Spencerville

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.