Werewolf Sings the Blues (16 page)

ten

More waiting. At least
this time I have something prettier to l
ook at than a tweaker. We drive. And drive. And drive some more
all along my old friend, I-70. Donovan barely acknowledges my presence the entire ride. He's too busy keeping track of Jason and answering phone calls. From what I piece together, they're constructing a massive trap at someone's house in Pennsylvania, a trap Jason is driving right into. I'm sure he knows this. Still he follows mile after agonizing mile. Him and his stupid honor. They're gonna massacre him.

Part of me is joyous that he's here, that there's a glimmer of hope
trailing behind me in an Accord. But the other 90 percent is literally praying he'll wise up. Turn that damn car around and not look back. There's no reason for us both to die. It's just stupid.
Stupid
.

If I could only move, I'd crash the car. Donovan never drives below seventy, and my hands aren't free. I can't kick him because I'm behind him. The cuffs are so tight I don't think breaking my thumbs would even work. For a second I consider flinging the door open, but even that doesn't work. The child lock must be engaged. From every angle, this is hopeless. After an hour, I just give up. I slump against the door, collapsing from exhaustion. The cat naps help, but I seem to jerk awake whenever he takes a phone call. The sun begins to set, and when I wake for the third time only a little orange remains behind us in the west. I don't think we're in Ohio anymore judging from the signs. I sit up and glance at the clock. We're been driving for four hours.

“I have to pee,” I say.

“Almost there. Keep being a good girl and maybe I'll give you a lollie.”

Ten minutes later, we pull off the interstate onto a two-lane road heavily wooded on both sides. Trees soon give way to a field, then more trees. It's beautiful. Desolate. No one will ever hear me scream. About two miles down, Donovan turns onto a dirt road. We follow it about half a mile before rolling through a wooden covered bridge badly in need of more red paint. I glance back, but the Accord has vanished.

My 10 percent selfishness rears its ugly head. My body locks from fear as I stare at the empty road. He wised up. He's left me. Perhaps that wasn't even him. I keep my eyes glued behind us, waiting with bated breath for the Civic to materialize again. No joy. A quarter mile of nothing but thick trees later, we pull into a small field with a tall, middle-aged man holding a shotgun standing by the road. Donovan slows, and I face front. A farm house. I die in a farm house. Not even a nice one. Like the bridge it's badly in need of paint, the shutters on the second story are literally hanging by a nail. The barn farther down the clearing is in the same sorry state. If not for all the lights on inside and out, three cars on the lawn, and a man on the porch, also with a shotgun, I'd think the place was abandoned. No such luck.

Donovan rolls down the window to speak to the first guard. “Everyone here?”

“Yeah. No sign of anyone else. We've done two sweeps.”

“He probably just got into position now. I figure a minimum of an hour. Keep vigilant anyway.”

“Wish our guy was with them, huh?”

“Can't have everything.” The guard nods before we continue toward the house. The moment the car shuts off, stinging bile rises up my throat. If it wasn't closed so tight, I'd barf all over the car. This is literally the end of the road for me. No more miles to save me. I die here. It's so … final. My breath escapes in short spurts through my nose like a pig. Bacon. I'm bacon.

Donovan exits the car, waves to the burly man on the porch, and opens my door. I'm trembling so bad he has difficulty unlocking my cuffs. They rattle right along with me. Donovan's thin lips purse in annoyance, but he frees me. It feels good to stand, even if my legs are seconds from giving out on me. Donovan must sense this because after re-cuffing me, he holds me by the waist as we walk up the creaky porch.

“Phil,” the burly man says.

“Gig,” Donovan says back as we walk inside.

The interior is about as pretty as the exterior. Martha Stewart would faint if she saw this place. Just in the foyer, which is just a hall, there's a thick coat of dust on all the mismatched and cracked knickknacks. The varnish on the hardwood floor wore off decades ago and a few planks are missing. On the stairs to my left, a grizzled old man with a scraggly gray beard dressed in overalls sits with a rifle in his lap. The stairs groan as he rises. “You Donovan?” he asks.

“Yes, sir,” says Donovan. “We can't thank you enough for the use of your farm.”

