You Believers (21 page)

He laughed. “Yeah, right.”

“What do you want?”

He aimed the beam of light at her crotch, then back to her face. “I’m gonna do it right this time. The last one, she was gone before I got the chance to fuck her. But you, you’re right here.”

She lay there panting, eyes scanning the room for something like a weapon. He moved the flashlight beam over her. She thought to try to stand and run, then a voice said,
Get him to tell you the story. He likes to talk. Get him to tell you the story
. She said the words: “Tell me the story.”

He crouched next to her, laughed. “The story. What story?”

“The other story,” she said. “The other girl. The one that got away.”

“‘Got away,’” he said and laughed, not a happy sound, something more like a growl. “You want to know the story.” He flipped her over, face down, put his hand on the center of her back, squeezed her ass.

Keep him talking
, the voice said.
As long as he’s talking, he isn’t hurting you
.

Molly took a breath, asked, “What was she like?”

He laughed. “Oh, you’re curious. Like what I planned to do to her could get you ready for what I’m going to do to you.”

Molly struggled to say the words: “I want to know the story.”

“She was skinny, wasn’t built like you. We saw her park that truck between the Dumpster and the ATM. Tennessee plates. And
I thought,
Perfect
.” His hands moved between her legs. She stiffened, and he laughed. “She walked in that store and back out to that truck. Oblivious.” He stood, put his foot on her back. “Like you.”

The voice inside said,
Fight; don’t go down like a lamb
. She swung back at his leg and tried to crawl away. But he crouched, grabbed her ankles. She lay there crying. “This is
my
house,” she yelled.

“Yeah, and that skinny bitch thought it was her own blue truck she drove, but once I laid my eyes on it, I said,
Mine
.” He squeezed her ass. “Like you.”

“I want my mom,” she cried.

He laughed. “That last one, she kept talking about her momma too.”

She tried again to crawl away, but he rolled her over, straddled her, used one hand to hold her wrists above her head and to the floor. “The more you fight, the more it’s gonna hurt.”

She wanted to scream, but the voice said,
Shhh
. She wondered if it was an angel, or God, or if she was just going crazy. She lay still. He squeezed hard between her legs. Not like sex, just a punch. He leaned, the knives dangling over her chest. She tried to see his face but could only see that shape of him against the light glaring in her eyes.

The voice whispered,
Let him take his time. It will give you time to live
.

She could smell his jacket, the smell of burned leaves, the thick, bitter scent of smoke. She could feel the moisture of his breath, could smell the scotch. He’d been into her mother’s scotch. “The last one, she did what I said. Drove me right over that river.”

“You don’t have to hurt me. Just take what you want.”

He smacked her with the back of his hand, not as hard as he could have, just enough to hurt. “Oh, but the thing is, I’ve already taken what I want from this place—it’s over there in my backpack. Only thing left I want is you.” He gripped her arms, leaned closer.
The knives dangling from his cap clanked on her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut, smelled his breath. If he was drunk, he might get sloppy, but he didn’t seem drunk. He seemed sure of every movement. She prayed,
God help me, Mom help me. Dad
.

She felt him move back, sit beside her. She tried to see him. He had taken his cap off, was fiddling with the string that held a knife. She could see nothing but something like a monster through the little holes in the ski mask. He cut the knives loose, held one. She could see that the blade was dull. He’d have a hard time cutting her if she kept moving. But he could kill her with a stab.
Keep moving
, the voice whispered again.
Keep him talking; he likes to talk, and as long as he’s talking
. . . The voice seemed right there in the room, not just her head. She looked around for someone but saw only darkness beyond the glow of his flashlight.
Get him to tell you the story
. She closed her eyes, told herself she was going crazy. It was her brain separating, the distance of anxiety—she’d read about this in a psychology class. The voice came again, more insistent:
Get him to tell you the story
! She found a calm voice, the strong, steady voice she’d used in high school debates. “So what happened with the last one?”

He pulled back, put the flashlight closer to her face, gave a little snort of laughter. “You want to sit here and have a conversation?”

She closed her eyes. “It seemed like you wanted to tell me.”

He put the cap back on. It’d be harder for her to pull the mask off with the cap on like that.

