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.
“Stay there on your own side, Violet, and don’t mess with me. This flashlight, if I hit you in the right place, can be just as lethal as a gun. Where did they go in the Jeep?” She had thought, when the men left, that their vehicle hadn’t headed down the hill in the direction of the coast, that they’d turned away behind the house, moving south.
“Another road,” Violet said shortly.
“Where? What road? Where did they go?” She prodded her so hard that Violet sucked in her breath. “You might as well tell me. Whether you want it or not, I’m giving you your freedom.”
“A narrow path through the woods,” Violet said sulkily. “Only the Jeep can get through there.” She looked away at a ninety-degree angle to the wider road that Wilma could make out in the darkness, to a narrow line snaking away into the woods. That would be the bridle trail where Charlie rode sometimes. The big station wagon wouldn’t get ten feet along that track before it was stuck. Backing around, she took off down the wider road, moving without lights beneath the paler sky, down through the black land that fell away before her. This had to be the old dirt road she knew, that should lead to the Pamillon estate.
“Where does this go, Violet?”
“To the village. To the ruins, first. You know where that is?”
“What ruins? How far?” Wilma felt her heartbeat quicken.
“Parmean or something.”
“Pamillon?”
“I guess. All fallen down.”
Wilma’s spirits soared. She wasn’t lost, she was close to home, she was free and had wheels. She just wished she had a more formidable weapon. Cage and Eddie would be after them soon enough, the minute they got back and found them gone. “Where did they go in the Jeep? When will they be back, Violet?”
“I don’t know where. It’s just woods and then ranches. I don’t know what they’re doing and I don’t know when they’ll come back. Maybe they won’t, maybe they’ll hit the highway somewhere and keep going.” Violet glanced at her. “Maybe they’ve run.”