Some Kind of Magic (6 page)

Dylan was too dazed and weak to do much more than lie in bed and eat the food the mothball woman brought him. He sometimes imagined he was living a Stephen King novel, being held hostage by some mad woman.

Her place was nice. No complaints about that.

A two-story log cabin, a little on the dark side because of the wooden walls and wooden floor, but visually warm, if not actually warm.

There was quite a bit of antique furniture. He’d never been able to figure out if he liked old stuff or not. On one hand, it creeped him out because it was old and you couldn’t be sure of where it had been. And it smelled. Antique furniture had a musty smell that made him feel like gagging. On the other there was something mysterious and cool about not knowing who’d owned it to begin with, about wondering what the owners had been like. One thing for sure, antique furniture gave off weird vibes that new furniture didn’t and couldn’t.

Claire’s bed had to be ancient. The frame was made of welded iron along with a bit of brass for accent. On top of the mattress was some kind of feather pillow thing he sank into, that just kind of swallowed him.

It felt great.

To someone who’d lived the most minimalistic lifestyle for the past several years, it felt almost sinful.

She had a lot of quilts. And a lot of pottery stuff, with dried flowers and weeds stuck here and there, but the pictures were the most intriguing. He didn’t know much about art, but he’d guess that most of them were watercolors, with a few acrylics thrown in. They were good. Better than good. At first he thought they were photographs, they were that good. But then as he lay there, contemplating his situation, he realized they were paintings.

Wow.

Yep, Claire’s house was welcoming, the way a soft bed was welcoming when you were dog-tired. It was so alien, so totally different from Louisiana and Arizona.

He could stay here, he decided. He could stay a long time.

~0~

On the second day of his visit—or the third day if you counted the night he'd taken Claire hostage—he discovered how many women it took to hold a man against his will.

Just one.

He woke from a deep doze to find himself handcuffed to the bed.

Helluva deal.

He looked up. These weren't your regular cuffs. They were the kind cops used to transport prisoners, wrapping the length of chain around the prisoner's body. Lucky for him, she hadn't done that. Instead, she's taken up some of the slack, then ingeniously padlocked the chain to the railing; at the head of the bed, thus allowing him some freedom of movement, but not much.

“Claire!” He jerked his arms, trying to free himself. The handcuffs rattled against the metal.

"'Claire! Get your ass in here!”

She finally showed up in the doorway, coffee cup in hand, just calm as you please.

He rattled the handcuffs again. “What the hell's this about?”

She didn't come any closer. Instead, leaning against the doorjamb, one wool-clad foot on top of the other, she casually bobbed a tea bag in her coffee cup, as if giving herself time to contemplate her excuse.

What was the name of that book? Misery? He hoped to hell she didn’t have an ax or a chainsaw around.

“Claire!” It was a warning.

“We have television here in the boonies, believe it or not.”

She was wearing an off-white waffled top tucked into a pair of faded, torn jeans. Her dark hair hung loosely on either side of her face. He could smell the cold outdoors on her, even at a distance. “I know who you are,” she said.

“You do?” He didn’t like the sound of this. He’d worked hard to keep his identity a secret.

“I know all about you. About your crimes. Your prison record. Your escape. I know your name isn’t Dylan.”

Things were beginning to make sense. “My escape. You heard about that?”

She nodded.

He remembered how those bastards had shot at him, like it was open season on humans. Open season on escaped prisoners. “It was strictly white-collar crime,” he said. “I swear.”

“On the news, they said you were dangerous. They said not to approach you, to call the police instead.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He had a vague recollection of Claire, pulling at him, tugging at him, yelling and cussing at him in order to get him back to her house. “So, why didn’t you just leave me out there, Claire?” he asked softly.

“I value human life.”

That was good to know. It could come in handy in the future.

“I'm sorry about the handcuffs, but you’re getting stronger. Feeling better. I couldn’t take any chances.”

“My arms are numb,” he said, trying to sound pathetic, trying for a little guilt manipulation. He wasn't afraid that she'd leave him there long. She was a soft touch. She hadn't tried to shoot him. And she'd saved his life.

“I can't feel my fingers.”

“Wiggle them.”

She was coming across a little tougher than he thought. “How can I wiggle them if I can’t feel them?”

She didn’t have an answer for that.

“I need a drink of water.” She wouldn't be able to refuse a man a drink.

It worked.

She left, then returned with a glass of water. Instead of releasing him, she lifted the glass to his mouth.

He watched her as he drank.

“Sorry,” she said as water trickled down his neck and chest. She gave it a cursory wipe with the waffle-weave sleeve of her shirt. Then she put down the empty glass near the bed. She was turning to leave when he came up with another request.

“Do you have a spare toothbrush? I'd like to brush my teeth.”

She had to unlock the cuffs this time. She surely wouldn't brush his teeth for him.

He was feeling relatively confident when she brought a toothbrush and toothpaste, along with a towel and a glass of water.

He glanced up at the cuffs, waiting.

She put some toothpaste on the brush, jammed the brush in his mouth, and stepped back, arms crossed at her waist.