More creaking to my right draws my attention. A man my age with short brown hair and a goatee comes down the hall with a pistol in his jeans and shotgun slung over his shoulder as if he were strolling down Park Avenue.

“That son of a bitch killed my boy. Heard he put him down like a dog in some parking lot. That true?”

“Yes.”

I think they're talking about Cooper. I do see a resemblance in their height and sturdy, squat build.

“He was a good solider until the end, sir. And the man who pulled the trigger is right outside. Your son's death will not go unavenged.”

“Appreciate that.”

“Is there somewhere out of the way we can keep her? We may need her later.”

“Root cellar. Moon cage down there,” Cooper answers. “Key's on the peg next to it.”

“Thank you,” Donovan says, digging out the cuff key. “Mick, she needs to pee. Let her, and then take her to the cellar.” Goatee exchanges the shotgun for the key and me. Nice to know my worth. My new jailer eyes me up and down, all but licking his chops. Yeah, after a day in jail I'm a real centerfold. “Mr. Cooper, if you could give me a tour of the house so I can learn the layout? We need to start setting up.”

Mick jerks me by the cuffs down the hall as Donovan follows Cooper upstairs. There's a bathroom just after a photo of Cooper Jr. in Army fatigues. I can't look at it. All I see is his brain splattering over that parking lot. That horror is replaced with one in real time, a stinking bathroom with black mold in every cranny. Adding insult to injury, Mick refuses to take his eyes off me. He stands in the doorway, gaze glued to my exposed legs and above. Truth is I have to pee so badly there could be ten men watching and I'd barely care.

“See the carpet matches the drapes,” Mick says.

“Yeah, haven't heard that one before.”

When it's time to wipe, my jailer says, “I can do that for you if you like.”

“Think I can manage, thank you,” I say with a hard edge.

I don't like the glint in his brown eyes one iota. Twice I've seen that look, as if I were nothing but a piece of meat. A toy. Inhuman. Both times I came
way
too close to becoming a rape statistic. I think tonight the “third time's a charm” rule will be tested. I hike up my pants and flush the toilet, or at least try to. Bad, groaning pipes.

Nature's call answered, Mick snatches me out of the small room
and pushes me into the kitchen. There's another man with dark
hair in a ponytail with his back to me, fixing a sandwich. That's five.
Five against one. Not even Jason can withstand those odds. He
cannot
come into this house. Which means I have to get out.

My jailer opens the door across from ponytail and shoves me down the rickety wooden stairs. The cold, damp air gives rise to goosebumps instantaneously. Mick switches on the light. I will say this for regular jail, they keep the dust and cobwebs to a minimum. My new cell hasn't been cleaned since the Eisenhower era. There are boxes close to disintegrating. Children's toys like rocking horses are now spider colonies. Racks of rusted canned goods fill an entire wall. If the werewolves don't kill me, the toxic mold will. The floor is actual packed dirt. It's a large grave. My grave.

What really captures my attention sits in the back corner. A cell, rusted like everything else here. It's maybe 9 by 11 feet, small, but up to the ceiling with some bars bent outward in the middle as if whatever was inside desperately attempted to get out. A werewolf judging from the claw marks covering the back wall. Mick retrieves the key for the padlock, undoes the lock and chain holding the doors together, and shoves me in. The reek of mold vanishes, replaced with a strong salty and metallic odor. There are tufts of fur mixed with what resembles dried glue covering the back wall and floor. Ectoplasm. Better than what my first thought was.

I make note that after he relocks the chain, he places the key in his right pocket. “Come here,” he says.

“Why?”

He pulls out the handcuff key. “Want those cuffs off?” Since my hands are all but numb from lack of circulation, I step forward. He grabs my hands, jerking me into the bars so hard my chin whacks against them. He's oblivious to this new pain of mine, oblivious to everything but my chest. It's so cold my nipples stand at attention. “Good girl.” He unlocks me, caressing my hands and wrists far more than necessary. I keep on a mask of indifference. “Cold down here, huh? If you're nice to me, maybe I'll bring you a jacket. Would you like that?”

