Mind Prey

was satisfied—when the footsteps were on the stairs, and she could wait no longer—she stepped down, pushed the Porta-Potti against a wall, and sat on it.
    “Don’t talk unless he talks to you, and keep your head down. I’ll start talking as soon as he comes in. Okay? Grace, okay?”
    “Okay.” Grace rolled onto the mattress, facing the wall, pulled her tattered dress around her legs.
    Mail was at the door.
    “John,” Andi said, her voice dull, her face slack. She was desperately trying to project an image of weariness, of lifelessness. She wanted to do nothing that would provoke him.
    “Come on, up, we’ve got a visitor.” Andi’s head snapped up despite herself, and from the corner of her eye, she saw Grace roll over. Mail stepped down into the cell, and as Andi got to her feet, he took her arm, and she shuffled to the door.
    “Can I come?” Grace squeaked. Andi’s heart sank.
    “No,” Mail said. He never looked at the girl, and Andi said, quickly, so he wouldn’t have a chance to think of her, “Who is it, John?”
    “An old nuthouse friend of mine,” Mail said. He thrust her through the door, stepped out behind her, and closed the door and bolted it. A woman, all dressed in black, was standing at the bottom of the dusty basement stairs. She had a long, thin stick in her hand; a tree branch. In her other hand, she held a bottle of beer by the neck.
    Witch, Andi thought. And then, Executioner.
    “God, John,” the woman breathed. She came closer and walked around Andi, looking her up and down, as though she were a mannequin. “Do you hit her a lot?”
    “Not a lot; I mostly fuck her.”
    “Does she let you, or do you make her?” The woman was only inches away, and Andi could smell her breath, the sourness of the beer.
    “Mostly, I just go ahead and do it,” Mail said. “When she gives me any trouble, I pound her a little.” Andi stood dumbly, not knowing what to do. And Mail said, “I try not to break anything. Mostly I just use my open hand. Like this.”
    He swatted Andi’s face, hard, and she went down, but her head was clear. Mail hit her almost every time he took her out of the room, and she had learned to anticipate the motion. By moving with it, just a bit, the blow was softened. By falling, she assuaged whatever it was that made him hit her.
    Sometimes he helped her pick herself up. Not this time. This time he stood over her, with the woman in black.
    “Brought some rope,” he said to Andi. He showed her several four-foot lengths of yellow plastic water-ski rope. “Put your hands up—no, don’t stand up. Just put your hands up.”
    Andi did what he told her, and he tied her hands at the wrist. The rope was stiff and cut into her skin.
    “John, don’t hurt me,” she said as calmly as she could.
    “I’m not going to,” Mail said.
    He tied a second length of the rope to the bindings at her wrist, led it over a joist-mounted rack in the ceiling, and pulled on the end until Andi’s hands and arms were above her head, then tied it off.
    “There you go,” Mail said to Gloria. “Just the way you wanted her.”
    “God,” Gloria said. She walked around Andi, and Andi turned with her, watching. “Don’t turn, or you’ll really get it,” Gloria snapped.
    Andi stopped, closed her eyes. A second later, she heard a thin, quick whistle and then the tree branch hit her in the back. Most of the impact was soaked up by her dress, but it hurt, and she screeched, “Ahhhh,” and arced away from the other woman.
    Gloria’s voice was hot, excited. “God. Can we get her dress off? I want to hit her on the tits.”
    “Go ahead,” Mail said. “She can’t do anything to you.”
    Gloria walked straight up to Andi, and, as she reached for her blouse, said, “You should have taken her clothes away from her, anyway. We oughta cut them off with a knife. Same with the kid, we oughta…”
    Mail had come up directly behind her, a third length of the rope held between his hands. He flipped it over Gloria’s neck and twisted: the rope cut into the woman’s throat, and she tried to turn, tried to grab the rope. Her face, eyes bulging, was inches from Andi’s. Andi tried to swing away, to turn, but Mail shouted, “No, watch this. Watch.”
    She turned back. The woman’s tongue was out now, and she did a little dance, her feet tapping on the floor, her arms windmilling for a moment, then her fingers would pluck at the rope, then she’d windmill again.
    The muscles stood out in