Oh, that was nice. The toothbrush was stuck in his mouth like a sucker. He pushed it around with his tongue. All he managed to do was spread the minty taste.

“Would you mind?” he asked around a mouthful of foaming toothbrush.

She sighed and approached the bed once more. She grabbed the toothbrush, sloshed it up and down against his teeth, banging his gums, then wiped his mouth with the towel.

“I sincerely hope you take better care of your own teeth,” he said, still trying to come up with something she wouldn't be willing to do for him.

“I could use a shave,” he ventured.

“You look okay to me.”

“It itches.”

“So?”

She was a lot tougher than he thought. “Are you trying to torture me? Or just keep me from getting away? Because it looks like you’re being mean for the sake of being mean.”

That did it.

She left.

She wouldn’t be back, he decided. At least not for a while.

But she did come back. Right away.

This time she carried a bowl, a can of shaving cream, and a pink disposable razor. He was patiently waiting for her to bring out the key, when she sat down beside him, one hip against his. She shot some shaving cream into her palm, then rubbed it on his face.

He pulled his head back against the pillow. “You can’t shave me.”

“Why not?”

“I have a heavy beard. It’s hard to do. Takes a certain technique.”

“I used to shave my boyfriend sometimes.”

“He couldn’t have had a beard like mine. Nobody has a beard like mine.”

“He was French and Greek. He had a heavy beard.”

She dipped the razor in the water, lifted the blade to his face, and proceeded to shave him.

“What’s his name?”

“Who?”

“The boyfriend.”

“Anton.”

He let out a loud snort. Shaving cream flew, some of it hitting her in the face.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, trying not to smile, failing.

She wiped her face with the towel.

“You missed a spot.”

“Where?”

“I'd point, but as you can see, I'm being cruelly held against my will.”

She wiped again, almost getting it all this time.

“This boyfriend,” he began. “He isn't your boyfriend anymore?”

“No.”

“Why? What was wrong with him?”

“He decided to become a gigolo."

That certainly wasn't what he'd expected. “You're kidding, right?”

“He wouldn't call himself one, but that's what he is. He prostituted himself to get a few rungs higher on the social ladder."

She ran the metal blade against his jaw, rinsed it in the bowl, then put it to his face again.

“What can you expect,” he said, “with a name like Anton. It was bound to happen.”

“What about your name? I don't know what to call you. The news said your name is Trevor.”

“What do you see me as?”

She shrugged. “I don't want to play games. I just want to know what to call you."

“I wasn't lying when I said my name was Dylan. It's my given name. Trevor is just— I don't know ... something I came across once.”

“All done.” She wiped his face with the same towel she’d used on herself. She was staring at him.

“What?” he asked.

“I didn’t cut you. That’s a first.”

“I wish I could feel it. I always have to feel my face after a good shave.”

“Take my word for it. I didn’t miss anything.”

“I’m very into touching. I’m a sensual person.”

“I’ve heard prison does that.” She got to her feet. “I’ll be back later to check on you.”

Before he could think of anything else to keep her from leaving, she left.

Shit.

He could hear her walking around, probably getting dressed to go outside, something that could take quite a while in this wasteland. Why would anybody live someplace where they couldn’t just walk out the door?

The door slammed.

Two minutes later, he heard the ominous sound of a chainsaw.

Claire sank the chainsaw blade into the trunk of a dead cottonwood that had blown down last fall. Wood chips flew, hitting her goggles, bouncing off the front of her jeans.

Ten minutes later, her boots were full of sawdust.

The handcuffs had come in handy, she had to admit. And what choice did she have? She couldn't risk his getting away. Now that he was feeling better, her plan was to keep him handcuffed while she walked to the nearest neighbor to call the police.

A simple plan. One she was fairly proud of.

It hadn't been easy, getting the handcuffs on while he slept. It had been downright scary. But luckily, he was a deep sleeper, and the additional length of chain had kept her from having to adjust his position.

The police would come and take him away in their four-wheel-drive Suburban. They would tell her what a great job she'd done. They might even give her a plaque to hang on the wall. Some kind of good-citizen award.

The weird thing was, the disturbing thing was, she was beginning to like him.

How sick. Really sick.

It was just that some of the things he'd said and done had gotten to her. Like the snow angel. And the gun. Sure, he'd jabbed it into the back of her head, but there was a chance he'd known it wasn't loaded.

Quit making excuses for him. He's a criminal.

She finished cutting several pieces from the trunk of the tree, then turned off the chainsaw. Her back ached and her fingers were numb from the vibration. When she'd first started cutting her own wood a couple of years ago, she couldn't lift her arms above her chest when she was done. She'd discovered that strange phenomenon when she'd tried to raise a glass to her mouth and could only get it halfway there. Now using the chainsaw didn't bother her.

With an ax, she split enough wood to last a few days. They said that firewood warmed you three times: when you cut it, when you carried it in, and when you burned it. Truer words were never spoken. Her waffle top was soaked with sweat.

