I AM GOING TO DIE.
She heard those five words in her head as she felt herself being pulled from the house, out into the cold air. The snow was a sudden shock against her bare feet. And yet it was drowned out by those five simple words, echoing over and over again.
I am going to die.
“Please,” she said, already shivering. “Martin . . .”
She went down on her hands and knees in the snow. He pulled her up and started to push her from behind, gathering her tank top in his fist and driving her forward. Through the trees, past the dark empty house next door, through more trees, past another house. All closed up for the winter. There was nobody to help her. Nobody but the man left behind in her kitchen, handcuffed to the drainpipe.
I am going to die.
She tried to resist him, tried to find some kind of leverage to pull away, but she kept slipping in the snow. Her knees and elbows were bleeding. A cold wind came off the frozen lake and sliced through her bare skin.
I am going to die.
She reached around and grabbed his wrist, tried to twist the thumb, a distant memory coming back from a self-defense class in college. His grip loosened just enough for her to break free, but then he pushed her hard from behind, and she went right out onto the ice and fell onto her back. Another sudden shock as the ice and the snow bit into her skin.
She rolled over and tried to push herself up. He stayed there on the edge, a shadow, not moving, as she kept slipping and falling back down, each time another cold shock, another scrape of her skin. In the end, she settled on her hands and knees, pulling herself into a ball, making herself as small as possible to protect herself against the wind.
This is it, she said to herself. That same calm voice from a thousand miles away. This is the end. I’m going to die right here on this lake, and they’ll find my frozen body tomorrow. Or a month from now. Or in the spring . . .
He came out onto the ice and grabbed her again, dragging her back to the shore. As she stood up straight she was close enough to see his eyes reflecting the dim ambient light. He hadn’t said a word since she’d pointed the gun at him, and how much more terrifying was this silent disjointed face that looked back at her. There was something fundamentally different about him now, as if some basic human quality had been left behind in that house, some essential gear in his mind stripped and spinning free.
She tried to scream again, but he slapped one open hand against her cheek, making everything explode in a white flash of heat and pain. As he grabbed her arm, she went down to the ground, and he dragged her across the snow like a father pulling a child on a sled. The ice and the rough ground cut at her skin, until she finally managed to scramble to her feet. They continued around the lake this way, Livermore half pulling, half dragging, past more empty houses, past the part of the road that came near the lake, where Jeannie desperately hoped for one last chance, one pair of headlights coming from White Cloud. One vehicle she could wave to, could throw herself in front of.
But the road was just as dark and empty as the lake, and he kept pulling her toward the single light that loomed ahead of them. The Livermore house on the other side of the lake.
As they got closer, some primal part of her longed to be inside it, out of this cold air, sheltered from this wind. A dim light came through the back door and spilled out onto the snow. As he opened the door and pulled her inside, she blinked in the sudden glare and went down on the floor. She saw the skin on her arms, how red it was, and all the cuts and scrapes that were bleeding. She couldn’t feel her feet anymore, and she was still shivering uncontrollably.
She saw drops of blood on the floor. Dried stains that had already been there for God knows how long, her own blood dripping from her face and arms to mix with it.
She didn’t bother to wonder who else had bled in this room, or when. She was past caring. Past comprehending. When Livermore left the room, she looked up and made one last reach for the door. Her hands were just as numb as her feet, and she couldn’t even work the knob to turn it.
“No,” Livermore said as he came back into the room and threw a blanket at her. “You’re not leaving.”
He was talking to her again, but his voice sounded like the flat, emotionless drone of a machine. She grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around her as tight as she could, taking one breath at a time, staring at the floor, watching the snow melting and dripping from her hair, the drops of water mixing with the blood from her arms.
“There were others,” he said, standing above her.
She didn’t even try to move away from him.
“Women who had to pay the price.”
She had nothing left. No strength, no fight.
Please stop talking, she thought. If you’re going to kill me, kill me . . .
“It’s time for you to meet them.”
She was still trying to comprehend what those words could even mean as he pulled her back to her feet and led her down the stairs.