Uncovering You 10: The Finale (8 page)

I look down between my legs. The cords are severed. I am actually free.

I rise, slowly. My whole body is on edge. I cannot help the terrible trembling that buzzes through me with the force of a nest of wasps.

I make it four steps forward before my knees give out. I fall to the side.

Cold
, I think.
So very, very cold.

I huddle into myself and shiver, right there on the floor.

Being here opens the floodgates to all the memories and associations that I’ve repressed. I feel like I’m right back in the sunroom, the collar tight around my neck. Everything that I’ve experienced with Jeremy since then feels like a fever dream.

I try to summon my strength. It doesn’t come. How could it, after all the things that have been done to me in the past year? I’ve moved from being one person’s pawn to another’s. My strength isn’t going to save me now.

Nothing is.

I feel despair building. I know it is a most dangerous emotion.

The crow, the shack in the woods, being rescued by Paul are things I called upon last in my time of need. Memories that reminded me of the strength I possessed.

They are futile now.

Jeremy. I want Jeremy. I know Jeremy can save me. Jeremy can get me out of this. Some way, somehow. If it’s possible, Jeremy will do it.

Those thoughts calm me. Somewhat. I still feel strung tight, but I’m no longer shaking.

I push up to my hands and knees. I take a deep breath. That scent—the smell of rusted metal—reminds me of corrosion and death.

And what if it’s impossible?
A sinister voice asks me.
What if Jeremy fails?

If Jeremy fails… then all the lights in my life have been extinguished.

I pad on my hands and knees over the floor toward the tin of food.

It’s a lunchbox. One made of cold, dented steel. It’s so industrial, so military, that it frightens me.

My hands shake as I open the front latch.

There’s a sandwich inside. Sloppily put together, just two pieces of bread around a tiny slice of deli meat. A bag of Lays is beside it. There is a metal canister of drink at the top.

I reach for the bottle. Twist open the lid. Bring it to my lips, still half-dazed. Take a sip, swallow—and immediately gag.

It’s motor oil.

I fall to the side, my insides clenching with pain, and hurl up everything I’ve eaten over the last two days.

Laughter comes from behind me. I open my eyes, weak, and drag my head toward the sound. Big Man is back, filling the doorway. He throws a clear water bottle to me. It rolls on the floor and comes to a stop in the middle of my puddle of puke.

He turns and slams the door, the loud, jarring sound making me start with horrible anxiety.

Black liquid from the canister runs down the slope toward me. The slick stickiness clings to my hands and gets on my clothes. I swallow, try not to breathe too deeply, try not to taste my vomit on my tongue, and reach for the water bottle with black-stained fingers. I drag the lunchbox away, huddle in a corner, and pick at my meager meal.

The next morning I am awakened by a boot in my side.

“Up,” a voice hisses. “Get up. It’s time to smile for the camera.”

Before I know it, I’m being lifted by two men and dragged toward an empty chair.

There’s a tripod positioned in front of it. A camcorder with a single red, flashing light stares me in the face.

“Your name,” the operator demands.

“Wh—what?”

“You name!” he exclaims, and backhands me across the face.

The two men holding me snicker.

“L—Lilly Ryder,” I manage, weakly.

“Lilly Ryder.” The man says. I recognize his voice as that of the first assailant. “And where are you right now, Lilly Ryder?”

“I—I don’t know,” I mutter.

“Whore!” The man screams. He hits me again.

A hand from one of the men behind me grasps me by the chin and forces my face toward the lens. And that small, evil red light.

“Describe it,” the first man tells me. “Tell the world of your new lodgings. Tell
Jeremy Stonehart
.”

My breath catches. “Jeremy?” I say.

“This fucking woman,” the man mutters, shaking his head. He turns the camera off. He sits opposite me and stares at me.

His two cronies holding me make me sit up.

“This,” the first man says, from behind the dark fabric of his mask, “is how things are going to proceed. I will ask you a question. You will look at the camera and give your response. Do you understand?”

“What do you want?” I manage.

The man gives an angry hiss. The hand tightens around my neck.

“No,” he gestures at whoever’s holding me. “No, don’t hurt her. We have to make her understand, first, what the danger of non-compliance is.”

The hand falls away, and I can breathe again.