She picked up an armload of wood and headed for the house. Inside, she kicked off her boots, hung up her jacket on the peg near the door, and pulled off her damp cap. She was going to have to strip down to nothing and start over with all dry clothes, otherwise she'd be freezing within a half hour.

Before changing, she loaded the stove with enough wood to keep the house warm for a few hours—enough time for her to go to the neighbors and call the police.

The wood was damp. It began to smoke immediately. She hoped it wouldn't go out. If that happened, the house would be cold before she got back. She could turn on the electric heat, but she'd used it too much already. She quickly closed the airtight door and adjusted the damper. Then she went to check on her prisoner.

“What do you plan to do with me?”

Some women might just keep him.

Cleaned up, the guy wasn't half-bad. Earlier, when she'd finished shaving him, when the intimidating hair had been removed from his face, her knees had gone weak. He was about the handsomest man she'd ever seen. And now, in the daylight, she could see that his eyes were an ever-changing mixture of gray and hazel.

He wasn't wearing underwear. She knew that for a fact. His solution to having no clean underwear was to simply forget about them. After he'd taken a shower last night, he'd left the giveaway pair of striped boxers on the bathroom floor.

Dressed in nothing but his own faded jeans, jeans that Claire had been grudgingly domestic enough to wash, he’d padded barefoot to the bedroom. Later, Claire had managed to dig out an oversized T-shirt of her own for him to put on, but now, with his arms raised above his head, the shirt crept up to reveal a flat abdomen.

Libby was right. Claire had been holed up in the boonies too long. With that theme in mind, she said, “Maybe I’ll keep you a while before I turn you in.” Why was she teasing him? “I have a lot of stuff around here I could use help with.”

“Kind of a bondage thing?” He seemed intrigued with the idea. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s do it. Right now. You can leave the handcuffs on.”

“I thought I wasn’t your type,” she said, backpedaling as fast as she could.

He shrugged. “I’m bored. And it could be an interesting diversion. I thought that’s what you mountain people did up here all winter.”

She crossed her arms. “Ha, ha.”

“You know something?”

“What?”

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

She stared.

Was he kidding?

“My whole system didn’t shut down just because you have me strung up. Unlock these things.” He squirmed. “Hurry.”

This was certainly messing up her schedule. “I can’t.”

“I won’t try to get away. You’ve got my word.”

“Weren’t you into fraud? Isn’t fraud based on lies?”

“Come on, Claire. Have some mercy here.”

She left to return with a plastic jar that had originally contained generic peanut butter. Claire remembered what it had once held because Libby’d had a fit when she spotted it in the cupboard, claiming that the inferior peanuts used in the generic product contained more carcinogens.

Claire placed the jar on the bed beside him. “Use that.”

“With my hands bound?”

She really wasn’t sure how he was going to go about it. “You probably figure something out.”

“You can either do the honors for me, or unhook my hands.”

“I brushed your teeth and shaved you, but I’m not going to help you pee.”

“Then come on. Unlock me. One hand. Just one hand. The other one will still be locked. I won’t be able to get away with one hand still in cuffs.”

She chewed her bottom lip. If she unlocked the cuff, he might try to grab her. If he grabbed her, he could get the key. But if she moved fast enough, if she unlocked it and jumped away, out of his reach ...

“This is inhumane.”

He was right.

“They wouldn’t treat a prisoner like this."

He was right.

“What’ll it going to be next? Water torture? Bamboo shoots under my fingernails?”

“I’ll unlock one hand, but just one.”

“That’s all I need.”

She had the advantage. She hadn’t had a concussion or whatever his problem had been. She hadn’t almost died in a blizzard. Plus his circulation couldn’t be good with his hands above his head like that. His reflexes would be slow. She could move faster. And that’s all it would take: speed.

She slipped the key from the front pocket of her jeans and crossed the room. With her left hand, she twisted the cuff, so the lock was exposed, all the while aware that he was staring at her. She stuck the key in the hole. Then, prepared to jump away, she turned the key.

He was so fast she didn’t even have a chance to move, or a chance to take a breath, or a chance to fully comprehend what was happening.

The only thing she realized was that he’d gotten the better of her.

One moment, she was turning the key in the lock, the next his fingers were wrapped around her wrist.

He smiled at her in the most alarming, self-satisfied way.

“Well,” he said, smiling, smiling. The guy had a hundred smiles in him. A million smiles.

“You’re fast,” was the only thing she could think of.

“No,” he said, continuing to smile. “You’re just slow.”

He was holding her left hand. The key was in her right.

She smiled back. And gave the key a toss.

The key sailed through the open door, landing with a ping somewhere out of sight. “Now you have to let me go so I can get the key,” she told him, her face just inches from his.

Why was he still smiling?

She had the advantage. She had the upper hand.

Didn’t she?

He just kept smiling, perfect white teeth in a perfectly handsome face.

She heard the click of the handcuff at the same time she felt metal, still warm from his body, latch around her wrist.

“You know what this is called?” he asked calmly, and, just perhaps, sensually.

“W-What?” she asked, stupefied by the boldness of his idiocy.

“Leveling the playing field.”

“But I never wanted to play in the first place.”

“Oh, I think you did.”