Chapter 37
Yukiko had the impression of an echoing space around her, though the sack pulled tightly over her head made it difficult for any of her senses to operate sufficiently to make a considered decision. The rough hessian chafing the tip of her nose and forehead smelled strongly, but under that she could detect a loamy aroma of rotting wood, must and vegetation. The ground beneath her was solid enough, but felt as though she sat beneath some great overhang of earth poised to tumble down and crush her beneath its colossal weight. She wondered if this must be how it would feel to lie in an open casket, waiting for the grave to be backfilled on top of her, burying her in its cold embrace.
Is this how her dear husband had felt as she stood over his grave, dropping a handful of soil on to his coffin lid? She hoped that his soul was not trapped within his casket, but had been set free to fly to the promise of heaven. Had he though, had he been embraced by his God, or sent for judgement for what he did to Charles Peterson all those years ago? Was she to be judged next? The sensation made her shudder, though she forced the disgust from her and tried to sit a little straighter. It wasn’t an easy task with her hands bound between her shoulders, a loop thrown over her head and secured under her chin. Doing so made the rope nip at her wrists and throat, but she didn’t care.
Something very important had struck her.
These men intended to kill her, but she was not afraid.
If they only desired her dead, they would have killed her back at the house when first they’d surprised her and knocked Bridget unconscious. They had an agenda to complete first, and while they played out their game there was an opportunity at escape. While there was a way out — however slim her chance at freedom might be — there was still hope. Jared would not rest until he had come to save her. Joe would not rest. He too was a good son. Hope emboldened her. It reaffirmed her determination to see this through to the end. She would be strong, the way her ancestors were strong. But if she were wrong — if she were to die — she would be brave and face her slayer. That also was the way of her ancestors.
She guessed who was behind her kidnapping. Never had she got a look at her captors because the sack had blinded her too quickly, but she was under no illusions about who they were. The big one who’d sat next to her all the way here, poking her with the point of a walking stick to check she was still conscious, was Sean Chaney. Her understanding brought a trickle of unease she could not give complete description to; she should fear the man, for if anyone wished her harm it ought to be him. It was because she pointed the finger of blame at him that her son, Jared, had hurt him. Jared had not told her the specifics, but she thought that before this Sean Chaney had not walked with the aid of a stick. Yet she did not fear Chaney. He was a bully and a coward, one who had not stood up to Andrew: a man twice his age. But she did fear who it was that Chaney intended handing her to. No. It wasn’t fear of the man himself, but of what he might do to her. Would he punish her the way he had the others? Tennant and poor Takumi? Firm as her resolve was to face death with her chin held high, the thought of immolation sent a qualm of abhorrence through her tiny frame. She could not discount the irony here: Charles Peterson had died in a cellar, and now it seemed that history would repeat itself. She did not expect pity; the son would do anything to complete his mission to avenge his father’s death. But then there was irony in that statement as well. Her son also had a father to avenge.
It would be easier for Rink to concentrate on his mission if she was not a shield before his enemy.
She must be stronger. She had to get free so she did not burden her son.
She pushed up from the stool on which she’d been sitting. She twisted at the ropes around her wrists. Oh, how she longed for the vitality of youth once more. Her old woman’s arms did not have the strength to loosen her bonds, her arthritic fingers unable to untie the knots. Yet she had to try.
‘Sit down.’
The voice snapped from above her.
She knew that voice. It was the same one that taunted her husband as she’d sneaked up on the killer, intending knocking him out with the vase she’d silently lifted from the hallway cabinet.
His boots rang on the short flight of stairs down which she’d been carried earlier.
‘I said sit down, bitch.’
Before Yukiko could respond to the order, hands grabbed her shoulders and forced her down. She resisted momentarily, but she was nothing in his hands. She fell back, only stopped short by the seat of the stool smacking against her backside. The hands holding her steadied her with brusque efficiency. Then the hands moved away. Yukiko sat, her arms aching as she twisted them to a position where it would relieve some of the pressure on her throat. She lifted her head as best she could.
‘Am I not allowed to see the face of my murderer?’ she asked.
‘All in good time.’
Yukiko thought that there was no good time. It was a poor expression. Though she would not tell him so; it would only give him satisfaction.
‘First,’ her tormentor went on, ‘you’re going to listen to me.’
‘It’s difficult hearing anything from beneath this hood. You may as well take it off; you’re going to kill me anyway, so what’s the difference if I see your face?’
‘You’ve already seen my face, that’s not the reason the sack’s staying put. It stays because I fucking say when it comes off. Not you.’
Yukiko would have preferred the hood to be removed sooner rather than later. The more time she had to study her surroundings, and to devise a way out of this predicament, the better. Still, there was little she could do while the brute was here in the cellar.
‘What are you planning on doing to me?’ The question surprised Yukiko, because she had not formulated it in her mind before asking.
‘I’m going to kill you. What else?’
Yukiko would not allow herself to slump: she would not show she was fearful.
‘You have nothing to say to that?’ asked her captor. ‘That’s probably best, because there’s nothing you can say that’ll change my mind. When I set off on this, your death was always marked.’
‘I’m not afraid to die.’
‘Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean a thing to me. I’m going to kill you even if you beg and plead. Your lies murdered my father and that’s unforgivable.’
‘Your father died because he was a rapist and child molester.’
Without warning a blow to her head knocked Yukiko off the seat and she went down hard on her side. The slap was more of a shock than a powerful blow, but pain screamed through her frail body from the collision with the floor. Before she could recover, hands grabbed her and hauled her back on the stool. She sat gasping for a long moment. Fingers grasped the collars of her blouse and yanked them tight. She was pulled forward, and even through the sackcloth she could feel the heat of anger radiating from Peterson’s son.
‘Those are the last lies you’ll ever utter about my father,’ he growled.
‘Charles Peterson was a sick monster who beat and raped little girls. You do understand that, don’t you? You know what kind of monster you’ve sanctified?’
Her captor let out a wordless growl.
Suddenly Yukiko felt weightless, and it took a moment to realise that she’d been lifted bodily from the seat. By the time understanding struck she was already on her back and unable to avoid the kick aimed at her body. The boot slammed her in the gut, forcing the wind from her lungs.