Chapter 22

Brook tossed and turned for several hours. Lance went about his chores, coming in to check on her from time to time. Very late in the evening, Brook awoke, foggy but attentive. Pressure from her bladder had finally wormed its way through the layers of sedation. She became aware of a man moving about in the same room with her. Although she didn’t want to bring attention to herself, she just couldn’t wait. She called out, her voice raspy and barely audible. “Mister, I need to use the bathroom, now. I mean, NOW!” If she didn’t get to a toilet, she was going to wet the bed.

Lance turned from the stove where he was simmering some meat for a stew.

“You’re awake,” he said in a conversational tone. He was relieved to hear she needed the bathroom. He had been worried she might have sustained an injury to her urinary tract, something beyond his basic skill to detect, some internal damage or infection. This was a good sign, in his opinion.

She struggled to sit up. “Please, I need to go, NOW!”

He moved quickly to her bedside. “Better let me help you,” he said. “You probably shouldn’t put any weight on those feet just yet.”

Brook shied back but realized she needed his assistance. She let the man lift and carry her to a small room that held a strange-looking toilet, a table with a large bowl on it equipped with a hand pump, a mirrored cabinet, and several towels hanging from pegs. In the corner was an old claw-foot bathtub partially hidden behind a curtain.

The man stood her carefully in front of the commode, supporting her with one arm to ease the burden on her feet. With efficient movements, he quickly pulled the sweat pants down and lowered her to the toilet. It happened so fast, she was seated before the embarrassment could take hold.

“Please,” she said in a small voice, humiliated by her vulnerability. He looked down at her, his eyebrows raised in query. “Please don’t watch me.”

“I wouldn’t,” he said, surprised. “It never even occurred to me to do so. I’ll wait outside the door. If you need me, I’ll be close by. Just call. I’m just going to go add the vegetables to the stew.” He backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Brook worked to release her urine and had to concentrate in order to do so. She was still very sore and the flow, when it finally came, felt like battery acid pouring from her. She squirmed on the seat in an attempt to lessen the pain. After dabbing gently with tissue, she was relieved to see no blood on the paper. She felt somewhat clearer in her mind, but still lethargic and drugged. Her body was a mass of various aches and pains, but her feet seemed to be the worst. Worse even than her privates which throbbed with a dull unrelenting ache. Sharp pains, dull pains, deep pains, surface pains…she had them all.

She remained seated for a few moments. Where am I? She couldn’t remember how she got here, wherever ‘here’ was. And this man, who was he? Why was he being so kind to her? He had obviously cleaned her up and dressed her wounds. She noticed the bandages and gauze wraps on her legs and feet. What did he want with her? She didn’t trust him, not one little bit, although the reason for this was vague and just outside her ability to grasp. She shook her head to clear it, but all she got for her effort was the resurgence of a headache that had been lurking in the background, just waiting for its chance to reemerge. Putting her hand to her head, she was horrified to discover her hair felt matted and filthy. What had happened to her?

She was so confused. With a shudder, she found she easily remembered Jase and his friends. And her captivity, the days of relentless abuse, and her escape as she dashed out the door to sweet freedom. She remembered the deer and the car spinning out of control. She also remembered jumping from the car and then falling down the slope. These incidents were crystal clear. After that, things became hazy. Sorting backwards through what recent memories she could dig up, she recalled running in the forest on painful feet. But how had she gotten here?

Her heart flipped suddenly. The memory of the man outside the door howling over a dead body came rushing back to her with chilling clarity. She had to leave this place! The man in the next room was a killer! Maybe he was even part of the gang that had kidnapped her. For all she knew, he could be their ringleader, the man they answered to. Either way, he was dangerous. She had seen with her own eyes the result of his violence. A sob caught in her throat as she thought of the poor victim, bloody and slashed apart by this vicious stranger. She could be next! Her long nightmarish ordeal was not over. Like a horror movie, it had merely changed locations and actors. She was still not safe.

Brook fought with the baggy sweat pants and managed to pull them up while sitting by lifting first one side of her rear and then the other. Her sore muscles reminded her of the strain she had endured. She tried to stand and was immediately punished with a blinding hurt that shot from the bottoms of her feet up through her thighs. She cried out.

