As he strained to think of a plan, Leon went behind Simone’s chair and unlocked her handcuffs.
“Now you, baby girl, you’ll lie beside your hubby over here, put your feet near his head, don’t make me tell you twice, don’t test me, you know by now I’m not to be trifled with.”
Grimacing in pain, moving slowly, Simone stretched out beside Corey, her sneakers near his face. Leon swaggered over to them, swinging the cuffs.
“What the hell are you doing?” Corey asked.
“Being creative with limited resources.” Snickering, Leon grabbed Corey’s right arm and secured one steel ring around his wrist. He snapped the other cuff on Simone’s right ankle.
Corey lifted his arm, but could raise it only a couple of inches without disturbing Simone’s leg. Likewise, if Simone attempted to get to her feet and walk, she would have to drag Corey along by his arm-and she seemed to be in such a bad way that merely walking on her own, unencumbered by any extra weight, would be a challenge.
Leon stood over them, arms crossed over his chest, admiring his handiwork. “If I’d known you’d be joining us, C-Note, I would have bought another pair of handcuffs, but this ought to keep the two of you in situ while I go collect the little one. If the Todder gets here before I return, I trust you’ll keep him entertained. Au revoir.”
“Hey, don’t leave us in here!” Corey yelled.
Leon picked up the knife and started to the door.
“You bastard!” Simone screamed. “Come back!”
Corey shouted at him again, too, but the only answer they received was the heavy thud of the wood block sliding into place, trapping them inside.
68
Jada had never seen so many dogs in her life.
She sat at a rickety table in Shaggy Man’s tiny kitchen. A lantern stood in the middle of the table, showering the room with light that showed tons of crusty cans, other pieces of trash, and wriggling bugs that made her skin crawl.
And so many dogs. The dogs were everywhere.
As she’d cried and struggled, Shaggy Man had carried her through the woods, around a lake, and into his trailer home near the water. She had told him that she and Mom were in big trouble. She had pointed at the house she had escaped from. She had asked him to help, please.
But he didn’t seem to understand anything she said.
He would speak to her, too, even after she’d told him at least three times that she couldn’t hear him because she was deaf. He would keep on talking as if he heard something different from what she’d said, or if he didn’t really hear her at all.
It was almost as if he were deaf, too.
But something else was wrong with him, she realized. His hair was long and tangled. His clothes were tattered, dirty. His bluish eyes were strange and unfocused, ringed with yellowish crud. He was missing several teeth, and those that he had left were brown and crooked.
And he smelled very bad. He smelled like his house.
She’d long wanted to get a dog of her own, but Mom said that she’d have to wait until she was old enough to care for, train, and clean up after her own dog. Mom talked about the “clean up after your own dog” part a lot. It was a lesson that Shaggy Man apparently hadn’t learned from his mother.
There was gross dog poop everywhere in the house. Everywhere. And pee-pee stains. Everywhere.
It made her want to throw up.
Shaggy Man had brought her in to the kitchen and sat her in a wobbly chair at the messy table. A cute, furry little dog had hopped into her lap and started licking her face. Two others clambered into the other chairs and crawled onto the table. Another dog rolled beneath her feet and licked at her toes; she’d lost one of her slippers in the woods. The dog’s tongue was cool and tickly.
She loved dogs, but jeez. She had counted twenty-four so far, and she was sure there were more of them. New ones kept coming in to the kitchen, pressing against her, jumping on her and sniffing her, as if curious about whom she was.
Where had all the dogs come from? There were dogs of every kind, some furry, some short-haired, some big, some small, some old that walked slowly and had clouded eyes, and others that were still bright-eyed puppies. It was as if Shaggy Man was running a dog shelter in his house.
The animals swarmed around Shaggy Man, too, but he seemed to be used to it. Leaning on a gnarled wooden cane, he shuffled to a cabinet. He took out a can of something. He opened the can and stuck a fork inside.
Shooing the dogs away, he put the can and fork on the table in front of her. She glanced inside. Green beans.
Why was he giving her food? She wasn’t hungry, and even if she were, she could never eat in a filthy place like this.
Shaggy Man was saying something. She tried to read his lips, but it was really hard because he had a fuzzy beard that covered much of his mouth.
But she thought he said, Eat.
I’m not hungry, she said, tears filling her eyes. I want to go home!
He pointed at the can of beans. Eat.
The little dog on her lap thrust its snout into the can. Shaggy Man said something and bent to pick up the dog, but it scrambled away, knocking over the can and spilling beans across the table.
Jada had the cell phone in her pocket; she had not lost it. She slipped it out and showed it to him.
I need to call for help, she said. I need to call my Daddy.
Scratching his head, Shaggy Man stared at the phone, as if trying to figure out what it was. Then his eyes flashed with recognition, and his face turned red. His mouth widened into what looked to be a shout.
They. . something, she thought he said. He was yelling, shaking his head wildly, eyes frantic.
Frightened, she shrank back in the chair. For some reason, the phone made him angry. She didn’t understand. It was just a phone!
She put it back in her pocket.
The redness drained out of his face. He patted her on the head and smiled.
But her heart raced. If she wanted to call Daddy, she would have to get away from this disturbed man first. That was what he was-disturbed. Only a disturbed person would ignore her words, let himself get so dirty, live in a filthy house like this with all of these dogs, and be afraid of phones.
Shaggy Man left the table and lumbered back to the cabinet.
He took out a can of peas, opened it, and returned to her with another fork.
69
Corey’s cheek rested against the cold hardwood, Simone’s shoes inches away from his head. His bound right hand tingled; the rest of his body was an orchestra of pain from the beating he had taken from Leon.
He was unable to see Simone’s face from where he lay, but he heard her heavy, pained breathing. He wondered if she was mad at him. If he were her, he would have been. She had every right to be furious at him for how things had turned out.
Plain and simple, he had fucked up.
He twisted around and looked at her over his shoulder, the movement stirring a rash of pain along his abdomen and ribs. Simone lay flat on her back, gazing at the ceiling.
“Simone,” he said.
She looked up and met his gaze. In the lamplight, he got a closer look at the purple bruises on her jaw. The weary eyes veined with red. The cracked lips.
She didn’t look angry, just exhausted and battered, as if she had been put, literally, through a wringer. Guilt pinched him. He had let this happen to her.
“I’m sorry,” he said, painfully aware of the inadequacy of an apology. “I’m sorry. . for everything.”