trudge along. It seems to take forever just to reach the place where the van is hidden. Then he keeps me walking, over several miles of stony ground. The road turns into a path. The path becomes steep and winding.
Eventually we come to a cabin. It looks like it was cozy and woodsy once—made of logs, with tight, even shingles over the roof. There’s a little porch out front, with a single window next to the door. I see a water pump standing in the yard.
Du Pont pushes me inside.
“Sit,” he says, pointing to a dusty old couch.
I sit down on it.
Du Pont picks up a large metal tub and a kettle, and goes outside for a second. While he’s gone, I look wildly around for something useful. A knife or a gun, or even a heavy paperweight. There’s nothing—the cabin is practically empty. Thick dust blankets every surface. Cobwebs hang across the window and rafters. It’s obvious that no one has been here in a long time.
I can hear the pump working next to the house.
Du Pont returns, lugging the metal tub and kettle. He sets the tub down in the middle of the floor, and the kettle on the hopper. Then he strikes a match, setting a fire inside the grate.
I can feel the heat spreading out from the hopper almost at once. It makes me realize that I was shivering on the couch, my arms wrapped tight around my body. I’m only wearing the skimpy cocktail dress, nothing else, and it’s cold out here in the woods.
Du Pont leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching me.
He’s silent and still.
I don’t like the look of the metal tub full of water. I’m afraid he’s going to use it to torture me—holding my head under the water until I tell him whatever he wants to know.
Instead, Du Pont waits for the kettle to boil, then he dumps it into the cold water in the tub, warming it up. He pours in some powdered soap, swishing it around with his hand to mix it in.
“Get in,” he says.
I stare at him.
“W—what?” I say.
“Get in the tub. Wash yourself,” he orders.
He holds out a washcloth, threadbare but reasonably clean.
I don’t want to get in the tub. But I know he can force me to do it, if I refuse.
I walk over to the tub, planning to wash my face and hands.
“Take off your clothes,” he barks.
I pause beside the tub, my stomach churning.
Slowly, I reach behind me and unzip the dress. I slip it off, stepping out of it. Then I take off my underwear, too.
Du Pont watches me, eyes bright but face totally still.
I step into the tub. It’s too small for me to sit down, so I have to stand.
“Wash yourself,” Du Pont orders again, holding out the washcloth.
I take the cloth. I dip it into the water and start using it to soap down my arms.
“Slower,” Du Pont says.
Gritting my teeth, I slowly wash my arms, shoulders, chest, belly, and legs.
Du Pont instructs me how to do it. He tells me to wash between my fingers and toes, between my thighs, even the bottom of my feet. The water is reasonably warm, and the soap smells fresh and clean, like laundry detergent. But it’s incredibly uncomfortable doing this under his eye, especially because I’m still shivering, standing out of the water, and my nipples are hard as glass.
Just when I’m hoping it’s over, Du Pont tells me to turn around. He takes the cloth and he starts washing my back.
The tenderness with which he scrubs me is utterly disturbing. The cloth slides lightly over my skin, making my flesh crawl. At least he doesn’t touch me with his hands—only the washcloth.
He slides the cloth down between my ass cheeks, and I jerk away from him, jumping out of the tub.
“Don’t touch me!” I snap. “If you try to . . . if you try to do anything to me, I’ll fight you. I’ll bite you and claw you and hit you, and I know you’re stronger than me, but I’m not going to stop. You’ll have to kill me right now, and spoil all your psycho plans.”
Du Pont looks amused.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Simone,” he says, in a bored tone. “You’re exactly right. That would spoil all the fun. I want you in your best condition for the hunt.”
I don’t know how he can say those words with such a calm, pleasant expression on his face.