24
W ilma watched Violet vanish behind the wall and listened to the soft hush of her footsteps on the bare, hidden stairs, footsteps with, it seemed to her, a stubborn finality. What a hard, cold young woman Violet was, despite her frail looks and uncertain ways. Wilma felt she had made no real connection with Violet, though certainly she�d tried.
Couldn�t Violet, with her deep fear of Eddie, relate to Wilma�s own fear and to the danger she faced? Wilma had seen no sympathy in her, no recognition of their mutual peril and vulnerability. Certain that she�d lost what might be her one chance for freedom, Wilma felt herself falling into a hopelessness that was not typical of her, that was not the way she looked at life. Cage could return at any moment, and the fear that he would kill her churned in Wilma�s stomach so hard that it brought bile to her throat. This was a kind of terror she had never known, nothing like the quick surge of fear that prodded one to action. That defensive fear sharpened a person, honed one�s perceptions and one�s responses. Instant, reactive fear was what she should have felt when Cage slipped up behind her undetected and shoved her in the car; her normal fear instinct should have triggered fast action, triggered a counterattack of violence, of the moves and blows in which she had been trained. Instead, she�d caved, had been too slow. And the helpless fear that washed over her now did no good at all.
Leaning backward into the drawer again, she resumed her frantic search for a knife. At one point, she had considered the stove that stood just beside her. It was gas, and she�d thought of lighting a burner, of trying to burn the ropes off. But that was a last resort, a move of terrible desperation. Third-degree burns hurt like hell, and could further incapacitate her.
There had to be another knife, no one could cook with only one. In order to search a drawer, she had to grasp its handle in her tied hands, and twist and hump the chair forward enough to pull the drawer to her; and the space was so small she couldn�t turn fully. Digging behind her, she sorted through unseen kitchen implements, a grater, a peeler, pushing them aside. Ladle and measuring spoons jumbled together. As she searched, she listened for sounds from above, and for the sound of the car returning. But suddenly-was that a blade beneath her fingers?
Yes! A paring knife. Small wooden handle, and not very sharp. Excitedly, she drew it out.
Holding it by the handle, the tip of the blade pointed toward her, she rested her bound wrists on the edge of the open drawer and, with that support, attempted awkwardly to slip the blade between her wrist and her bonds. It took her many tries. The knife kept slipping, she couldn�t get a grip that would allow her to twist it in the right direction. Twice she dropped it, but both times was lucky that it fell into the drawer-she daren�t drop it on the floor or she�d never be able to retrieve it. Working stubbornly, and cutting herself several times, she was able at last to slip the blade between wrist and rope in a way that gave her traction. The relief of that small accomplishment was amazing. She was sawing away at the rope, intent on gaining more pressure, when Violet spoke, making her jump.
She hadn�t heard the young woman come down, no smallest sound on the stairs this time. She twisted around to glance across the room at her.
Violet stood beside the woodstove watching her with a cold resolve that had not been evident earlier. Its meaning was indecipherable; clearly the girl had made up her mind. But to do what?
Had Violet decided to release her, had she found the courage to run? Or did she mean to escape alone, leaving Wilma, thinking that the returning men would be too preoccupied with their captive to come after her?
Wilma didn�t dare speak, the girl looked as unstable as quicksand. Looked as if, at one word, she could come apart. Then, who knew what she might do? Watching Violet, she sawed hard at the frayed strands and jerked, trying to break free-but swiftly Violet moved across the room, reached over Wilma, and snatched the knife away. Jerked it from her grip, bending Wilma�s wrist and thumb back with more strength than she�d thought the girl possessed. The pain was sickening. Had Violet learned that excruciating trick from Cage, or from Eddie? As Violet stood gripping the knife, Wilma remained still, her head bent, fingering the frayed rope. Waiting.
When Violet leaned over her again to examine the rope, Wilma grasped it and jerked-she felt it break. Her hands were free. She lunged, tackling Violet, the chair still tied to her. They went down in a heap, Wilma on top tangled in the chair. Lying across Violet, holding her down, she wrestled the knife from the girl. And with her knees hard in Violet�s belly, she managed to cut free her ankles, then to free herself from the chair.
Twisting around, forcing the chair down on top of Violet, she untangled herself as Violet flailed and fought. With the cut rope she jerked Violet�s hands behind her and tied her wrists, then pushed the chair away. Sitting on top of Violet, she pinned Violet�s kicking legs and used the other piece of rope to tie them.
Leaving Violet secured for the moment, she rummaged through the kitchen drawers until she found a jumble of tools. Pliers, screwdrivers, a wrench, a roll of black electrical tape, even a flashlight that worked. Pulling open the last drawer, she withdrew a hank of old, worn clothesline cord.
Taping Violet�s wrists, she tied the cord around them and around the girl�s waist, then freed her ankles.
�Get up.�
Violet didn�t move.
Wilma shoved her.�You�re getting out of here whether you want to or not. What you do later is your business. Is there a car? Where are the keys?�
�They took the Jeep. Both cars are there. I don�t have keys, Eddie never leaves keys. He won�t let me have a car when he�s gone.�
�You�re lying. Where are the keys?� Wilma crossed the room and looked out; there was just enough light left to make out two cars parked close to the house. Neither was new, but new enough that they might be hard to hot-wire. She could make out a third vehicle farther away, by a shed. �That old station wagon-does that run?� It was one of the big old fifties models, with tall tail fins that made her think of a shark.
�It runs.�
�Are you sure? Does it have gas?�
�He keeps it full, he uses it to�He keeps it full. But if we take a car, they�ll find it and they�ll kill us both.�
�You think I have a choice? I stay here, I�m dead anyway.� Wilma stuffed the tools in her pockets. Holding the flashlight like a weapon, she jerked Violet up. �Get moving.�
Violet was dead white as Wilma forced her across the room and out, down the wooden steps; hurrying across the dirt yard, she shone the light on the old station wagon. It was thick with dirt over the rust. She wondered what Eddie used it for. Forcing Violet backward against the rear of the car, her hands taped behind her, she tied her to the bumper with the long clothesline, and then wound that through the bumper, and tied her feet together.
Jerking the rusting driver�s door open, Wilma lay down on her back under the steering wheel and got to work. Thank God Clyde and Max, when they were wild young men, during their rodeoing days, had taught her to hot-wire a car.
It took her maybe five minutes, making sure it was in neutral and the brake on. She felt a crazy thrill when, crossing the two bare wires, she made the engine turn over. Carefully she goosed the gas pedal until she had it running smoothly, then she slid out.
Untying Violet, but leaving her hands and feet bound, prodding her with the flashlight, she made her hop around the car and into the passenger seat.