Sweet Dreams, Irene (14 page)

I
CAME TO
in a cold, dark room. In pain. My head and ankle throbbed in unrelenting, independent rhythms. I could hear voices, but passed out again before I could make sense of them.

The next time around I was able to concentrate better. Three shafts of light were coming into the room from small windows at the top of one wall. Turning my head caused the room to swim. I fought off a wave of nausea.

I tried to focus on my surroundings once again. I was lying on a thin, bare mattress, the kind you might find on a very old foldout couch. No, more like a bunk bed at summer camp. About an inch-and-a-half thick. It was musty-smelling and had skinny black-and-white stripes on it. It was on the floor. A bare wooden floor.

The room was small, about eight by ten feet. There was one door, beneath which a thin line of light crept in. A metal bucket sat in one corner. My toilet, I supposed. Nothing more—the bucket, the mattress, and me.

The gag was off and my hands were no longer tied. My mud-soaked coat was gone, as were my shoes. My right ankle was the size of a softball. I was still wearing my blouse and slacks. I reached up to feel the knot on the back of my head, and was shocked to realize that my hair had been cut. Shoulder-length before my captors took up barbering, it was now cut into odd-shaped clumps. The loss of my shoes and coat, even the pain of my injuries, did not upset me nearly as much as this discovery. Why cut my hair?

My mind began to fill with questions, most of which I didn’t like the answers to: Where was I? I didn’t know. I would make a project of trying to find out, but right now, I didn’t know. What day was it? Wednesday? How long had I been out? I didn’t know. What did they want with me? I didn’t know. Something to do with Sammy? But I barely knew her. Why not take Jacob?

Why had they let me see their faces, hear their names?

That question made my stomach tighten into a hard knot. The answer to that one came a little too easily: because they didn’t plan for me to live long enough to tell anyone else. I kept from panicking only because I couldn’t afford it. Still, I had to tell myself to get a grip about a dozen times before I could breathe normally.

So why was I still alive? They wanted something from me. Maybe. Thought I knew something. Maybe. Were they going to bargain with me? For what? Doubtful that I could gain them anything. But maybe.

Why had they cut my hair? To humiliate me, I decided. As with the shoes, the bare mattress, the stark room: to make me feel demeaned and helpless. To let me know who was in control. When I thought about this, the actual effect was to make me angry. I resolved to keep that anger burning, to not give them the pleasure of seeing me cringe before them.

The “how” questions were not so hard. I had been set up, pure and simple. I berated myself for falling for their trick.

At least Jacob was safe. I wondered how long it had taken him to summon help.

My mind turned to Frank, and I suddenly felt overwhelmed with emotion. He would be worried. If I were hurt or killed, he would once again feel that he had failed to protect someone. And it wasn’t his fault at all. It was mine. Straight home. As soon as possible. God forgive me.

The sound of voices and approaching footsteps made me push these thoughts away. Survive. Survive. Survive. I repeated the word silently, again and again, and closed my eyes. I wasn’t sure it would be wise to let them know I was conscious yet. I willed my fear away as the door creaked open.

“N
AW, STILL OUT COLD
. You hit her too hard, Raney.”

“You’re the one who screwed up by letting her kick the shit out of you.”

“She didn’t kick the shit out of me.”

“Shut up, both of you.” This third voice came from near the mattress. There was something familiar about it. I heard cloth rustling next to me. I tried to keep my breathing even and slow, to retreat into myself as I heard him kneel down next to me. He reached over and pulled my left eye open. Jesus God, I thought, how does an unconscious person’s eye look? I stared straight ahead. Suddenly my field of vision was filled with an elaborate, garish goat’s mask. I prayed my face did not reflect the rising panic I felt.

But apparently this goat-masked man either saw what he expected or didn’t know any better than I did what to look for. He let loose of my eyelid.

“I want to work on her myself. You understand? She’s mine. You can come in here and play the dice three times a day. Ask her who has the witch’s journal. I’ve got to know how much she knows and who she’s told. But you just do the preliminaries. I want to do the work—understand?”

“She can’t see you, man. Why don’t you take that weird fucking mask off?” Devon’s voice.

“She could regain consciousness at any time.”

“So what? She’s dead meat anyway. All that Satan stuff was good for scaring the crap out of a bunch of kids, but I don’t think it will work with her.”

I heard the man stand up and move away from the mattress. “Okay, okay,” I heard Devon whimper.

There was the sound of a blow, followed by a small cry.