The first man addresses me. “Lilly,” he says. “Lilly Ryder. What is contained in that name?” He spreads one hand open before me. “To me?” He lifts the bottom of his mask up and spits to one side. “It is nothing. You…” He points a finger at me. “…are worth nothing. My employer…” He chuckles. “…thinks that you exhibit extraordinary influence over Mr. Stonehart. He is the one we are after. So, if you comply, perhaps…” He shrugs. “…you will get out of this alive. But…” His voice takes on a menacing tone. “…if you do not, you will have no chance. Now then. The way we go, is entirely up to you. But I can promise you one thing, Miss Ryder. If you do not conform, the death that takes you will not be quick. It will not be pleasant. Remember that the next time you speak out of turn.”

He leans back and positions the camera between his legs again. He points it at me and turns it on. “Shall we try once more? What is your name?”

I glue my eyes to the floor. “Lilly Ryder.”

The video shoot was very short. After saying my name, I was made to describe the room I was in. Once I’d finished, he turned the camera off, packed up the tripod, and left the room. His two friends followed him.

The rest of the day I spend uncertain, afraid, and very much alone. The constant drip-drip-drop of water from the pot is my only companion.

I get another visit from the burly man. He deposits my daily allotment of food. I sniff at the liquid inside the canister. It’s not water. I place a drop on my skin, taste it tentatively with my tongue.

Soy sauce
.

Chapter Twelve

Days pass slowly in the dark. I still do not know what they want.

To break me? Maybe. To prove to me the extent of my despair? Perhaps.

Every morning starts the same way. I am roused by a kick. Hands grab me, haul me up. I’m forced into a chair, and that camera is positioned before my face.

I am told to speak my name. Then I’m asked to describe the room I’m in. Over and over, every day the same. Every interaction identical.

Food comes courtesy of Big Man. He seems to take twisted pleasure in torturing me by switching the contents of the round, metal canister. Never is it simply water. I’ve gotten spoiled milk. Vinegar.

Piss.

Every time, he waits for me to try it before laughing and tossing me a sealed Aquafina.

I can’t drink water from the tap. It’s brown, murky, and stale. The one time I refused to drink the canister, Big Man shrugged and walked away.

I did not get water that day. Dehydration almost killed me.

Day eleven
. I’ve kept track by making marks on the wooden chair.

I’m awake when the door opens and the men come in. They see me watching their approach. One of them laughs and kicks me anyway.

“Wake up,” he sneers. “Today is judgment day.”

I’m dragged into the seat. I feel cold and weak and thin and frail.
How much longer can this last?
I think with desperation.
How many more days can I take?

The camera is there. Staring me straight in the face. The red, blinking LED light mocks me.

“Your name,” the man grunts.

I know the drill by heart. “Lilly Ryder,” I say.

“Tell us where you are, Lilly.”

“A cold place,” I say. “A nasty place. A sewer. A prison. A bunker. Everything is dark. There are pipes all around me. Concrete and cement. It’s dingy. It’s bad.”

This is the part when the men usually fold up the camera and leave.

Instead, the leader throws me off guard by leaning close and whispering, “Are you frightened?”

I swallow. Close my eyes, and shy away.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Very much so”

“To the world!” the man demands. “Say it to the world!”

I open my eyes and look at the camera. I can see part of my reflection in the lens. I look terrible. “Yes,” I mumble.

“Yes,
what
?” the man asks.

“Yes, I’m scared!” I scream.

Laughter greets me from behind me, and from in front.

“Good,” he says. “Very, very good. I was told you’d be hard to break. I doubted it. Women are all…fragile.”

I gnash my teeth but don’t say a word.

“Do you know who we are?” He tilts his head toward that insidious lens. “Do you know what we want?”

“N—no,” I manage.

He takes a sudden, sharp intake of breath. “Remember,” he snaps, lifting his arm, “what happens when you lie.”

The back-handed strike across my face sends me crumbling to the floor.

I taste blood. My lip has burst. I expect to be lifted up, but instead, somebody pins me down.

I start to cower. To tremble. I’m weak.

The camera appears before my eyes. It’s laid down beside me. A hand grasps my hair. My head is jerked up.

I see the shimmer of a silver blade. The serrated edge catches a ray of light.

“Now,” the first man says, kneeling beside me. “Please try again. Who are we?”

“I DON’T KNOW!” I scream.

He laughs. “Correct. Next questions. And don’t you lie this time. What do we want?”

I rack my brain for the right answer. And then I remember.