I want to spit in his face, bite his nose off, but hold back. I may need him on my good side later. Right now, I just need him gone so I can think. “Thank you,” I say when the cuffs fall off. I move back as far as I can against the clawed wall.

Mick literally licks his lips as his eyes devour me one last time. “Be back, babe.”

I don't allow myself to relax until I hear the upstairs door shut. I let out the ragged breath I was holding before sliding down the wall into the sitting position and hugging my knees to my chest. I don't know what to do. I'm locked in a fucking cage. Even if I managed to get out of here, there are five werewolves with guns upstairs to sneak past. I don't stand a damn chance.

This is insanity. I'm gonna die here. I don't want to die. I'm not ready. I thought I'd have more time. I want Jason. This is all me. This is all my fault.
I
made him run.
I
insisted we stop.
I
seduced him. Now
I'm
going to get killed. No, I can't fall apart now.
Don't you fall apart, Vivian Frances Dahl
. You need to get the hell out of this cell. You need to get out of this house before he commits suicide for your undeserving ass.
Earn
all he's done and will do for you. Keep your damn promise for once. Be the person he seems to think you are. Who you can be.

Fight
.

My eyes rocket open and like the night in the parking lot calm burns away the fog of fear. The world around me becomes crystal clear as all my senses heighten. The smell of werewolf, of Jason still on my skin. The sound of footsteps above my head. The soft warm breeze wafting from the right. My gaze whips in its direction. At first all I notice are boxes piled on top of boxes like steps, then I notice a piece of white lace atop one billowing a little. I
follow behind it and spy slats of wood at an angle obstructed by boxes. Cellar door. Exit. Excellent.

The cage. I stand to examine it inch by inch, then testing the more rusted parts for their strength by pulling with all my might. Only one wiggles where I assume a werewolf threw himself against the cage. I
will
have better luck than he did.

At least I have a project to pass the time before my execution. There's a sharp but thin edge keeping the bar in place that I must dislodge. I kick it as I learned to do in cardio kickboxing. Whack. Whack. I get in two five-minute rounds before Mick comes to investigate the noise. Each time he finds me in the corner hugging my knees and rocking back and forth. When he asks what the noise was, I rock harder in response. I can't risk a third visit, not by him. Plus my legs are killing me.

I resort to alternating between shows of brute upper body strength, which I am sorely lacking, and the more precise jiggling of the bar, slowly wearing down its resistance. I don't know how much time passes, hours I think, as above me furniture skids and thuds as men walk to and fro, getting ready to murder my Blondie. I do my utmost to not to think about that. All that matters is getting the bar out. Just get the damn bar free. For Jason. For me. Just get it free.

Little by little it gives way. Whenever my patience is tested, and I'm about to scream in frustration, give up, I call up an image of him. Watching me onstage in awe. In the car in Kansas when something magical passed between us. The expression of sheer happiness as he entered me for the first time. I want more of these moments.
Keep going.

I think two or three hours pass, it's hard to gauge. My hands, my shoulders, even my legs ache. Almost there though. Two hard kicks and the bar clatters to the floor. Yes! I reach through the bars for it. Part one complete. I wedge the bar inside the chain to pry it loose. Nope. Whacking the padlock fails too. Which leaves riskier option three.

“Hello!” I shout. “Marshal Donovan! I need you! Marshal!”

It takes a full minute of hollering before I hear the door above open. Shit, I'm really gonna do this. I
can
do this. Fear closes up my throat, but I
will
do this. Mick walks through the boxes.
I can do this, I can do this
… “What?”

“I have to use the bathroom again. It's an emergency. I'm about
to crap my pants.” The last one isn't a lie, just not literally.

“Go in the corner.”

“No, please,” I say, rushing to the bars. “I'll do anything. Anything you want, I won't put up a fight. Just please let me use the toilet. I'll be good. Please.”

The werewolf scans me up and down. All he sees are my pleading eyes and defeated body language. What he doesn't see is the jagged metal bar riding up my spine tucked into my waistband. If he did he'd never step toward me to undo the padlock and chain. I reach behind as he moves in. “Better make it fast, though. We think your boyfriend—”