“Don’t try to think things out, Devon. You’re no good at it.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I’ll do as I please. You both need me. Don’t forget that. Raney, I expect you to keep him in line.” He paused, and I heard his footsteps along the opposite wall. “You did a good job on the windows, Raney,” he said. “Call me just like we planned. This will all be wrapped up soon. I’ll be back on Friday. You’ll be out of here before the weekend.”

His footsteps moved across the room, pausing near the door. “Keep in mind that I reserve certain privileges. You can play the dice. But she’s mine. Remember that, Devon—she’s mine.”

He left the room and the other two slowly followed. They talked in the room beyond the door, about food and supplies. I heard them go outside of the building, their voices coming through the outside wall and windows now, rather than from within the room beyond the door. From their conversation, I gathered I was locked in a storage room of some sort.

I opened my eyes and tried to force myself to a sitting position. I was too queasy, too sore. I fell back on the mattress, staring at its stripes, feeling my head pound. I heard a car start and drive off.

I mentally played back the conversation I had just heard. They were worried about what might be in the journal. How long before they learned the police had it? My head was throbbing, and I could hardly keep one thought connected to the next. The identity of the Goat. Satanism. Phony Satanism. Something Frank had said about that—but I would have to set that aside. Back to the Goat. Sammy mentioned seeing something on his arm.

I fell asleep, dreaming of goats and fields of rain.

T
HE ROOM WAS
a little warmer when I woke up. Not warm, but not the bone chilling cold of before. My head still beat like a bass drum, but I could move it without such a strong feeling of nausea. I tried stretching out of the stiffness I felt.

I rolled off the mattress again. Any movement or pressure on my right ankle produced searing bolts of pain. I took deep breaths and crawled over to the bucket. I managed to turn it over and pull myself up on to it, leaning against the wall. I was breathing hard. I had broken out in a sweat and felt shaky, but I smiled. It seemed a wonderful accomplishment to be able to sit up on an upside-down bucket.

I could hear water. Moving water. A river? No, a creek or a stream. The thought of water made me realize how thirsty I was. I would have to live with it. I kept listening while I caught my breath.

In the next room, Devon and Raney were arguing loudly about which radio station was the best. Both were grousing about not having brought tapes up here, where they couldn’t pick up any stations worth listening to.

Up here. Out of radio range. A place with a creek or a stream. The mountains. But which ones? If I hadn’t been unconscious for more than a few hours, then this was Wednesday. Less than a day’s journey from Las Piernas. But being a few hours from Las Piernas could put me in mountains anywhere from Santa Barbara to San Diego.

Using my arms and left leg, I slid my back up the wall. It was a slow process, but I was finally able to stand up. I was dizzy, but it passed. Standing up. Another small goal. But my objective was a look out the windows, and I was still three inches below the lower sill of the closest one. Looking up, I could glimpse pine trees and a roofline. I curled my fingers on the sill and pulled myself up until my left foot was on top of the bucket. I straightened up and took my first look outside.

I was in a small, woodframe cabin. The Blazer and a black four-wheel drive pickup truck were parked on a drive not far from the building. The cabin was surrounded by tall trees. There was snow on the ground, melting away. I couldn’t see the sun, but the way shadows fell led me to believe it was early afternoon.

The windows of the room were nailed shut. On the outer side of each were heavy-gauge, wire mesh screens of the type used to discourage rock-tossing vandals. The windows themselves were only about seven by twelve inches each. Unless I could use one of Sammy’s spells to turn myself into a hamster, I wasn’t going to escape through the windows.

There was no stream or creek in sight, but I had heard it through the other wall, and imagined it ran behind the cabin.

Before long, I had to give up my view. I could hear Devon and Raney moving around in the other room, and my efforts had left me dizzy. I hopped down from my perch, nearly losing my balance, but held to the walls and made my way along them. The door opened just as I laid back down on the mattress.

“Well, look who’s up.” Raney had a grin on his face I didn’t like. “Tie her up, Devon. If you think you can handle her.”

Devon scowled. Behind him, through the open door, I could see a kitchen. He closed the door and came over to me. He rolled me on to my stomach. He tied my hands together behind my back, then roughly pulled me up by my shoulders and on to my knees. The room swayed before me; I had trouble focusing.

Raney moved in front of me. He held up a pair of dice between his fingers. “You get a choice. Talk, or we play dice. Where’s the journal?”

My mouth was dry, so I could only speak in a rasping whisper. “You boys are being taken for a ride.”

He punched me hard across the mouth, and I fell over.

Devon laughed. “That counts as one, Raney.”

Raney laughed as well. The fall to the mattress brought me close to passing out, and a blinding pain raged in my head.

