Chapter Thirty-Six

Lessons from Prison

S he shied away and Lance stopped the blade inches from her face. “You think he’s going to save you, but I already took care of that problem.”

Her eyes remained fixed on the knife as he spoke, its menacing presence holding her attention. He had positioned it in front of her deliberately, and the grim realization finally hit her: streaks of blood stained the blade.

Her mind screamed, no, even as reality set in. He’d killed or seriously harmed Dale.

It was difficult not to curl in on herself and stop fighting. This thought was torn from her when Lance gripped her hair and dragged her several painful feet.

“You either walk, or I pull you by the hair,” he said.

Another harsh tug had her struggling to stand upright. He headed away from the boulders and the area where they had hiked in. Had he been staying in a different section of the rock caves? He turned slightly, and she saw he wore Dale’s backpack.

What little hope she had vanished.

Lance held the knife to his side unless she slowed. He used it to jab at the small of her back, where her shirt did little to cushion the sharp poke. He didn’t cut her, but the threat was there. Her time in prison had given her the strength not to cry. She didn’t want him to see her terror, or he would use it against her.

About a hundred feet from where she and Dale had climbed, a narrow canyon sliced through the boulders. The steep walls closed in tightly, leaving her barely enough space to move without brushing against the rough stone. Her mind raced, desperately searching for a way to escape or for something she could use as a weapon before he had a chance to reach for the gun. But there was nothing. As they moved closer to the gap in the boulders, he kept the knife’s point pressed firmly against her back, ensuring she had no chance to escape.

“If you run, I’ll shoot you,” he said when they stepped into the field not far from the shack.

Willow walked dutifully forward.

“Open the door,” Lance said.

She pushed the lever, and he gave her a hard shove inside. She fell to one knee, making it hard to turn, but she did.

The inside of the shack was a grim portrait of desperation and neglect. The dirt floor was uneven and scattered with trash: empty cans, small bones, and discarded clothing stained with grime. The walls, constructed from warped wooden planks, were streaked with dirt and splattered with unidentifiable stains. Sunlight filtered through the cracks, casting jagged lines of light across the squalor.

A rusted, iron cooking pot sat in one corner, next to a pile of stolen canned goods with faded labels. A plastic jug of water, only half full, rested against the wall.

The air was stale, carrying the acrid smell of sweat, old food, and something faintly metallic. A pile of ratty blankets lay balled up in another corner, serving as a crude bed.

The shack’s single window was covered with a piece of torn fabric nailed unevenly into place. In the oppressive silence, the room felt suffocating. Lance had been living on the fringes of survival.

What he didn’t know was that she had lived on a similar fringe.

“You look better in person than you do from far away,” he leered.

Whether in prison or freedom, women knew the look. She’d seen the same look in her father’s eyes, and she recognized it instantly. Her head pounded, and the walls seemed to slide sideways.

“Lay down before you fall,” Lance said. “Your head is bleeding, and we’ll take care of it before we have a little fun. I don’t want you dying too quickly.”

She was nauseous, terrified, and defiant all at once. If the end result was death, she would put up a fight and ruin what he thought would be a good time. She went to her knees beside the smelly blankets, then to her side, curling up to face him.

She blinked slowly. His fingers came near her face, and she jerked back. He pulled her hair again.

“Hold still while I check your damned eyes.”

She froze and allowed him to peel back her eyelids. Only a little light came through the boards. She had no idea what he thought he was doing.

“I have water for your head wound. I’m going to lay the knife down behind me, but if you go for it or give me shit, I have no problem shooting you.” He turned and placed the knife on the floor near the door.

She recognized the grip of Dale’s gun in the back of his pants along with hers. If Dale was still alive, she could only save him by getting past Lance Hogg .

He lifted an empty can and poured water into it. It didn’t look clean. Using a soiled shirt, he dampened it and wiped the blood from her wound. It was about an inch behind her ear. She winced a bit more than was necessary, thinking that if he believed her weak, she might have a better chance of escape.

She also changed her mind about tears. Slowly, she allowed several to track down her cheeks. Her hands weren’t trembling, so she reminded herself to add that to her act.

