Spencerville

hide—”
    “Shut up!”
    He stood. “What did you say?”
    “Stop! Stop it!”
    “Yeah? Stand up.”
    “No.”
    “Stand up, bitch, and get it over with; or I’ll make it worse.”
    Annie hesitated, then stood.
    “Drop the blanket.”
    She let the blanket fall to the floor. Baxter took the key chain out of his pocket, knelt, and removed the padlock, freeing the manacle chain. He stood and said, “Go over there and bend over the arm of the sofa.”
    She shook her head.
    He drew his revolver and aimed it at her face. “Do what I say.”
    “No. Go ahead and shoot.”
    He lowered his aim to her stomach and said, “If I gut-shoot you, you’re gonna take a day to die.”
    Annie remained standing where she was, wanting to die, and it didn’t matter at that moment how long it took. Then she thought about her children and thought of the possibility that Keith would remember what she’d told him about Grey Lake, or of Keith speaking to Terry, who she prayed understood about Atlanta.
    Annie knew that they couldn’t stay in this house forever, and when someone came along, there would be bloodshed, and it would probably end with Cliff killing her, then himself.
    So she wavered between wanting him to kill her now, and living a little longer and hoping she could do something to end this nightmare. But she didn’t know how long she could live like this, how long it would be before he broke her. It had been three days now since they’d gotten here, and already she was losing touch with reality, bending to his perverted will to save herself some pain. She was no match for him in this situation, she realized. He had all the power, and even her subtle resistance met with his sadism. Still, she wasn’t going to be his willing victim, and she said to him, “Go to hell.”
    Baxter lowered the pistol, went to the fireplace, and stuck the poker in the flames.
    Annie watched. No, he wouldn’t kill her. Not yet. But he would do what he was preparing to do. The poker tip glowed red, and he pulled it out of the fire, held it up, and spit on it. The spit sizzled, and he held the poker out a few inches from her right breast. He said, “I don’t want to do this, but you ain’t givin’ me any choice.”
    She replied, “I don’t want to do this either, and you’re not giving
me
any choice.”
    He looked at her, then said, “We’re gonna have it my way, either way. So?”
    Realizing she’d resisted as much as she could, she turned and walked to the couch, the chain dragging over the rug, and the leg manacles chafing her ankles.
    He said, “Bend over.”
    She bent over the upholstered arm of the couch and put her hands out in front of her on the cushions. She heard Cliff put the poker down, then unbuckle his gun belt and lay it down somewhere. He came up behind her and unbuckled his trouser belt and whipped it out of the loops. “Okay, you got to pay for your smart mouth. And you got a lot of payin’ to do for a lot of smart-mouthin’ over the years.”
    She didn’t want to reply, but she knew if she didn’t say anything, he’d go on and on, and she didn’t want to wait for it in that humiliating position. She said, “Just get it over with.”
    “I want you to think about what’s comin’ and why you’re gettin’ it.”
    “Damn you—”
    He swung the belt and brought it down hard across her buttocks.
     
    *  *  *
     
    Keith focused on one of the lit dormer windows that protruded from the sloped side of the A-frame. He caught a glimpse of something, then saw her. She was standing, and he could see her from the waist up. She was bare-breasted, and she stood motionless for a few seconds. He could see her face, but at this distance, the equivalent of about twenty-five yards with the four-power magnification, he had trouble making out her features. He thought she looked frightened, but that might have been his imagination.
    Suddenly, she disappeared, and standing where she had been was Cliff Baxter. He focused as tight as he could, then watched Baxter making some sort of odd movement. It took him a few seconds to realize that Baxter was swinging something, a whip, or a belt, or a switch, and he understood what was happening. He lowered the binoculars and felt a tightening in his stomach.
    Billy whispered, “What do ya see?”
    “Nothing.”
    “You see anybody?”
    “Yes… I did.” He looked at Billy and said, “He’s beating her. I’m going in.” He grabbed his rifle and started to stand, but