Georgie stood off in the background, blinking drowsily, just coming around from his jolt of horse. Mitch felt the captive girl’s warm weight against him. She had gone limp but she hadn’t fainted; forcing them to carry her was her form of protest.
Floyd went in with the light, ducking under a fallen beam. “Bring her in here.” The musty place had been stripped of interior appointments. Strips of faded wallpaper hung from the walls; the windows had rags stuffed in them; most of the room was a foot deep in rubble. The flashlight beam stabbed one corner: “Set her down over there.”
Mitch lowered her very gently, eliciting Billie Jean’s cackle: “She won’t break, Mitch.”
The light went out. In the absolute blackness Mitch heard the girl catch her breath and then Floyd struck a match and touched it to the wick of a blackened oil lamp with an old-fashioned chimney. The weak yellow light flickered up into cobwebbed corners. Mitch sneezed and stayed where he was, on one knee on the floor beside Terry Conniston. She sat with her back against the wall, arms wrapped around her knees, glaring at all of them with icy scorn. She looked fragile and slim, young, virginal.
Floyd said, “Everybody pay attention. Nobody opens the door again unless we put the light out first, understand? You can spot a light from forty miles away out here. All right Mitch, take the gag off her.”
Mitch reached around warily, watching the girl’s eyes. Billie Jean edged close and said, “She looks kind of sad.”
“That’s all right,” said Theodore, “I’m the comforting type.” He gave a hooting bray of laughter that rang back from the roofbeams.
“Take it easy,” Mitch murmured, clumsy with the knot at the back of her head. The girl uttered short nervous little gasps every time he touched her. Her eyes were narrowed, sullen, trying to hold back fear. When he removed the scarf she spat out the wadded handkerchief and licked her lips fiercely.
Floyd came over with his knapsack and sat down crosslegged like an Indian, smiling amiably. He took the small tape-recorder out and connected various plugs and pushed buttons, and said, “One, two, three, four, five,” into the microphone, then played it back for a test and ran the tape back to the beginning. Terry Conniston watched, not speaking, rigid with uncertainty and fear. Above them, one shoulder propped against the wall, Theodore opened the snap-ring top of a beer can with a pop and a hiss. In the unsteady yellow light his face was a violent mask of raw evil.
Floyd said, “Miss Conniston, please pay attention.”
The girl stared. Her eyes whipped toward Floyd. Mitch leaned past her legs and lifted the canteen out of the knapsack, unscrewed the top and offered it to her. Terry Conniston shook her head, not removing her eyes from Floyd, who spoke to her in a gentle voice:
“I guess you’ve figured out what we’re up to. You’re being held for ransom. We’ll be getting in touch with your father and making arrangements and when the ransom’s paid you’ll be turned loose. Nobody’s going to hurt you. You understand?”
She nodded cautiously, her long eyes wide open. It occurred to Mitch she was afraid to speak. He reached out to touch her hand reassuringly but she drew it away.
Floyd said, “Now, if you agree not to give us any trouble we’ll take the wire off your wrists. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
The girl made no reply of any kind. Floyd said patiently, “Look, honey, this won’t do. You see this tape-recorder? You’re going to talk into it for me.”
Mute and stubborn, she shook her head. When she looked down at the recorder her hair swung forward, masking her face. She pushed her lower lip forward to blow hair off her forehead. She was stunning, Mitch thought.
Floyd closed his eyes and seemed to be deep in thought. That was when Theodore spoke up: “Hell, let me do it. I can make her talk.”
Floyd threw his head back. “Theodore, this discussion does not include you. Butt out. When you want to talk to me you raise your hand.” His eyes burned against Theodore until Theodore stirred in discomfort and drifted away, sucking beer.
Floyd turned back to the girl. He smiled. “Sweetness, don’t make it rough on yourself. The longer you stall around, the longer it’ll take to finish this. All you have to do is talk into the tape-recorder, tell the truth. We’re not asking you to make up any lies.”
Billie Jean said, “What if she tells where we are?”
“That’s why they have erasing heads on tape-recorders,” Floyd said, unruffled. “All right, Miss Conniston?”
Terry Conniston curled her lip. “Go crawl back under your rock.”
Floyd’s smile was thin. “Don’t you want to be friendly, Sweetness? Then we’ll put it this way. Either you rap with me or I turn Theodore loose on you. What do you say?”
Sulky silence was the girl’s only answer until Floyd turned, making a show of regretful reluctance, and drew in a breath to call Theodore.
“Okay, damn you. Okay. What am I supposed to say?”
Floyd took the gun out of his pocket and held it casually, not aimed at anything in particular. He handed the microphone to Mitch and said, “I won’t dictate anything. Use your own words. Make it short because I’ll be playing this back over the telephone and we don’t want any long speeches that would give your daddy time to put a tracer on the line. Just tell him you’re being held by people with guns and you want him to bail you out. Tell him you’re all right but we’ve threatened your life if your daddy doesn’t come across.”
Floyd nodded to Mitch and pushed the button. The tape began to whir softly. Mitch held the mike close to Terry Conniston’s lips. She stared at it, frowned with concentration and finally blinked at him. “I can’t think of what to say.”
Mitch opened his mouth but Floyd shook his head. The tape hissed for at least a full minute before the girl closed her eyes and said in a dull monotone, “Daddy, please listen. They’re recording this on tape. They’ve kidnaped me but I’m not hurt. Please do what they want…. I can’t think of anything else to say. What else do you want me to say?”
Floyd switched the machine off. “That ought to be enough for openers. Later he’ll want confirmation and you’ll have to talk some more.”
He ran the tape back and played it back, frowning; he listened to it twice before he shook his head and said, “It’s no good. Not enough feeling in your voice. You don’t sound scared enough.”
“What do you want me to do? Tear my hair and shriek?”
Floyd smiled. “You’re a cool one, Sweetness. It wouldn’t hurt for you to get choked up a little and bust out crying. Might persuade your daddy to come through fast. Let’s try it again.”
Altogether they made four tapes; the last one satisfied Floyd. By this time Terry Conniston was strained and weak with nerves—qualities that came through on the tape. While Floyd rewound the tape and packed the recorder in its leather case she sat with her head back against the wall, eyes half closed, breathing in flutters. Mitch gently unwound the wire from her wrists. It hadn’t cut her but the flesh was ugly with trenches and ridges.
Theodore came over, crushing the empty beer can in one hand; he said caustically, “You all done now?”
“For the moment.”
“Okay. What do we do with her?”
“Well now,” Floyd asked, “what do you suggest?”
“Bang her,” Theodore replied immediately. “We all knock off a piece and then we bury her out here someplace.”
Mitch heard the girl’s quick indrawn breath. He looked up in a rage. “What’s the matter with you? You got your brains up your ass or what?”
Theodore said, “What’d I say?”