Lance finished cleaning the cut and rubbed one finger along her cheek. He licked the tear off and smiled at the taste.

“You’re the old woman’s granddaughter, aren’t you?”

Did he know her story? She didn’t see how he could. Her grandmother would never have told any of the Hoggs, including Carrie.

He backhanded her when she didn’t answer. “The way this goes,” he said, his voice shaking with anger, “is I ask questions, and you give me answers. If you don’t, that pretty face will be bruised before I put it to good use. I don’t want that, do you?”

“No,” she said quickly, allowing her voice to quiver. She had nothing to lose, and she’d been in this situation before with her father. She was no longer twelve. She would fight Lance to the death. He would find little enjoyment in what he had planned .

“Now that’s better,” he murmured. “Was the old lady your grandmother?”

“She was. Her name was Joan.”

He backhanded her again. “Smartass bitch, aren’t you?”

It was better than being a dumbass, she thought silently. She pictured her mother’s weakness and the years of abuse she suffered without fighting back. Her mother could have escaped, but she hadn’t. Willow was more the product of her grandmother; of that, she had no doubt. She didn’t have a plan, only years of built-up rage coursing through her veins. Rage that ran with Joan’s blood.

“You lay there and don’t move,” he said, backing up.

He pulled off the backpack and unzipped the largest compartment. He began pulling out items. There were two packages of peanut butter crackers. He opened one and began shoving them into his mouth. Willow could see how thin he was. His weakness gave her hope.

He pulled out a flashlight and clicked it on, then off. Last, he pulled out a length of rope.

“Look what we have here,” he said, his smile so wide she saw another missing tooth. “This will be fun,” he added.

He was an idiot. Did he not remember the duct tape?

His eyes flashed to the other package of crackers.

“I’m hungry,” she said softly.

“Shut up,” he snapped. “If you’re good, I’ll let you have half.”

She started crying, proud of her acting skills. “Don’t hurt me, please.”

He walked closer and squatted beside her, his hand reaching out to carefully take a few strands of hair between his fingers.

“I don’t need to hurt you if you behave. I may even keep you around when I move into your place.”

Her entire body shook with rage, but he wouldn’t know that.

“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured. “You might like it.”

He reached for his pants, unsnapped them, and began working on the zipper. He pushed them down his legs but didn’t have a chance to finish.

Willow grabbed his ankles and rolled backward. His arms flailed, and he hit the dirt floor with a loud thud. His legs were trapped by his pants, and he hadn’t remembered the guns, which tumbled out and hit the floor behind him. His eyes narrowed on the weapons, and she knew he would reach them first.

Fisting her hands, she brought them down with all the force she could muster, straight into his stomach. Foul air rushed from his mouth, and he curled inward. Willow kicked out, her foot connecting with his head. She practically dove over his body, but he struck out with his knee, catching her on the shoulder. She slammed against the wall.

Somehow, he leapt onto her, his fist raised above her face, ready to strike.

The door slammed open, and Dale rammed into Lance, knocking him away from her. She had no time to feel relieved; she dove for the guns.

Willow’s heart thundered in her chest, the taste of blood sharp in her mouth. She blocked out the sounds of the fight and grasped the cold metal of the gun. Her body screamed in protest as she raised it, her mind flashing back to her father.

“Willow,” Dale rasped as her vision cleared. “It’s me.”

Lance lay on the floor, Dale’s boot pressing into his skull, forcing his head into the dirt.

Her hand dropped to her side.

“Grab the rope,” he told her.

She grabbed the duct tape instead.

“This is a good start. I’ll tie him up with both,” Dale said. He proceeded to do exactly that.

“You’re bleeding,” Willow said, as the darkness cleared completely from her vision.

“I am, and I don’t feel so good. Do you have your phone?” he asked.

She’d forgotten her cell and quickly grabbed it from her pocket.

“Check for a signal.”

She shook her head .

“That’s okay. How badly are you hurt?”

“I’m better than you, and not bleeding out in the dirt.”

He chuckled softly, then dropped to his knees, his eyes going out of focus. Willow grabbed another filthy shirt and pressed it against his wound.

“I can hold it,” he said. “You need to go for help.”

Willow ran.