Spree (26 page)

“Why are you doing this?” she asked Lyle, looking for humanity in this empty-headed hunk.

“Pa told me to.”

This turned out to be a standard reply. Discussion of morality and ethics with Lyle was about as fruitful as exploring theology with a bust of Darwin (who would have appreciated Lyle, who single-handedly proved the theory of evolution).

Helplessness hit her in waves. She couldn’t get through to this autistic twerp, and she felt sure that when the father showed back up, she’d be in deep, deep shit for the
opposite
reason: the father
was
smart. And crazy.

And he hated Nolan. She came to know that for a fact later on, but she sensed it from the beginning. She smelled revenge in this. This wasn’t just about forcing Nolan into some heist. It was about getting back at him.

Lyle, on the second day, admitted that. She’d had to ask him again and again, and Lyle had winced at her persistence and retreated to his Walkman headphones; but later, when he was getting lunch in the kitchenette (minus the Walkman—he couldn’t microwave and listen to music at the same time), she started in again and finally he said: “Your boyfriend killed my uncle and two of my cousins. He’s a bad man, your boyfriend.”

She was dead. That was her death sentence, and Nolan’s. Unless he could
find
, her, somehow—but how? She was out in the boonies somewhere—the state police and a fleet of helicopters couldn’t have found her. And even if they could, Nolan wouldn’t go to them. This was out of his old life: he
couldn’t
go to the police. And she wasn’t sure she wanted him to: these creatures would kill her, if he went to the police. Like swatting a bug.

She had cried, then; heaving sobs. She didn’t care if the boy heard her—she’d cried the night before, from pain, from fear, but some light of hope and dignity had made her stifle the sounds, not wanting her snoring captor in the next bed to be wakened by her despair, not wanting to let him know, let them know, that they had beaten her down so soon, so easily.

But now that she knew human emotions barely seemed to register with Lyle, she just let go: the tears, the sobs, racked her body. It was a relief, in a way, and as the crying jag subsided she felt better, and a fire within her began fanning itself, bringing her back to life.

Then she got a break. Lyle’s capacity for human emotion had, somehow, been tapped by her crying. He stood at her bedside and touched her arm, gently, and said, “Don’t cry.”

She nodded. Rubbed the tears and snot away from her face with her uncuffed hand.

He raised a finger. “Kleenex,” he said, and went into the bathroom and got her some.

“Thank you,” she said, using the tissues.

He smiled at her, a tight upturned line in his face, and sat back on his bed and reached for his Walkman ’phones.

“No, Lyle,” she said, “please. I’d like to talk.”

He withdrew his hand from the Walkman and looked at her, blankly, innocently.

“I like you, Lyle.”

“I like you, too.” But there was no humanity in it. Nice day. Looks like rain. Have a happy.

“Lyle, you’re too nice a guy to do a thing like this.”

“Pa told me to.”

“I understand that. I understand your loyalty to your father. That’s good, Lyle. That’s admirable.”

“Thanks.”

“But sometimes, Lyle, you have to question.”

“Question what?”

She shrugged, shook her head, searched for the words that could penetrate his fog. “Authority. The things older people say. Your father.”

“I don’t question Pa. He’s family.”

“Lyle, does he like David Bowie?”

“No.”

“Does he like Billy Idol?”

“No. He hates him.”

“Does he like any of your music?”

“No. He really hates it when I listen to funk. He says it’s nigger shit.”

“Is it, Lyle? Is it nigger shit?”

“No. It’s music.”

“It’s good music, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “
I
think so.”

“So your father’s
wrong
, isn’t he?”

“About music?”

“About music.”

“I guess.”

“So he could be wrong about other things.”

Logic Lessons with Lyle
; a new PBS series.

“I guess,” he said.

“Well, it’s wrong to kidnap somebody. It’s wrong to keep them against their will.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with music.”

Score one for the imbecile.

“Lyle, it shows your father’s fallible.”

“Huh?”

“Not perfect. That he can be wrong.”

“He told me to keep you here. We’re not hurting you. We’ll probably let you go.”

Probably. Oh Jesus Christ; her life was hanging by probably.

“Lyle . . .” And she didn’t know what to say. She was lost. She was lost if she thought she could talk her way out.

That afternoon, Monday afternoon, she had tried sex. She decided she’d fuck this moron, if she had to, to get out of here; or at least start to fuck him: she might be able to knock him out with his Walkman, if she got ahold of it and smacked him hard enough (the phone was out of her reach, no matter what she tried). Also, he carried a .38 with a wood stock, stuck down in his belt, which would neuter him if it went off, which seemed a good idea to her. He was thick enough,
maybe
, to take it out and put it on the nightstand, while they made it. If she could interest him in that.

