“Walk,” he ordered and gestured toward the stairs. Lucy obeyed the man behind her.
“What is your name?” she asked.
The whip came down on her shoulder and she stumbled, grabbing onto the thin wood railing to prevent falling.
“If you want to speak, raise your hand and I will call on you.”
Even if he didn’t look crazy, he was thoroughly insane. Nevertheless, he spoke clearly. His eyes weren’t red or watery or bloodshot—no sign or smell of drug abuse. That scared her more.
At the top of the stairs, she raised her hand.
“Speak, Female.”
“What do I call you?”
“Teacher,” he replied.
In bright red, the digital clock on the counter of the old-fashioned, well-worn kitchen told her it was 9:37 a.m. She looked around for a phone but didn’t see one. She didn’t see anything she could use as a weapon, either. No knives, no guns—as if he’d leave them lying around.
“I have something to show you,” he said. “We’re going outside. You will do what I say, or you will be punished. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she said.
The house was two stories, an old farmhouse. The furniture was old, from the 1940s or 1950s. His grandparents’? It was clean, covered in plastic, and there were plastic runners on the floors.
You’re going outside! You can run.
She had no shoes.
And she couldn’t leave Carolyn.
He opened the door and they stepped out onto the porch. The snow had all but stopped, a few stray flakes falling to the ground, but more was to come. The air was cold and damp, the light from the farmhouse reflecting on the thick gray mist that surrounded them.
“Walk,” he said. “We’re going to the barn.”
She couldn’t see anything in this thick mist. At her first step into the snow, she winced. She would get frostbite just walking to the barn. If there was one farm, there had to be another, right? She didn’t see a car as she walked, her bare feet burning from the cold, then numb.
She could barely walk. She hugged herself, trying to get just a little warmer, but the more she tried, the colder she felt.
The barn loomed in front of them, a towering unpainted structure. When he opened the door, a familiar stench hit her—blood. Was this a slaughterhouse? It was a farm; the blood could be from cows or pigs …
“Go to the fifth stall on the right.”
She raised her hand. He seemed pleased that she followed his command.
“You may speak.”
“Why are you doing this? I don’t know you, I don’t understand—”
He hit her with the whip against her neck. The lash burned and her eyes teared.
“You don’t get it because you are stupid. Women like you need firm guidance. You need to be kept in line because you don’t know any better.”
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from spitting on him.
“You know exactly who I am. You think you’re better than me, because you can order pussy-whipped bastards to hunt down men you don’t like. If you had been one of my students, you would have learned how to be a proper and obedient female.”
The sudden wave of recognition washed over Lucy. She didn’t recognize his face, but she’d only seen his picture once.
If you had been one of my students …
Peter Miller. The teacher who had gone to prison for statutory rape. He’d been one of the parolees WCF had tried to lure, but was a no-show.
“H-how did you find me?”
“I’m smarter than you. I’m better at working through the Internet than you are. But I didn’t have to hack into the organization that tried to have me sent back to prison. I read the papers and learned about other parolees who’d been arrested. I put two and two together. That’s above you, isn’t it? One day, I slipped into the office. It was easy. I befriended one of the volunteers, you remember her. Stacy Swanson. We came in to stuff the invitations for the fund-raiser you had last week. And I listened. I listen well. And that’s when I realized it was you.”
Lucy was shaking. She’d have known if Miller was in the WCF office, wouldn’t she? Except—she didn’t recognize him now. He’d changed not one thing, but several things. His hair. His eyes. The way his face looked.
Stacy Swanson … she remembered her, she used to come in once a week, but she hadn’t seen her in a while.
He grinned, but the expression was more terrifying than his serious face. “I know how to make people see what I want them to see.”
She whispered, “You killed Cody.”
His smile disappeared and he didn’t answer. “Walk to the fifth stall.”
She turned and staggered like a drunk, her feet burning from the cold, barely able to hold her upright.
“Turn and face right,” he said, his voice far away.
She did, and he turned on the bright overhead lights.
A headless body lay sprawled in the hay of the stall. The wall behind it was splattered with blood and bone and brain matter.
Lucy didn’t know what was worse—seeing the body, or seeing the stains all around her. Blood on every wall.
She screamed and he laughed.
“That is lesson number one. Do exactly what I say or you’ll be in the next stall. Stacy did not do exactly what I commanded.”
Lucy sprinted, her only thought to get back to the house before him and lock him out long enough to find a phone and call 911. Her feet were numb from the snow, but she ran, willing herself to keep moving.
It’s life or death—run, Lucy!
He was pursuing her, he had shoes, but worse, he had his whip. She heard the sharp crack in the cold air.
He closed the gap and used his whip to hit her. She fell to her knees.
She tried to get up, then crawl, but he was there and Lucy believed at that moment her life was over.
* * *
I tie her like an animal and drag her through the snow back to the house.
Second lesson: Do not run.
She is screaming as I walk, but no one can hear her, so I let her scream. She will lose her voice. Most do after a day or two of futile noise. No one is near. No one will come. No one cares. No one but me.
I drag her down the stairs and now she cries. I put her in the cage. She cries and does not move. I handcuff her to the bars because I do not trust her. She is not like other women. She is tainted.
But she will learn.
I walk up the stairs and turn out the lights. I listen to her sobs. Then the female shouts, “I will kill you! You fucking bastard! I will kill you!”
I freeze.
She swore at me. She spoke without my permission.
I turn the light back on. I walk down the stairs and stare at her through the bars. The anger inside grows, bubbles.
The audacity of the female to speak to me in such a manner!
“What do you want from me?” the female screams. She is scared, but she is also defiant.
I want her scared.
“I did not give you permission to speak,” I say.
I reach into my pocket and turn the Taser on. I let it charge. She watches me, her lips blue from the cold outdoors, her face flushed, her body shivering uncontrollably. She’s rubbing her red, chafed feet. I take the Taser from my pocket. Aim. Fire.
She convulses. Her head hits the bars once, twice. She tries to reach out, but her hand doesn’t go anywhere. She falls to the dirt floor, paralyzed.
I look at the other female. “You spoke to her when I told you not to speak. Do not speak to her again. Not a word. I’m still deciding who is worthy of my teaching. Obey me, and you will live.”