The void dissolved. Anger and the anguish that had plagued her since the day she’d fled this place coalesced inside her, surged upward on the crest of a red tide that made her whole body tremble.
“What difference does it make? You suddenly give a shit? Pull the fucking trigger, you hick bastard.”
The uncertainty that had come over him did not evaporate under the brunt of her insult. Instead he stiffened, seemed to consider what she’d said and then looked down at the gun. To her disbelief, he gave a rueful shake of his head. “Real sorry for what they done to you. Better dead than be left—”
Before she knew she was going to do it, she rushed him, expecting the surprise of it to make his trigger finger spasm and send a bolt of hot fire into her chest, but instead he staggered backward, away from her, his mouth open in a dark circle. His wounded foot betrayed him and he stumbled, fell heavily to the left and landed on his side. Claire was on him. He quickly brought the gun up, even as she brought the wire down like a tribal Indian spearing a fish.
An odd roar accompanied the downward arc of the wire and the upward swing of the gun. The light through the windows changed, brightened, became the sun on a new morning though it was far too early.
As a cry of primeval rage burst from Claire’s mouth, the wire found its target, piercing the side of Sheriff McKindrey’s throat, his eyes widening in surprise. Dark blood spurted from the wound. Cursing, one hand flying to his neck, he pulled the trigger but the gun was now aimed upward and though the shot deafened her, the bullet plowed harmlessly into the ceiling.
Dust and splinters rained down.
Claire withdrew the wire and stabbed again. All she could hear now was a distant rumble and a low whistle in her ears, which worsened as McKindrey scrambled, his feet scrabbling against the bare wood as she straddled him, the wire held overhead in a two-hand grip. He flailed at her, the cold metal barrel of the gun smashing into her right temple once and again. She persisted despite the nauseating tilt of the world through her good eye, gouging his arms, his face, his chest with the rusted wire. She smelled old death and decay, new blood and sudden fear. It inspired her, and she doubled her assault on the man who was three times her weight and twice her height, empowered by rage to keep him down. Panic did not fuel her. There was no name for the impulse that pounded through her now.
McKindrey bucked. She held on, her free hand planted on his chest, the other incessantly perforating his bulk with the wire. He cried out as she punctured his jaw, punched his broken nose.
Then the wall and windows seemed to detonate as the light exploded into the room and they were enveloped in a storm of flying wood and glimmering glass.
Beau came to on a hard flat surface. Immediately he realized that he was no longer in the woods.
He was also bare-chested.
And he was not alone.
Instinctively he reached out a hand for his gun, driven by the unreasonable hope that whoever had brought him here had left it close by. Unsurprisingly, his trembling fingers found nothing but air.
Sudden scalding pain in his belly made him roar and ram his knuckles into his mouth, biting down to keep from chewing on his tongue, and he raised his head to identify the source of the agony through the tears in his eyes. He blinked furiously, struggling to clear his vision, but already he knew what he would see. The pain could not suffocate the dread that came at the thought of it.
They had him.
Leaning over Beau, who was lying on what he now realized was the kitchen table he’d seen earlier on his inspection of the cabin, was a giant, blocking out the strained light from a naked bulb, which reduced him to a wild-haired silhouette.
“Aw God,” Beau moaned as another round of fierce pain blasted through him from his wound. He convulsed, began to scream and did not stop, even when the man’s large hand covered his mouth and he tasted blood and dirt.
-40-
Claire lay on her stomach and waited.
She felt weight on her feet and wondered if she’d lost them, or at the very least broken them and tangled the nerves. But there was no pain, only heat. Beneath her face, the surface of the floor was rough like sandpaper, but she didn’t move. Wasn’t sure she was able. Any moment now McKindrey might rise up, shake off his discomfort and pump her body full of bullets. Even if he had been short on reasons to hurt her before, which he hadn’t, she’d given him ample motive to hurt her now. She had attacked him like an animal, and though she did not mourn the passing of that peculiar, frightening impulse, nor did she regret it. It had served its purpose and again, though the dangerous resignation with which she was growing grimly familiar had swept her up in its calming embrace, she had fought for her life. The absence of reasons for it to continue had not been enough to drain whatever resolve existed in that untouchable, unseen reservoir inside her.
“Claire?”
She did not raise her head. Gradually, small campfires of pain registered across the dark landscape of her body. Cuts, lacerations, bruises. She didn’t care. Superficial, the doctors would say, just as they had said at the hospital in Mason City and she had sneered at them. Nothing about what had been done to her had been superficial. Every incision they’d made with their dirty blades had branded her with the memory of the faces and intent of those who’d made them.
“Claire?”
She opened her eye. The room was filled with fog. The air was thick with dust. Nearby, through the haze she glimpsed an empty shoe. McKindrey’s. A few feet away, a foot without a sock, the leg bent over the cast iron frame of the overturned bed. Three rivulets of blood ran down the ankle. Dark against pale.
Hands found her and she flinched, felt new pain erupt but dismissed it. She squinted up at the lithe shadow bent over her, thought for a moment she saw the sun behind it as she lay on the road in the heat of the day, but it lasted only a moment.
“Pete?” she asked, then coughed.
He knelt down next to her. “McKindrey’s dead. Looks like he busted his neck. You all right?”
“I’m alive,” she told him. “That’s a start.”
He helped her turn over and put a hand on her back as she sat up. She dabbed at blood on her face, probed a tender spot at the side of her skull and winced.
“I’m sorry,” Pete said.
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” she said, and blinked. Took in the chaos in the room. The wall with the padlocked door was gone, only splintered beams hanging like crooked teeth in a gaping mouth, the tongue a vehicle with its front end parked inside the room atop a mound of rubble, one light glaring up at the far wall, the other shattered on impact. The fender was gone, the hood buckled so she couldn’t see the windshield. After taking out the wall, the car had plowed through the room, striking McKindrey. How it had missed Claire, who had been sitting astride him when the car had come through, was a mystery. Or maybe not. She recalled, in those now surreal and hazy seconds before the car plowed through the wall, McKindrey’s hands on her chest, crushing her breasts, forcing her away. Perhaps it had only been self-defense. Perhaps he had simply been trying to get her off him so he could scamper out of the way himself. She didn’t know, and never would, and thus found it easy to reject the repulsive notion that he had, in the final moments of his life, tried to save her.
“I was almost gone,” Pete said as he assisted her in standing. Her ankle hurt and there was a nasty gash in her right thigh, but she thought of these as nothing more than reminders that she was not dead.
“I know.”
“He lied to me,” he continued. “Told me all sorts of awful things, none of ’em true.” He guided her around the rubble, one hand braced on the buckled hood. “I believed him.”