She thought it’d be less scary if she could see his face. If she could see his face, she could identify him. If she lived. She felt the tears rise up.
Do not cry
. She lay there, breathing, wondering how many breaths she had left.

He put the knives on the floor, moved toward her. “I’ve done some shit to lots of bitches. Put one in a coma.”

“Why do you want to hurt me?” Molly asked in the most logical
voice she could find. They did that in movies. Detectives, they talked so strong and calm to the man with the gun.

“Don’t you believe in destiny?” He was waiting for her answer. She would not cry. “I been waiting for you,” he said. “You know, a grizzly bear, he can stalk his prey for days? I read all about predators.” He waved the beam of the flashlight around the room. “World’s full of predators. Mountain lions, wolves.” He flashed the light in her face. “Me.”

She’d learned somewhere not to look an aggressive animal in the eyes. They took it as a challenge. She kept her eyes on the ceiling, which seemed to sink and rise with each breath. “You don’t have to hurt me.”

“Oh, yes, I do. This would make a great story. If you lived.” He covered the beam of light with his hand.

The voice came again:
Get him to tell you the story
. Molly strained to see in the darkness. Either she was losing her mind or someone else was there in the room. “So what happened?”

“Okay,” he said. “You want me to take my time. We’ve got plenty of time.” Jesse got up, settled back on the sofa, reached for the scotch bottle he had left on the table.

“You’re drinking my mom’s scotch,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s the good stuff.” He took a swig, sat back, stretched out his legs, and set the flashlight upright on its base, washing the room in a dim yellow light.

Molly pushed herself from the floor and sat up, looked around. She saw that the Lalique vase that usually sat on the table by the window was gone. And there on the coffee table between them was a tangled heap of her mother’s jewelry, not the good stuff. She figured the good stuff was in the backpack. “You’re a thief,” she said.

He nodded. “I’m a lot of things.”

Molly leaped up, tried to run across the room, but he lunged,
grabbed her ankle, and brought her back down hard against the floor. She lay there, her jaw throbbing from the fall, waited for his hit, the smack, the knife. But nothing came. She could hear his breath. She could feel her heart pounding as she lay against the floor. She thought of how birds went still, played dead while the cat sat, watching for the flicker of life. She knew he was staring, could feel his gaze. She wished she hadn’t worn the tight black jeans. She tried to remember if you were supposed to fight or submit if you wanted to survive these kinds of things.
Keep him talking. Let him know you are a woman, not a bird, not a mouse, not a bug
. That voice. Under stress the mind scatters, scrambles for safety in other voices, other selves. Under stress, breakdown of personality begins. She had studied this.
He is trying to break you down. Don’t
.

She turned her face toward him. “My father will be home soon.”

He shone the flashlight into her eyes. “You don’t have a father.”

“I do,” she said. She heard the crying in her voice, tried to swallow it back.

He reached, grabbed her belt, turned her over.

“Well, he doesn’t live here anymore.” He looked straight into her face. Those eyes were familiar. He lifted her shirt, pulled at her belt buckle, unzipped her jeans.

She wondered how a man could look into your eyes when he was doing such things. It was supposed to be impersonal. She had read about that. Predators had to take the personality away from their victims before they caused pain. A sob broke from her throat as she realized this was really happening. “My mother . . . my mother.”

“What is it with you girls and your mothers?” Jesse pressed one hand on her thigh and with the other reached and yanked off her shoe.

Molly dug her fingers into the carpet to keep back the awful feeling that she was disappearing. “How long have you been watching
me?” She thought of the guy with the dog. But he wouldn’t smell like leaves. They couldn’t burn leaves in this part of town.

“Don’t think you’re so special,” he said, “I watch everyone.” He lifted her shirt, poked at her ribs. “Damn, you’re skinnier than I thought. I bet if I cut you, you wouldn’t hardly bleed.” He cut her bra, tore it loose.

Tears streamed down her face. She sucked in a breath, a hard breath, wondered how many more breaths she had.

He laughed. “You want to go back in the kitchen, eat some of that Chinese takeout you brought home?”

She shook her head.

“You ain’t hungry?”

The guy who walked the dog wouldn’t say
ain’t
, but he felt so familiar. He kicked at her hip. “I said, ‘Ain’t you hungry?’ You’re supposed to answer me.”