“Hello? Are you alright?” the man called from the other side of the door.

“I’m okay,” she answered, biting her bottom lip. Her heart raced weakly, and she panted from fear and from the sheer effort required not to weep. She had no choice. She would have to play along until she found a chance to escape.

“I can’t figure out how to flush,” she said, trying for a diversion to buy time. She didn’t know what followed the incident in the forest after she saw him cradling the dead body. Try as she might, she could not recall what happened next. She simply woke up here in this man’s house.

“It’s a composting toilet.”

Silence.

“I’m coming in to get you,” he said. Hearing no protest, he opened the door. Brook stared at him like a frightened doe. “You don’t flush.” Showing her the bucket of peat moss, he explained how the composting toilet worked.

He picked her up and carried her back to the bed. Her arms were around his shoulders and she couldn’t help but to inhale his clean musky scent. She had been wrong about his hair, she thought. It was long and wild, but not dirty. The closeness made her uncomfortable and she looked away, but not before she noticed the shiner he was sporting. He must be a real rabble-rouser, or maybe his last victim fought back. The thought sent a chill up her neck.

“What happened to your eye?” she asked, trying for a casual tone.

“You,” he stated simply. “You socked me.”

“Me?” She wondered if he was angry with her. If so, he didn’t show it. She could hardly believe his words. “I’m sorry; I don’t remember doing that.”

“You were scared. Don’t worry about it. It’s no big deal.” Gently, he sat her on the bed and she pulled her arms away.

“Who are you?” Brook asked in a small voice.

“My name is Lance.”

“I thought your name was Gilbert,” she blurted. Now, where had that come from?

His laughter made her cringe. “No, no. Gilbert’s my goat. I’m Lance.”

“Oh. Well, I heard…something…I don’t know.” Her thoughts were muddled. Then feeling an odd need for courtesy, she continued, “Thank you, Lance. My name is…”

“Brooklyn. I know,” he interrupted her. His smile was there and gone almost before she saw it. “Brooklyn from Denver. I took a peek inside your purse. I wasn’t snooping, by the way; I just wanted to find out who you are.”

“That’s okay,” she said, not sure she believed him and not really comfortable with him going through her purse. But what could she do about it? Nothing. Maybe he had been looking for the money and credit cards Jase had taken.

Her arms shook as she eased herself back against the mattress. She hated being so helpless. She hated even more the weariness that fell over her once her head hit the pillow for it left her vulnerable. “Can I have my purse back?” she asked timidly, raising her head. It became critical that she have the bag with her, a need that bordered on desperation.

 “Of course,” he said. He retrieved the purse from a shelf and placed it into her hands. She clutched it to her chest like a baby. Lance pulled the blankets up over her, covering the purse also. She sighed her relief and relaxed a little.

“I want to go home,” she said as waves of drowsiness threatened to engulf her. “Please let me go.”

“I wish I could do that,” Lance said, pity softening his voice. “But we’ve got nearly a foot of snow outside and it’s still coming down. We won’t be going anywhere for a while.”

She glanced toward the windows for confirmation, but they were covered by heavy interior shutters. He was probably lying to her, trying to trick her. Confusion still fumbled around in her brain, skewing her perceptions.

“I just can’t think why I’m here,” she said sleepily. “How I got here.”

“It’s possible you have a concussion,” he replied. “It’s going to take some time to get your thoughts organized. That’s the way it is with a head injury. You’ve been badly hurt.”

“Did you hurt me?”

Shocked that she would think such a thing, the denial formed on his lips. But before he could answer her, she slipped away into slumber again. He tucked the blanket around her and pushed her dirty hair away from her forehead. He would need to wash that hair soon, he thought. For now, it was time to clean and dress her wounds again. He went to the stove to stir the stew, and then gathered his first-aid items.

Nursemaid Lance, he thought wryly. Poor woman. I feel so sorry for her. But, damn, I sure wish she wasn’t here. How am I going to get rid of her without drawing attention to myself?