“I can’t figure out how to flush,” she said, trying for a diversion to buy time. She didn’t know what followed the incident in the forest after she saw him cradling the dead body. Try as she might, she could not recall what happened next. She simply woke up here in this man’s house.
“It’s a composting toilet.”
Silence.
“I’m coming in to get you,” he said. Hearing no protest, he opened the door. Brook stared at him like a frightened doe. “You don’t flush.” Showing her the bucket of peat moss, he explained how the composting toilet worked.
He picked her up and carried her back to the bed. Her arms were around his shoulders and she couldn’t help but to inhale his clean musky scent. She had been wrong about his hair, she thought. It was long and wild, but not dirty. The closeness made her uncomfortable and she looked away, but not before she noticed the shiner he was sporting. He must be a real rabble-rouser, or maybe his last victim fought back. The thought sent a chill up her neck.
“What happened to your eye?” she asked, trying for a casual tone.
“You,” he stated simply. “You socked me.”
“Me?” She wondered if he was angry with her. If so, he didn’t show it. She could hardly believe his words. “I’m sorry; I don’t remember doing that.”
“You were scared. Don’t worry about it. It’s no big deal.” Gently, he sat her on the bed and she pulled her arms away.
“Who are you?” Brook asked in a small voice.
“My name is Lance.”
“I thought your name was Gilbert,” she blurted. Now, where had that come from?
His laughter made her cringe. “No, no. Gilbert’s my goat. I’m Lance.”
“Oh. Well, I heard…something…I don’t know.” Her thoughts were muddled. Then feeling an odd need for courtesy, she continued, “Thank you, Lance. My name is…”
“Brooklyn. I know,” he interrupted her. His smile was there and gone almost before she saw it. “Brooklyn from Denver. I took a peek inside your purse. I wasn’t snooping, by the way; I just wanted to find out who you are.”
“That’s okay,” she said, not sure she believed him and not really comfortable with him going through her purse. But what could she do about it? Nothing. Maybe he had been looking for the money and credit cards Jase had taken.
Her arms shook as she eased herself back against the mattress. She hated being so helpless. She hated even more the weariness that fell over her once her head hit the pillow for it left her vulnerable. “Can I have my purse back?” she asked timidly, raising her head. It became critical that she have the bag with her, a need that bordered on desperation.
“Of course,” he said. He retrieved the purse from a shelf and placed it into her hands. She clutched it to her chest like a baby. Lance pulled the blankets up over her, covering the purse also. She sighed her relief and relaxed a little.
“I want to go home,” she said as waves of drowsiness threatened to engulf her. “Please let me go.”
“I wish I could do that,” Lance said, pity softening his voice. “But we’ve got nearly a foot of snow outside and it’s still coming down. We won’t be going anywhere for a while.”
She glanced toward the windows for confirmation, but they were covered by heavy interior shutters. He was probably lying to her, trying to trick her. Confusion still fumbled around in her brain, skewing her perceptions.
“I just can’t think why I’m here,” she said sleepily. “How I got here.”
“It’s possible you have a concussion,” he replied. “It’s going to take some time to get your thoughts organized. That’s the way it is with a head injury. You’ve been badly hurt.”
“Did you hurt me?”
Shocked that she would think such a thing, the denial formed on his lips. But before he could answer her, she slipped away into slumber again. He tucked the blanket around her and pushed her dirty hair away from her forehead. He would need to wash that hair soon, he thought. For now, it was time to clean and dress her wounds again. He went to the stove to stir the stew, and then gathered his first-aid items.
Nursemaid Lance, he thought wryly. Poor woman. I feel so sorry for her. But, damn, I sure wish she wasn’t here. How am I going to get rid of her without drawing attention to myself?
Chapter 23
Brook inhaled the savory aroma of food simmering. She was warm and comfortable, her familiar aches and pains dulled to the point of disappearing. Looking down, she was surprised to see Lance at the end of the bed tying each of her legs to a sturdy wooden bedpost. The rope was scratchy and chafed against her skin. She tried to sit up but felt as if heavy weights were holding her down. She realized she was bound at the wrists, and a rope stretched across her chest pinning her to the bed. Panic struck her and she struggled against her restraints. Her body was unresponsive, her cries faraway and faint to her ears.
“What are you doing?” Her words were slurred; her mouth would not cooperate. She was drugged.
“Oh, just making sure you can’t move,” Lance said in a friendly voice. “Those feet are infected. They’re going to have to come off.” He reached down to the floor and held up an impossibly large hunting knife. It glinted from the glow of the lantern on the bedside table.
Lance ran a finger along the length of the blade, testing its sharpness. “Probably should use an ax, or a saw, but I don’t feel like going out to the shed, so I think we’ll just make do with this. It’ll take a little longer, but just bear with me. We’ll get through it.”
“Oh god!” she cried, her heart slamming painfully in her chest. Adrenaline surged through her in an electric wave. “Please don’t cut off my feet. Oh god, oh god! Please don’t!”
He wiped a rag across the bottom of one foot and it exploded in pain. Showing her the cloth, he said, “Look.”
It was covered with bright red blood and sickly yellow pus. She screamed again and he thrust the soiled rag roughly into her open mouth. Tossing her head from side to side, she gagged on the slimy mess.
“Oh, come on,” Lance cajoled. “It’s no big deal. You’d think I was going to cut off both your legs, for chrissake. It’s just your feet. Don’t be such a crybaby." He smacked his lips. “Hey, I've got a great idea! I’ll add them to the stew! I never waste a good piece of meat.”
He howled in glee, and shook his head, tossing his long hair around like a madman.
“I just love this part,” he cackled as he lifted the knife. “It’s what I do best.”
Chapter 24
Brook came awake with a scream, startling Lance who stood at the table, buttering a piece of bread.
“Brooklyn?” Lance moved towards her, still carrying the knife.
“NO!” Brook screamed hysterically. “NO! Don’t cut off my feet!”
Lance stopped several feet from the bed. “What? What are you talking about? I have no intentions of cutting off your feet.” He stared at her for a minute in confusion and then relaxed. “You must have been having a nightmare, probably triggered by the earlier episode when I treated your feet. You’re fine!”
Brook’s breathing slowed; she realized that her legs weren’t tied down and that the knife Lance was wielding was a butter knife still smeared with some of the yellow substance. “Oh my god! What a horrid dream. It was terrible. Terrible! I don’t even want to think about it.” The dream had been so real, she was shaking.
Brook struggled into a sitting position, moving her purse to her side. Lance went to the kitchen area and traded the knife for a cup of water. He placed it into her hands and she lifted it to her lips. I’m so thirsty! I’ve never been so thirsty in my life. She downed the contents in a few gulps.