A Maidens Grave

a foot or so—high enough for them to crawl under but not high enough to push out one of the drums.
    They walked to it and slipped outside.
    Freedom, she thought, breathing the intoxicating air.
    She laughed to herself at the irony—here she was rejoicing at being Outside, tearfully thankful for escaping from the horrible Inside. Motion startled her; she saw a boat not far offshore. Two officers in it. Somehow, they’d already spotted the girls and were now rowing toward the dock.
    Melanie turned Emily around, signed, “Wait here for them. Stay down, hide behind that post.”
    Emily shook her head. “But aren’t you—”
    “I’m going back. I can’t leave her.”
    “Please.” The little girl’s tears streaked down her face. The wind tossed her hair around her head. “She didn’t want to come.”
    “Go.”
    “Come with me. God wants you to. He told me He does.”
    Melanie smiled, embraced the little girl, and stepped back. Looked over her tattered, filthy dress. “Next week, we have date. Shopping.”
    Emily wiped tears and walked to the edge of the dock. The policemen were very close, one smiling at the girl, the other scanning the building with a short black shotgun pointed toward the black windows above their heads.
    Melanie glanced at them, waved, then slipped backbeneath the loading-dock door. Once inside, she took Bear’s knife from the pocket of her bloody skirt and started back into the slaughterhouse, instinctively following the same route she’d taken to arrive here.
     
    Her neck hairs stirred suddenly and she felt a wave of the sixth sense that some deaf people claim they possess. When she looked, yes, yes, there he was—Brutus, about fifty feet away, crouching, making his way from one piece of machinery to another. In his hand he too held a short knife.
    She shivered in terror and ducked behind a stack of employee lockers. She thought of climbing into one but remembered that he’d hear any sound she made. Then the sixth sense came back, pelting her neck. Melanie realized, though, that this wasn’t anything supernatural at all; it was the vibration of Brutus’s voice, calling to Stoat.
    What was he saying?
    A moment later, she learned. The lights went out and she was plunged into blackness.
    She dropped to the ground, paralyzed with terror. Deaf, and now blind. She curled into a ball for a moment, praying she’d faint, the terror was so great. She realized she’d dropped the knife. She patted the ground but soon gave up on it; she knew that Brutus would have heard the sound of the weapon falling and was probably making his way toward her right now. He could be kicking aside everything in his way and she’d never know, while Melanie herself had to crawl carefully over the ground, picking her way silently over bits of metal and wood, machinery and tools.
    I have to—
    No!
    She felt something on her shoulder.
    She turned in panic, lashing out with her palm.
    But it was just a wire dangling from the ceiling.
    Where is he? There? Or there?
    Be. Quiet. It’s the only thing that’ll save you.
    Then a reassuring thought: He can hear, yes, but he can’t see any better than I can.
    Want to hear a joke, Susan? What’s worse off than a bird that can’t hear?
    A fox that can’t see.
    Eight gray birds, sitting in dark  . . .
    If I’m absolutely silent he’ll never know where I am.
    The remarkable internal compass that the otherwise unjust son of a bitch Fate gave Melanie tells her that she’s headed in the right direction, back toward the killing room. And by God she will carry Donna Harstrawn on her shoulders if she has to.
    Slowly. One foot before the other.
    Silent. Absolutely silent.
     
    Going to be easier than he’d thought.
    Lou Handy was at his worst and he knew it—still fired up with bitterness, aching for a payback, but thinking coolly now. This was when he killed and tortured and enjoyed it the most. He’d followed the bloody footsteps to the loading dock, where, he’d assumed, both of the little shits had gotten out. But then as he was about to start back he’d heard something—a clink of metal, a scrape. And he’d looked down the corridor and seen her, Melanie, the mouse bitch freak of nature, making her way back to the main room of the slaughterhouse.
    He’d moved closer and what was that he’d heard?
    A squish, squish sound.
    Her footsteps. Bloody footsteps. Good old Bonner, leaking and gross to the very end, had bled all over her shoes. With every step