quiet now though. I wonder what they’re up to.”
Patrick’s head was down and didn’t move after Arty’s comment.
“Are you fading on me, big man?” Arty asked.
Patrick gradually lifted his head and stared at Arty. His mask of rage was still evident, but there was a tint of fatigue to it now. If you coupled that with the abundance of wounds—the swollen eye, the egg on the forehead that had since turned purple, the cuts and bruises framing it all—then Patrick could have been a dead ringer for a prizefighter after twelve grueling rounds.
“You’re looking a little weary.” He got in Patrick’s face and studied him. “Can’t say I blame you though. It must be eating you up inside to think about your wife and my brother going at it in the other room.”
Patrick mumbled something through his gag. Arty patted him on the head and said, “Good idea; I’ll go check on them.” He opened the bedroom door and stepped into the hallway, only to return a second later with a grin. “The door’s shut. The door’s shut and they’re quiet. I guess she finally decided to play the game.”
Patrick dropped his head again.
“At least she decided to join the game,” Arty said, strolling to the far end of the room. “But your kids?” He huffed. “Caleb? Carrie? What do you have to say for yourselves?”
Arty looked down at the two children who were huddled together in a corner. Carrie’s thumb was back in her mouth, and Caleb was curled into himself and no longer looking at his father. Both children were shells.
“Kids? Are you with me?” Arty asked. He turned back to Patrick. “I guess not. It’s a shame too. We went through a lot of trouble planning this. I wanted to include everybody; not just you and Amy.”
Arty headed back to the bedroom door and opened it for another look. The door across the hall was still closed.
“Don’t be mad at Jim, Patrick,” he said after shutting the bedroom door behind him. “He can’t help who he is. I personally don’t approve of his need to have most women we take. I feel it cheapens the game. But what are you gonna do? He’s my brother and I love him.” He then burst into a random cackle as though remembering a punch line to a recent joke. “He sure is a horny bugger though, isn’t he? Like a rabbit on Viagra my brother is.”
53
Amy had stopped fighting. She lay beneath Jim, his hand hovering over her mouth, ready to clamp back down in case she decided to scream again.
She had no such intentions. She now had a plan.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Jim appeared shocked. He even said, “What?”
“I’m sorry,” Amy said again. “I’m very scared. I won’t fight you anymore. Just please promise me you won’t hurt my children or my husband.”
Amy knew this attempt at bartering was futile given what she had seen from these men, but it helped support the idea that she was willing to be cooperative with her captor, let him think that her gumption had finally been stripped away, leaving nothing but a desperate naiveté. She needed to be careful though. If she appeared too desperate, too naïve, too willing…
“I promise,” Jim said. He was wearing a smile that revealed his lie to such a degree it looked as if he wasn’t even trying to humor her. She pushed her anger aside, remained focused.
“Can you sit up a bit please?” she asked. “I’m having trouble breathing with your full weight on me like this.”
Jim didn’t move. He studied her.
“Please,” Amy said again. “I won’t scream or run—just as long as you keep your promise.”
Jim continued to study Amy. He squinted, cast her a sly, sidelong glance. Then, with a quick burst, said, “Sure,” and hopped off her, rolling onto his feet beside the bed.
“Thank you,” she said. She sat up onto her knees and inched closer to Jim who had now relocated to the foot of the bed.
He watched her as she approached, a slight twitch to his manner as though perhaps she still had one good outburst left in her. But Amy was determined to portray the role of the passive hostage, willing to do whatever necessary to ensure the safety of her husband and children. She lowered her head and inched closer, the crown of her hair now touching Jim’s chest. She stayed there for a few seconds, inhaled deep, the exhale choppy with fear, intentionally so. “Remember your promise.”
She didn’t look