“I’m lonely,” she said.

He was just starting to watch
Gilligan’s Island
; it was half past four. That was one of the shows where he listened to the original soundtrack, as opposed to substituting his own Walkman rock ’n’ roll version.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“I’m
lonely
.”

“I’m keeping you company.”

“You’re a good-looking boy, Lyle. Why don’t you come sit by me.”

He did.

“Wouldn’t you like to kiss me, Lyle?” Gag me with a spoon.

“Sure,” he said. “You’re real pretty.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“Pa said don’t fool with you.”

“Do you always listen to your pa?”

“Yes,” he said.

She grabbed the stock of the .38 in his belt, wedging her hand between his belly and the gun, trying to find the trigger, trying to get her finger on the trigger to shoot his fucking nuts off, and he smacked her.

He stood there; he was quavering a little. “That wasn’t nice,” he said.

“Fuck you,” she said, face stinging.

“You can’t be trusted,” he said, shaking his head, turning to his bed and flopping onto it and watching
Gilligan’s Island.

She was trembling. With rage. With fear. With disgust at herself, for trying to seduce this retard; with astonishment that he had spurned her so readily. She had gotten everything she ever had with her looks, with her sexual attractiveness, and her cleverness in knowing how to use same, how to mate her intelligence with her good looks. It had landed her Nolan, and a sweet life. It had inadvertently landed her here, as well—in the clutches of a cluck against whom all her feminine wiles, her brain, her body, her manipulative powers, were useless. She was impotent.

He let her bathe, once a day. He let her wash out her clothes, her underwear, and the father had provided some Jordache jeans and a frilly blouse (was there a girl in this god-awful family?) for her to wear while her clothes dried. So at least she didn’t have to feel scuzzy. At least she could be clean, relatively, at least her hair wouldn’t be a greasy mess; it was a clean mess, but that was better than greasy. It helped her keep her spirits up, just enough to be thinking of ways out of this.

She went to the bathroom as often as she could get away with it. It was necessary, because she went through the countless cans of Diet Coke Lyle thoughtfully fetched for her upon command. And she was working on a project: the window.

The bathroom window, which looked out upon snowy ground and evergreens mingling with gray skeletal trees, was painted shut. She was working it loose. Paint chips fell, which she dutifully gathered and flushed down the toilet. She didn’t work on it long or hard at any given time, except during her bath, while the water ran, covering the noise of her upward thrusts at the stuck window.

Wednesday morning, as her bath was drawing itself, she broke it loose. She slid it open, carefully, but the wood against wood made an awful screech.

And Lyle was right there, on the other side of the unlocked door: “Are you okay in there?”

Cold air was rushing in on her; goose pimples took control.

“I’m fine,” she said, trying to keep her voice light, squeezing the words past her heart, which was in her throat, in her fucking throat.

He was saying, “What was that noise?”

“The water pipes, I guess. Cold today.”

“Well. Hurry up in there.”

She waited a few beats; the water was still running, so she couldn’t hear whether his footsteps made their way across the room, back to the bed and TV. Maybe he was still on the other side of that door, .38 in his belt. Maybe he was watching
Jeopardy!
while Billy Idol sang. Who the fuck knew.

She put the stool down, and stood on it, and crawled over and out of the window and dropped to the snow, on her knees and hands, in the borrowed jeans and frilly blouse, and she began to run, at first toward the trees—then looking around, she saw down the slope, the top of a building; she curved and ran toward there, her feet crunching in snow-covered leaves, and it was a motel, a small one, just a handful of rooms, and down the hill, goddamn! Highway. Beyond that, the river, the Mississippi.

She knew where she was, vaguely; this was the Illinois side. Probably near Andalusia. She tumbled, ankle giving. Damn! Fuck!

She got on her feet again, quickly, front of her wet from snow. Her ankle was okay—she’d twisted it a little, it would slow her down some, but it wasn’t bad, certainly nothing broken, and she heard him behind her. Christ!

She could hear his footsteps, as he strode through the snow, could hear him puffing, gulping in air, and she tried to pick up speed and then he was on her, tackling her, bringing her down. She looked up, saw the goal line, the highway, down the hill. No touchdown today.

He yanked her up, holding her by her upper arm, dragging her like a disobedient child back up the hill.

“That was bad,” he said. “You shouldn’ta done that.”

“Don’t tell your father.”

“I have to.”

“Why?”

“I just have to.”

He was amazing; he was goddamn fucking amazing. “Do you really think it was wrong of me to try to save myself? To try to get away?”

“You’re supposed to stay with me.”