my arms folded across my breasts to hide my tits; I never wore a bra, and now I might as well have been in a wet T-shirt contest.

Oddly, my modesty irritated Stoat. “What the fuck? You think I’m gonna rape you? You think you’re attractive to me? Crazy bitch, I’d rather fuck a warthog. I’m a pedophile and proud of it. Ped-o-phile. Say it.”

What a bizarre way to be reassured. “Pedophile,” I mumbled, starting to shiver from cold in my wet clothes.

“Louder!”

Squaring my shoulders, I shouted, “Sir, you are a pedophile, sir!”

I suppose I was a bit feckless.

Stoat swung his shotgun at my head.





TWENTY





That man struck like a rattlesnake, although that comparison is unfair to the snake, because Stoat made no sound of warning before deploying his shotgun. But because he tried to reverse it to strike me with the butt, I was able to duck the blow and run.

But I was startled and frightened right out of my mind. Instead of running for the front door, which would have made more sense, I ran to my bedroom, where my dry clothes were, with some vague idea of locking Stoat out.

Just as I reached the door, he caught up with me and clubbed me on the back of the head, knocking me all the way down and half-unconscious. Rather than try to fight back, I curled sideways on the floor, knees to my chin, eyes squinched shut, and hands protecting my head. Something flat, probably the shotgun butt, smashed my hands. Something pointed, probably the metal-clad toe of a goddamn redneck cowboy boot, struck my ribs. Hard. Hurt. Then my spine. Really hard. Hurt even worse. Then my hip. I don’t know why the hell I didn’t scream, except out of mindless pride, as the blows sent me spinning across the linoleum floor like a hockey puck.