“No, I’m not hungry,” she said. Molly couldn’t look into that masked face, seeing only those eyes gleaming like something in a movie, but this wasn’t a movie. She kept her eyes on the ceiling. “Why did you pick me?”

He smacked her. “Because I wondered how it would be to watch a princess bleed.”

She turned away, stared at the legs of the coffee table, wondering if that would be the last thing she would see. She kept her head turned to keep him from seeing the tears.
Don’t cry; don’t cry. It’s what he wants, Molly. He wants you to cry
.

He grabbed her jaw, turned her to face him. “How’s it feel to hurt? I didn’t get a chance to ask the last one.”

She shook her head and clenched her eyes shut to keep from seeing his eyes. She knew behind the mask, he was smiling.

He yanked the shoe from her other foot and threw it at the fire-place. Molly flinched, expecting the glass door to crash. But the shoe
just bounced and hit the carpet with the smallest soft thud. He turned to her and grinned. His hand shot out, grabbed the waistband of her jeans, pulled them down, tore the jeans and panties off, and he slammed her back to the floor.

She tried to back away, but he grabbed her leg, straddled her. She froze, her head humming.

He leaned back to unzip his jeans, and she kicked at him, caught his hip. He rocked back. She kicked again, but he caught her leg, smacked her hard. She lay there panting. He leaned up, calm again. “You really want to fight me?”

She shook her head. But the voice whispered,
Fight; fight him like a man. Don’t go down like a lamb
.

“That’s it,” he said. He tore off her shirt.

She bucked up, kicked, tried to fight. He punched her in the face. She fell back, tasting her blood. “Want to fight some more, bitch? You won’t win.” He grabbed her chin, squeezed. She lay still with her eyes closed, her breath panting.
Gather strength
. Gather strength? How could she gather strength? She heard him tear a condom open. And all she could think was that he was careful as he yanked her legs apart. He was even wearing some kind of gloves. There’d be no fingerprints.

Her hands clutched at the carpet as if the floor could save her from falling. He pounded, and she cried as she felt her life flying by.
He’s not as powerful as he seems
, the voice whispered.
You’ve got power, Molly. Draw on that strength; don’t give it away. The power of the world is stronger than this man
. She tried to imagine the power of the world, its turning through space, the force of the oceans rolling and rising, strong enough to move islands that only seemed to be solid things. She told herself she was just receding for a moment. She told herself she would come back with power.
Stay focused; don’t fear
, the voice said.
The Lord didn’t give us a spirit of fear, but one of power and love and soundness of mind. Hold on, Molly. Hold on
. The Lord didn’t give us a spirit of fear. She’d hold on to that. If she didn’t fear him, she could fight him. If she didn’t fear him, she could take the pain, the way she’d taken the pain when she’d fallen once and broken her wrist.
It’s only pain
, she thought. And she lay there, her eyes on the ceiling.
It’s only pain
. The he stopped, leaned up. “You ain’t hurting enough.” He leaned back. She bucked up, kicking and swinging, and he kept laughing and punching, pinning her back to the floor.

“There you go,” he said. “Holler, little princess. Nobody gonna save you now.”

Next door the neighbors turned up the volume of the news. Marty Shorling shook his head at the screen and forked a bite of steak into his mouth. The president, that rascal, was at it again. Politicians thought they were invincible just because—well, they did have a way of getting away with things. Marty was a lawyer. He’d sat through enough dockets to see the repeat offenders. Sure, some slipped through the system, but if a man kept doing a thing, someone somehow would call him up, lock him down, make him accountable. That was the problem with this country, Marty thought. No one was accountable. Marty liked to keep count of the good things and the bad things in the world. The crimes that were punished; the crimes that got away. He glanced over at his wife. She was a good thing. Made him a steak dinner and didn’t mind at all if he wanted to take it to the den, eat in front of TV. She felt his gaze, turned to him, smiled, and said, “When did politics become a nighttime soap opera?” He shrugged and said, “There’s always been a drama, Sally. The Kennedys? Things we never know about, they happen all the time. Always did. It’s just these days, everything and anything is public domain.” He looked at the president’s handsome face as he
stood tall, shaking his head, making that little gesture of authority with his hand.