The dice rattled in Raney’s hand. “Hear that? Hear that, bitch? That’s your fate rattling around in my hand. Let’s see what it’s going to be.” He continued shaking them, watching me. “Look at her, Devon. She doesn’t have a clue, does she? It’s the last time you’ll see that look. After this, she’ll know.”

He threw them. They tumbled to the floor and came to rest at the edge of the mattress. A five and a three. I was beginning to get the picture even before Devon hauled me to my feet.

“Remember, Raney—it’s seven now,” he said.

“One last chance,” Raney said. “Where’s the journal?”

I didn’t reply.

“That ankle don’t look too good,” he said, and kicked it. I felt the cold sweat cover me, felt the color go from my face, felt my knees give—but I didn’t make a sound. They were laughing.

“Bend her over the bucket. She looks like she might puke.”

“If she does, you’re hauling it out of here.”

“Fair’s fair. Moderation from here on out, then.”

He landed six more blows, one to my right eye, the rest to my ribs. They untied me and left me hanging on to the bucket. I hadn’t wanted to give them the satisfaction, but I got sick into it anyway.

They laughed again. I fought off my sense of shame. It was difficult.

Devon stood next to me, and I was expecting it to be his turn, but to my surprise, he very gently lifted me off the floor and set me back down on the mattress. He got up and went into the kitchen and brought back a glass of water. He pulled the bucket over next to me and propped me up.

“Rinse your mouth.”

I did. Raney walked out with the bucket.

Devon held me, softly stroking my forehead and hair. When he spoke, his voice was soothing and quiet. “It doesn’t have to be this way, you know. You’re so pretty, but he’ll ruin your face. I don’t like it, but he will. You should talk to us. I know you don’t want to yet. But you already know you will. Save yourself the pain, Irene.”

It was the first time one of them had used my name.

It’s just a trick, I told myself.

I should have been repulsed by his touch, but the small kindnesses of those few minutes brought me closer to tears than the blows had. I made myself retreat farther inside myself.

It’s all part of their method. Survive.

Raney came in with the bucket and a metal bowl with a handle on it. He set it next to the bed. It was some kind of broth. He looked down at us and laughed.

“Jesus, Devon, next you’ll be feeling her up. Come on, leave her alone.”

Devon eased my head back down to the mattress and they left. The aroma of hot chicken broth came from the bowl. I moved myself over to it. I drank it, maneuvering the bowl around my now tender and swollen lips. It was warm and good. I lay back and let the tears fall, but made no noise. I would not let them hear me. I fell asleep crying.

I
AWOKE TO HEAR THEM
arguing loudly. The room was darkening, so I figured I must have slept about three or four hours.

“Look, he knows what he’s doing. When they sell the old lady’s land we’ll all be rich,” said Raney, losing patience with Devon.

“I just don’t like waiting around. What if he just takes off and calls the cops on us? We’re sitting ducks.”

“Nah, then we spill our guts to the cops. Even the Pony Player would go down then, and they know it.”

Pony Player? I wondered who this new nickname referred to. Was this another name for the Goat?

“I still don’t like it,” Devon said. “I don’t care who his mother was, it pisses me off when he hits me like that. I don’t like taking crap off him all the time. ‘Devon, don’t think. I’m the Einstein around here.’ Well, what have we got to show for it? A murder rap, that’s what.”

They were quiet for a moment, apparently brooding over that possibility. I lay there, wondering about what they had said, when I heard Raney’s voice again.

“Don’t get yourself all wound up like this, Devon. What’s that you’re reading?”

“It’s about cancer. I picked it up at this clinic on my way back from the store.”

“What clinic? And why the hell are you reading about cancer?”

“Place where they take skiers who break legs, stuff like that. Old geezer runs it. Told him I knew someone with cancer and I wanted to get something to read about it. He gave me this little booklet.”

“Christ, Devon, you are un-fucking-believable! We’re supposed to be lying low. We’re not supposed to make any trouble in town or get ourselves known around here. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t contagious.”

“Shit, Devon, I could have told you that. You worry about the weirdest shit, man. You think I’d ever let you catch something like that from somebody? I look after you, don’t I? How come you didn’t just ask me?”

“‘Cause you ain’t no doctor. How would I know you were right?”

“Oh man—I can’t believe the stuff you come up with sometimes. Don’t let him know you did this. Please, Devon—I don’t like it when he hits you, but you keep pulling this kind of shit and he’ll be all over your ass.”

“I don’t care! I don’t care! There’s nothing wrong with it!”

I heard one of them storm out the front door, slamming it hard. Devon, I thought. It was quiet then.

