The food had been the only decent thing about Mal’s captivity. It sent an odd twist through his guts to know Rose cooked it. They’d fed him black-eyed peas and greens after her visit. Then they’d kicked his broken ribs until he vomited Rose’s greens all over the floor.
Joe told him they’d let him go, send him to California if he talked. Larry sent nervous, excited glances toward the circular saw.
Mal listened for Rose the next day, the clatter and bustle of a woman in the kitchen, comfortable sounds that sent longing through him when they came, and when they stopped, grief that he would never hear them again.
He’d held out longer than expected. Those looks Joe and Larry gave each other the night before told him Stu was ready to cut his losses.
Dinner never came. Snores drifted through the vents, the heavy snores of passed out drunks. Underneath the snores, the quiet click of the lock.
This time the flashlight penetrated the darkness with more certainty, the light kindling twin frissons of hope and alarm. He worked spittle into his mouth and licked cracked lips.
The sweet face he never expected to see again hovered over him, a finger to the bow mouth, warning him to stay silent.
She whispered, “I can get you out, but you’re leaving your foot behind.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
She set down a carryall and withdrew a quart bottle, some kind of liquor. “I can’t leave you here. Drink this, it will help.”
Mal propped himself up and took the bottle. She sat on the dirt floor beside him and rummaged in the bag, her face averted.
“How do you expect to do this without getting both of us killed?”
Rose’s voice was brisk. “I put Ma’s morphine in the soup. Larry and Joe won’t wake up until the second coming. Uncle Stu is at the club.
“My grandpa did field amputations in the Civil War. I know how he did it, only he didn’t have an electric saw. I’ll put a tourniquet on your leg to keep you from bleeding to death, and afterwards I’ll cauterize the stump the way grandpa did.”
“And how was that?”
“I sprinkle gunpowder on it and light a match.”
Mal took a swig from the bottle and waited for the booze to burn its way to his stomach.
“How many of his patients survived?”
“More than half. What other chance do you have?”
If he died this way, at least Stu wouldn’t win. “And how do you plan to carry me out of here?”
“My cousin Nick is waiting outside to help with the operation.”
“What’s he doing outside?”
“This is going to hurt more than you can stand. I had to use Ma’s morphine to put Larry and Joe asleep. I’ve got a piece of leather for you to bite on and the gin will help, but it won’t be enough.”
“What do you plan to do? Hit me over the head with a skillet?”
“Grandpa was a plain-speaking man. He said making love was one of the best pain killers nature ever invented.”
Mal choked, spraying gin.
Rose shifted coming closer, fidgeting with the top button of her blouse. The brisk voice held a slight tremor now. “You’re hurt, so I expect I need to do most of it myself.” She picked up his hand and placed it on a firm, full breast. “I’ve never done this before. Will you tell me what to do?”