At once she reached down and went to work on the twine binding Davy’s feet. It was important that he be totally free and capable of running, even if her own knots were still securely tied.
Breathing shallowly, the priest lay still, while no sounds at all came from the rest of the house. The ominous silence filled the old woman with misgiving. She knew some of what had been done to Gina, and she hated to think what that ho’ok, that monster, might be doing to Diana. Whatever it was, at least Davy wouldn’t see, not if he followed her directions and did as he’d been told.
The twine around Davy’s legs tugged free at last. Rita turned her attention on her own bindings. With one arm in a cast, it should have been much more difficult, but her craftsman’s fingers quickly learned the secrets of Andrew Carlisle’s crude knots, which melted apart beneath the probing point of her awl.
With Davy quaking beside her, Rita began to pray. First she addressed I’itoi, asking that the boy and his mother both be granted strength and courage. Then she spoke to Father John’s God, asking that the priest be spared from dying there on the root-cellar floor. Finally, to comfort herself as much as the boy, she took up the refrain of her song, crooning softly in the darkness.
“Remember what I say, Little Olhoni,
You must run swiftly and not look back.
That is the only way to help your mother.
That is the only way to help me.
Be like I’itoi, little Olhoni.
Hide in a crack and do not come out.”
“Get dressed,” he whispered in her ear, snapping her head back with a savage pull on her hair that loosened some of it from the roots. As tears sprang to her eyes, the ghost of an elusive memory fluttered briefly, but she couldn’t capture it. It required all her mental stamina to resist the temptation to cry out. Earlier, sinking his teeth deep into the tender flesh of her breast, he had elicited one involuntary gasp of pain. She had sensed his excited, eager response. She was grimly determined not to let it happen again.
Carlisle let go of her hair, and she fell limply back to the bed. “I said move!”
Diana had lost all sense of time. She might have been battling with him for minutes or hours or days. After his first, frenzied attack, he had dragged her from the living room to the bedroom, where he had assaulted her again. Survival instinct warned her to obey his commands, but her body refused. Bruised and bloodied, her flesh functioned at a level that was somehow beyond whatever further violation Andrew Carlisle could inflict.
Davy’s dead. The words ran through her head like a broken record. Davy’s dead, and so is Rita. Grappling with catastrophe, Diana lost all will to carry on. Whatever happened to her no longer mattered.
Carlisle grabbed one ankle and twisted it until Diana was forced onto her back. She lay naked on the bed while he feasted his eyes on her. He particularly admired the series of angry bruises around her swollen nipples. He congratulated himself for his self-restraint for being able to let go once he had fastened his teeth on her. He was saving the nipples for later.
He enjoyed the look of wary watchfulness in her eyes. She must be wondering, dreading to learn what might come next. He regretted that he couldn’t get it up again right that minute, but there was plenty of time. He would show her that, hard-on or not, he was still full of surprises.
Her gritty silence annoyed him. Diana Ladd was one tough cookie, but he knew she wouldn’t be able to deny him forever. He’d find her weakness eventually. In the face of his carefully focused efforts, she wouldn’t always keep quiet. When the agonized sounds finally escaped her lips, they would be music to his ears. You’ll come around, he thought, smiling down at her.
Carlisle had begun the complicated process of subjugation. Having once established dominance, it was important to consolidate his control, to show Diana Ladd exactly who was boss.
Stepping from the foot of the bed to the side of it, he reached down and yanked ruthlessly on the exposed mound of auburn pubic hair, pulling out a handful of the stiff, curly stuff. She winced and gritted her teeth, but again she refused to cry out. Damn her! She was deliberately spoiling his fun.
He moved to the head of the bed and stood looking down at her, hoping that she’d shrink away from him and try to get away, but she lay beneath his gaze without moving, staring brazenly back at him, daring him to hit her.
And so he did, slapping her hard across the face. He smiled at the rewarding droplet of blood that appeared almost instantly at the corner of her mouth. Maybe now he’d start getting through to her. He hit her three times in all-twice openhanded and once with the back of his hand. He didn’t have to put much effort into it. The blows were gratuitous, stinging slaps, administered mechanically and without emotion, calculated more to humiliate than hurt.
Andrew Carlisle hit the woman primarily for effect and for his own amusement. He hit her because she dared stare back at him. He hit her because he could. It never occurred to him that hitting her was a tactical blunder. That thought never crossed his mind.
Diana tasted blood in her mouth where a tooth had cut through her cheek. She focused on the salty taste, and that, combined with the teeth-rattling blows, shocked Diana out of her stunned lethargy and forced her to remember that other man who had once hit her like this, who had pulled her hair out by the roots. The sudden surge of memory galvanized her in a way Carlisle couldn’t possibly have foreseen or predicted. It rekindled the spark of her old anger, relit a raging fire that lost hope had almost extinguished.
Without a word, she sat up.
“Get dressed,” he ordered again, flinging a pair of shorts and a tank top in her direction. “Wear these, but no shoes. I like my serving women dressed but barefoot.”
She stared blankly at the clothing. They weren’t what she’d been wearing before. Those, torn from her body in his initial fierce attack, still lay in a heap on the living-room floor.
Carlisle leered at her from the doorway, savoring the marks he’d left on her sore and naked body, but she refused to turn away from him while she dressed. “Hey,” he said jokingly, “except for a few stretch marks here and there, you’ve got a pretty good bod. Anybody ever tell you that?”
A flush of embarrassment crept up her face. She said nothing. He came over to where she sat on the edge of the bed and shoved the muzzle of the gun hard into the tender flesh of her already bruised breast.
“Don’t you have any manners at all?” he demanded. “Didn’t your mother teach you that when someone pays you a compliment, you’re supposed to say thank you?”
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“That’s better. Now, get moving. We’re going to the kitchen. I want you to fix me some dinner or, better yet, breakfast. Sex always makes me hungry. How about you?”
Without answering, she started for the kitchen at once, hoping he would read defeat and submission in her every action. But Diana Ladd knew she was fighting him again, and Andrew Carlisle was far too pleased with himself to notice.
There were two sounds in the room-the priest’s breathing and the mouse-like twitchings of Rita’s owij picking at the twine. Davy wished Bone were there. He longed for the dog’s comforting presence, but Bone was at the vet’s or dead now, too, along with everybody else.
Forbidden to make a sound, Davy thought about what Rita had told him, for him to run away, to find a crack, to hide. A crack.
He thought about cracks, about the jagged one in the lumpy plaster beside his bed. He always examined that crack in great detail when he was supposed to be taking a nap, wondering if it had grown bigger or smaller since the last time he saw it. But a fly could never hide in there. Davy couldn’t even put his thumbnail in it. Flies were bigger than that.