Red - Jack Ketchum [19]
Cyndi was no Lady GaGa in the put-together department but she’d be sweaty and tangled when she returned from recess and she was vain about her pretty long blonde hair.
He went outside again and watched the basketball game a while until the bell rang. The class filed in. Feet scuffling the floor, the scrape of chairs.
Cyndi flashed him a smile as she sat and sure enough, unzipped her purse and took out her compact and hairbrush.
He got her on the first brisk stroke.
“Owwww!”
The brush wasn’t exactly stuck there but to get it out she was going to lose some hair.
“Cyndi?
“There’s like, glue or something in my…”
“Hang on a minute.”
He got up and walked over, bent in close to her hair and checked it out.
“Gum,” he said.
He stood. Looked at Walter seated with his jock buddies way in back.
“Dude,” he said. “A girl beats you at tetherball and you…”
He shook his head.
Walter just stared up at him, clueless. Half the girls in class crucified the poor guy right then and there.
“Lemme see if I can…”
He took the brush in both hands and gently moved it side to side.
“Owww! That hurts!”
“Jeez, Cyndi. I’m sorry.”
“It‘s okay. I‘ll do it. Thanks for trying.”
She looked up at him and he could see that she bought it. That concerned look he had. He could do that look for anybody. His father. His mother. Anybody.
She took a breath and pulled it free.
“Damn! Damndamndamn!”
Yeah, a very nice chunk of wispy blonde hair.
NINE
She wakes to the taste of blood in her mouth. Her own now. She licks her lips. They’re dry and cracked and sore. Her head is pounding. She stands. It hurts to stand. There is something pressing into the center of her back, pushing her forward. A ledge of polished wood. She adjusts herself as best she can to accommodate it to the long muscles of her back, taking pressure off her spine. Her eyes have adjusted to the meager shaft of light knifing through the bottom of the doorway so that when she looks above her head she can see that in her suspension her hands have turned a dark purple. She works her fingers together and apart and slowly the feeling returns to them so that they pulse with ache.
She takes in her surroundings. Stone walls, glistening damp. A long narrow room with stairs directly opposite her leading up to a wooden door. Out of her reach to her left, wooden ledges like the one pressing into her back. Glass jars upon them — and inside the jars, food. She sees tomatoes, greens, and bright red and yellow jars of what she knows to be sweets. Her mouth begins to water. The taste of blood runs thin now.
Between her feet the man has left a large yellow bowl. She knows what this is. This is to collect her piss and shit.
Across the room she sees an old trunk, a wagon, metal traps for small game, hammers, tools, a saw. Should she find a way to free herself these last items can be of use to her. She hears dogs barking in the distance. It is impossible to know how far away.
She hears metal scrape on wood, metal on metal. The door is flung open. Daylight floods the room, for a moment blinding her. The man stands at the top of the stairs. He pauses. There is something in his hand. In the wash of bright afternoon light she cannot see what it is. Only that it is small and pointed in her direction. Then her eyes adjust as he descends the stairs.
~ * ~
Cleek walks to within three feet of her and stops.
“So you like to bite?” he says.
He waves his bandaged finger in front of her eyes.
The woman just stares at him. He remembers that he has never liked a cat’s stare. A cat will look you in the eyes just as it’s about to spring.
“You can’t understand a word I’m saying, can you. I get that. But I can damn sure make you understand who’s in charge here.”
And then she does spring. Maybe a whole six inches before the cable clamps on her wrists stop her dead. He thinks, that’s gotta hurt.
He slips the Springfield .45 pistol into the front of his jeans and takes the Peltor hunting earmuffs out of his back pocket. When he puts them on his voice is coming at him from a distance. He likes the