Annie continued to look at Cliff, and for the first time in the last three days, perhaps the first time in years, she thought, their eyes actually met. She hadn't loved him in many years, and they both knew that, and for the last few years, she hadn't even cared for him as a person. But she'd never really wanted him to suffer, despite all he'd done to her. And now, even after all the physical agony he'd caused her, she was sorry for his emotional pain, which she knew was real and deep. She felt no emotional attachment to him he'd killed that long before this. But she did wish he hadn't seen what he saw in the motel room.
He seemed to sense what she was thinking and said to her, "You never would've done that for me. Not even twenty years ago."
"No, I wouldn't." She added, "I'm sorry, Cliff. I really am. You can beat me, rape me, do whatever you want, but all I feel for you is pity. Maybe some of it is my fault for not leaving you sooner. You should have let me go."
He didn't reply, but she could see some of this was sinking in. Her words, she knew, would only cause him more pain, but under the circumstances, with life stripped to its bare essentials, and since he'd brought it up, it was time for honesty and reality. She didn't think what she said would snap him out of his insanity, and in fact it would probably make it worse. But if she was going to die, or both of them were going to die, she wanted him to know how she felt at the end.
Keith felt that familiar pre-combat calm come over him, that almost transcendental disassociation between mind and body, as though none of this were actually happening to him. This was how most men went into battle, he knew, but later, when it began and the adrenaline kicked in, you snapped out of denial, and your mind and body got together again.
He thought about Annie. He hoped that she believed help was on the way, and that she could hang in there and not give up and not push him over the edge.
Baxter pulled the pistol out of his holster. He held it up and said, "This is his gun. I stole it from his house. I want you to know, if I shoot you, it's gonna be with his gun."
"So what?"
He pointed the Glock 9mm pistol at her. "You want to get it over with now?"
She looked at the black pistol pointing at her. She said, "It's your decision, not mine. Nothing I say matters to you."
"Sure it does. You love me?"
"No."
"You love him?"
"Yes."
He stared at her down the length of the barrel, then raised the pistol to his head and released the safety. "You want me to pull the trigger?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I... Cliff, don't..."
"You don't want to see my brains splatter?"
She turned away. "No."
"Look at me."
"No."
"Don't matter. If I blow my brains out, you're gonna die a slow, slow death chained to that floor. You can watch me rot. You can smell me rot, right here in front of you."
She put her hands over her face and said, "Cliff... please, don't... don't torture me, don't torture yourself..."
"It's you or me, sweetheart. Which one?"
"Stop it! Stop!"
"Bye, darlin'..."
Suddenly, a muffled shot rang out from somewhere, and Keith and Billy got lower. They waited, but there was no second shot, only the sound of the dogs barking.
Billy whispered, "Did that come from the house?"
"Don't know." But it sounded as if it did. It wasn't the distinct crack of a rifle being fired in the open, but was muted, as if a pistol was being fired indoors. Keith raised his binoculars and noticed that his hands were unsteady. He couldn't see anything through the windows, and his impulse was to rush the house, but whatever had happened was finished, and he was too late to do anything about it.
Billy whispered, "Stay cool. We don't know."
"No, but we'll find out soon."
Annie heard the pistol fire, an ear-splitting explosion that made her jump. She turned her head to him and saw him standing there, the pistol at his side, a smile on his face. He said, "Missed." He laughed. "Piss yourself?" He laughed again.
Annie put her hands over her face again and sobbed.
Cliff gathered his AK-47, the bulletproof vest, and a shotgun, then turned off the table lamp, throwing the room into darkness.
She could hear him breathing not far from her, then he said, "Good night, sweetheart."
She didn't reply.
"I said, good night, sweetheart."
"Good night."
"Don't sleepwalk." He laughed.
She heard him walk out of the room.
Annie sat motionless for a full minute, then opened her eyes. The embers glowed weakly in the fireplace. She felt her heart pounding and took a deep breath. Despite his periods of irrational behavior, which truly frightened her, she could still plant a suggestion in his mind and have him act on it. He wasn't going to kill himself, or her, tonight. But he did want her to suffer, so he liked what he thought was his idea of leaving her there, naked and cold, her feet chained to the floor. So far, so good. She had one chance and one chance only. She slid off the rocker, onto the floor, and moved toward the fireplace.
As Keith watched, the light in the lit window went out, then a few seconds later, the light in the window toward the rear of the house, probably a bedroom, went on. A minute later, the light in the second window went out, and he lowered his binoculars. It didn't seem logical that someone in the house had just been killed and that the other person turned off the lights and went to bed. In hunting country, he assured himself, there were lots of shots fired, even at night, and because of the lake and the trees, it was difficult to tell where that one had come from.
He got himself under control and glanced at Billy, who was looking at him, waiting for him to say something. At this moment, as they both knew, waiting at the jump-off point, conversation was essentially reduced to three commands: go; no go; hold. "No go" was not an option, "Hold" was what you wanted to say, and "Go" was irrevocable. Keith asked, "Ready?"
"Ready."
"Let's go."
Chapter Forty-one
Annie slid quietly across the oak floor, the chain running through the padlock until the manacle on her left ankle came in contact with the eyebolt. She reached out with her right hand toward the wrought-iron poker, which stood upright against the stone fireplace, but couldn't reach it.
She rested a moment and listened. She could hear Cliff snoring twenty feet away in the bedroom down the hallway. She stretched as far as she could toward the poker, and it was close, but her fingertips were still a half inch away.
She tried again, stretching as far as she could, but her fingertips only brushed the handle of the poker. She went limp, and the taut chain fell to the floor, making a sound against the floorboards. She froze and listened.
Cliff's snoring stopped a second, then continued. She sat up, looking around the darkened room. The embers still glowed, and moonlight came in through the south windows. She needed something to extend her reach, but there was nothing near her. Then she saw it. Lying on the hearth, illuminated by the embers, was a big, twisted beer pretzel that had fallen to the floor when Cliff yanked the blanket off her. Cliff's little treat. Thank you, Cliff. She picked up the pretzel and again stretched her body and hand toward the poker.
Every muscle was pulling, and she felt pains shooting up her legs and through her battered body. But she remained steady and calm, the pretzel held tight in her fingertips until she looped it around the hilt of the poker and pulled. The poker fell toward her and she caught it, then lay still, breathing hard.