Thanks to a combination of total exhaustion plus a couple of the hydrocodone tablets that Bradshaw had provided and that she’d washed down with sips of wine, Zoe had managed to sleep fitfully on the filthy bare mattress for what she supposed was most of the night. But now the pills had worn off and excruciating pain and bright light from a single bare bulb was bringing her back to consciousness. She tried opening her eyes. Her right eye was swollen shut from the beating she’d gotten but the left one seemed uninjured. The throbbing in her right wrist was so bad she thought Bradshaw must have broken a bone when he twisted it, forcing her to drop the knife. The blade had been touching his throat and she silently cursed herself for hesitating when she had the chance. For not plunging it in before Tucker grabbed her and the chance was over. If only she’d done so, this nightmare might have been over. So near and yet so far.
Well, she thought, her plan to fascinate Bradshaw enough that he’d want to keep her alive had certainly turned to shit in a hurry. The problem was her own inability to keep from fighting back by taunting him verbally and then driving the corkscrew into his ear. And, of course, her inability to finish him off with the knife when she had the chance.
She tried moving the wrist, and though movement was painful, she found it was possible. Since he’d removed the cuffs she was able to use her uninjured left hand to feel all around the wrist. She could find no obvious breaks. Perhaps it was only a sprain. She next examined the area around her swollen right eye and cheek and jawbone. She felt both heat and extreme swelling on the right side of her face. She was sure she was badly bruised. She wondered if Bradshaw had broken her jaw when he punched her and knocked her unconscious. She opened and closed her mouth a few times. It hurt, but at least she could manage it. She tried moving her jaw from left to right. Same result. The punch was so hard and her bones so thin, she was sure he must have broken something. But as far as she could tell, everything seemed to have remained intact. She took a quick inventory of her condition. One eye swollen shut. One wrist probably sprained, possibly broken. And for some reason there was a throbbing pain in her right earlobe. She reached up and felt the ear. Where her small circular silver earring had once been, she felt only ripped, rough skin. One of the Bradshaws, Tyler or Tucker, must have ripped the earring out during the fight. It was an inexpensive earring . . . a birthday present from her cousin Casey when she turned twenty-one. . . but it was part of a pair she really liked and wore often. Still, she supposed it was just a minor wound compared to the others. At least she wasn’t dead. Not yet. Though she was certain death would be coming soon enough. And when it did, she’d no longer feel badly about losing a twenty-five-dollar earring.
The next thing she noticed was the mattress she was lying on. No more than three or four inches thick, covered in stained black and white striped ticking, lying on an iron cot. It was the kind of bed you see in movies about prisons. The kind she used to sleep on at summer camp when she was a little kid, except this mattress stunk and there wasn’t any upper bunk. As a camper she’d always loved sleeping on the upper bunk.
She was still dressed as she had been during her last battle, except now both her sweater and her jeans were covered with dried and drying blood. Most of it had probably spilled from Bradshaw’s ear. Though she supposed some of it might have been hers. She wasn’t sure.
She looked around the cell. The same one Bradshaw’s father had locked his sons in when he wanted to punish them. It was small. Ten by ten at most. Dirt floor. Cinder-block walls. There was no door. The only way to get in or out of this underground prison was by climbing up a wooden ladder that led up to a rough wooden hatch that had been cut into the ceiling. She was certain the hatch was kept locked, and not by one of the thumb-recognition locks they used upstairs. After all, why bother with technology? All they needed here, on this last stop on the road to death, was an old-fashioned padlock. Next to the ladder was a rough wooden table. None of Tyler Bradshaw’s hand-carved furniture had found its way down here. Just a small prescription bottle and a liter of Poland Spring water. On the opposite side from the bed was a commode chair with a white bucket attached underneath the seat. Apparently, the inmates were allowed both to drink and to pee. Zoe managed to get up, walk over, and lower herself onto the seat. She wondered if Bradshaw emptied and cleaned the attached bucket himself or left such unpleasant tasks to poor Tucker. When she’d finished, she pulled a length of toilet paper off one of the two rolls that had been placed on the floor next to the commode. Was the fact that there were two rolls a good sign? Did it mean he wanted to keep her alive long enough for her to go through more than one? At this point, she found she simply didn’t care. She just wanted the pain to stop.
She managed to pull up and button her bloodstained jeans without causing too much stress to her injured wrist. Then she staggered over to the table, where she took a double dose of hydrocodone from the prescription bottle and washed the pills down with a long swig of water. She went back to the bed and lay down. It only took a couple of minutes before she dropped off to sleep again. This time she didn’t dream of death.