I lay there thinking of a plan to escape. Then I thought about Frank, wishing I could send messages to him by mental telepathy, to let him know I was alive. Silly really, but I wanted to talk to him so badly, I felt a hollow ache over it. Finally, I fell back to sleep.

I
T WAS DARK
when they came into the room again. Light spilled from the kitchen through the doorway, where one of them stood in silhouette. I could hear the dice rattling.

“Irene.”

It was Devon. I didn’t answer.

“Irene, tell me where the journal is.”

Raney stepped in behind him carrying a propane lantern, which cast long shadows on the walls and ceiling. He had something in his other hand—I couldn’t see what it was.

“Tell me, Irene. You know I don’t want to have to do this. Don’t make me do it, please don’t. Come on, Irene, tell me who has Sammy’s journal.”

This man is not your friend, I told myself. Say anything and they will kill you. Stay alive.

Stay alive, I repeated to myself, as he squatted down next to me.

“Irene, tell me. Where’s the journal?”

I thought of them putting Sammy’s heart on my front porch.

He rolled the dice. I didn’t look.

Raney laughed. “Five.” He set the lantern down and handed something to Devon. I saw then that it was a piece of rubber hose. Devon tapped it in his hand.

Raney picked up the soup bowl and moved it by the door. The whole time, I heard the hose tapping. Raney grabbed my wrists and pulled them over my head. He rolled me over.

The tapping stopped. I heard the hose whistle and then, as if coming from someone else, heard myself cry out as the first blow landed between my shoulder blades.

He waited.

Tap, tap, tap. “Come on, Irene. Tell me. Where is it?”

I didn’t answer.

By the time they left the room, I was drenched in sweat and trembling. Sleep was impossible now.

I wondered how much more I would be able to take. I also wondered if I would be able to force myself to do whatever would be necessary to escape. I remembered what Sarah had said to me—you do what you need to do to survive.

Sleep still eluded me, although I would have welcomed it. I was quickly learning the importance of keeping my mind occupied. Left to wander, it concentrated on my injuries, on emotions I was holding in check, on all that was hopeless in this situation.

So instead, I thought about a sequence of events in Las Piernas that seemed to fit together: Jack Fremont shows up in town, and is reconciled with his mother and son. Shortly after this, the coven changes under the influence of a mysterious stranger and his two assistants.

Mrs. Fremont changes her will. She’s murdered.

Sammy sees the Goat’s forearm. She’s murdered.

I’m seen taking some of Sammy’s things from the shelter—no, I’m still alive. Start over.

No matter how I looked at it, things changed when Jack Fremont came back to Las Piernas. “I don’t care who his mother was,” Devon had said. Could he mean Jack? No one had benefitted from her will as much as Jack. Murray had told me the property was worth a fortune.

“She’s mine.” I thought of the way he had flirted with me in the kitchen.

I allowed my thoughts to go back to Frank. I realized that even my pride could not sustain me much longer through this ordeal, but my desire to be with him again would. Some small article of faith was left in me: I would live. My life with him was not over. I would endure this. I slept at last.

I
DON’T REMEMBER
the nightmare that made me wake up screaming. Maybe the pain had just finally had its way with me.

The door opened and Raney entered with the lantern. He stood there awhile before I was awake enough to realize he was pointing a gun at me. Devon pushed past him and knelt beside me.

“She’s just had a bad dream, Raney. Put the gun away.”

Raney put the lantern down, smirking at me. He picked up the bucket and carried it out, leaving Devon with me. Gradually, I gathered my wits enough to calm myself. Devon knelt there, staring at me. “You’re so pretty,” he said.

I hadn’t seen my reflection, but I could imagine what I looked like—hair chopped off, face bruised, fat lip, and one eye swollen shut. I laughed. It wasn’t much of a laugh, but he heard it.

He seemed offended. “I’m not making a joke. Even like this,” he said, stroking a finger under my chin, “you’re still pretty.” He kept staring at me, and I felt fear tugging at me again.

Raney came back in with the bucket and picked up the lantern. “Leave her alone, Devon, or he’ll have your hide.”

“Fuck him,” Devon muttered, but he stood up.

“Next time,” Raney said, “you get the bucket. I’ve done it twice now while you sat around getting a hard-on for that bitch.”

They left the room. My mouth felt dry and I couldn’t seem to make myself breathe normally. My mind kept burrowing down into my fears. So I concentrated on my ankle, on my back. It was easier. Pain had an edge to it, a place where it began and ended.

I
HAD NOT FORGOTTEN
that the Goat had said to play the dice three times a day, so it was not a surprise when they entered the room again later that night. At least, I told myself, it will be the last time until morning. Raney’s turn again. The bastard rolled double sixes.