Finally, sure he hadn't heard anything, she inched back toward the rocker and sat on the floor. She bent over and examined the chain, padlock, and eyebolt between her feet. She didn't think she could lever the bolt out of the floorboards or snap the shackle open. But she could unscrew the threaded bolt from the floor. She put the tip of the poker through the shackle and moved the poker counterclockwise, using it as a lever to twist the padlock so that it also turned the eyebolt to which it was connected. The threads squeaked in the oak floorboards, and she stopped and listened, then repositioned the poker so as not to tangle the chain, then turned it again. After a few turns, she could feel with her fingers that the threaded bolt was rising out of the floorboard. She recalled that it was a three or four-inch bolt, and when Cliff had put it in the oak floor, he'd said to her, "That ain't comin' out." Wrong, Cliff. But it would take some time. She continued working the poker, and within a few minutes, the bolt was about two inches out of the floor, but it still held fast.
She heard the bed squeak, then heard the floorboards squeak as his heavy body came down the hall.
She quickly slid the poker under the hearth rug and got into the rocker, putting her bare foot over the padlock and eyebolt. She slumped to the side and feigned sleep, looking at him through a narrow slit in her left eye.
The table lamp came on, but he didn't say anything, just stood there in his boxer shorts and undershirt. His eyes darted around the room like an animal, she thought, trying to see what, if anything, was not as it should be. His eyes glanced down at her feet, but then they darted somewhere else. In many ways, she thought, he'd become like his dogs, and there were even times when she thought he had the super-sharp sense of smell and hearing of a dog, or the cunning of a wolf. His weakness, however, was overestimating his own intelligence and underestimating everyone else's, especially women, especially hers.
"Hey! Wake up!"
She opened her eyes and sat up.
"You comfortable, darlin'?"
"No."
"You piss yourself yet?"
"No... but I have to go..."
"Good. Go right ahead."
"No."
"You will. Cold?"
"Yes."
"I was thinkin' about letting you come to bed." He jiggled the keys that were on a chain around his neck. "You want to come to bed?"
No, no, no. She tried to look relieved and grateful. She said, "Yes, thank you. I have to go to the bathroom. I'm cold, Cliff, and hungry. And I think I'm starting my period. I need a sanitary napkin." She added, "Please?"
He thought about that awhile, and so did she. If he had an ounce of compassion left in him, she thought, he'd take pity on her and let her do what she asked of him. But she was betting that he had no pity whatsoever, and the word "please" was all he wanted to hear, and "nothing" was all he wanted to do for her.
Baxter said, "Well, I'll think about it. I'll check on you later and see how cold, wet, and hungry you are."
"Please, Cliff..."
He said, "Remember, ten strokes in the morning, and no breakfast. But maybe we can work something out. Think about that thing you never let me do to you." He winked and reached for the light switch. Before he turned it off, she glanced at the mantel clock.
Annie heard him walk away, heard the toilet flush, then heard the bed squeak again. She listened to the mantel clock ticking. For the last two nights, he'd set his alarm to go off at two-hour intervals, starting at one-thirty A.M. It was twelve forty-five, so she had time, unless, of course, he'd set it to go off at a different time tonight. She had no way of knowing, but she had to wait until she was sure he was asleep again.
She let some time go by, about twenty minutes she figured, then thought she heard him snoring. She dropped down to the floor, took the poker from under the hearth rug, then began again.
One of the dogs barked, but just once, then a wind rattled a windowpane, and a backdraft blew soot through the fire screen and the embers crackled. Every sound, every groan of the house, made her jump, and her heart was beating too fast.
As she continued to unscrew the bolt, she allowed herself to picture herself free. She'd still have the chained leg manacles on, but she could walk. She knew where the keys to the Bronco were in the kitchen; all she had to do was take them, wrap the blanket around her, slide the glass door open onto the deck, and go down the stairs. She recalled what he'd said about a bear trap, so she knew she had to climb over the stair rail near the end, go under the house where the Bronco was parked, get inside and start it. She'd be on the dirt road within seconds. She wondered if he'd shoot at the car if he had a chance. She thought about what he'd said about him camouflaging the end of the dirt road and wondered if the Bronco, with four-wheel drive, could make it through. Neither of those two questions would matter if she just went into the bedroom with the poker and smashed him over the head with it, then she could get dressed and call the police.
She felt the heft of the cast-iron poker in her hand. The act itself would be simple, simpler than running. But if she couldn't kill him that time when they were face-to-face and both armed, how could she kill him when he was sleeping? Another half an inch, another few minutes, and she'd be free.
Chapter Forty-two
Keith and Billy made their way through the pine forest and came to a stop at the edge of the clearing toward the back of the house.
Keith braced the butt of the crossbow against his chest and pulled on the sixty-pound bowstring until it hooked into the trigger release catch. He fitted one of the short arrows into the groove and knelt beside a pine tree, using the trunk to steady his aim. He looked through the crossbow's telescopic sight.
About sixty yards away, walking in the moonlight of the clearing, was a big German shepherd. The dog was not on a wire run, Keith noticed, but was tethered to a pole with a long leash.
Keith waited, hoping the dog would come closer, or at least stop in place for a few seconds, but the shepherd continued to pace randomly. Keith waited and watched.
Billy focused the binoculars on the house and whispered, "Okay here."
Finally, the shepherd stopped pacing at about forty yards' distance and raised its head, as though listening for something. It was a profile shot, and Keith aimed at the dog's forward flank, hoping to hit his heart or lungs. He pulled the trigger, and the arrow shot out of the crossbow.
He couldn't see where it went, but it didn't hit the dog. The dog, however, heard the vanes as they hummed past and let out a short, confused bark, then began running around.
Keith recocked the bowstring and fitted another arrow.
Billy whispered, "Still okay here."
Keith stood and fired purposely short, and the arrow sliced into the ground about twenty yards away. The shepherd heard it and streaked directly toward the arrow as Keith recocked, fitted another arrow, and aimed through the sight. The dog stopped short and snapped at the feathered vanes. Keith pulled the trigger.
He could actually see the arrow pass through the German shepherd's head, and he was sure the dog was dead before it hit the ground.
Keith tapped Billy on the shoulder. "One down. Let's move."
Keith reslung his M-16 rifle and carried the crossbow at his side. Billy slung his M-14 and carried the shotgun. Together, they began moving again through the pine forest, toward the other two dogs.
It took them over twenty minutes to navigate through the dark woods around the perimeter of the clearing. They crossed the open dirt road in a quick rush, and continued on in a semicircle through the pines and toward the lake.
They stopped at a point where they could see the lake ahead. The moon was almost behind the pines now, and the lake looked much darker. Keith figured they had only a few more minutes of good moonlight left.