THIS TIME THERE COULD BE NO DOUBT. THE ACHING TOOTH WAS what woke Latisha rather than her throbbing toes. The whole right side of her face felt like it was on fire. Maybe when she saw the Boss, she should ask him to pull it. After all, he liked to hurt her, didn’t he? Surely pulling a tooth without benefit of novocaine would hurt like crazy, but she knew he wouldn’t. If hurting her might somehow help her, he would refuse to do it.
She got up and made her way to the toilet. She was alone. There was no longer any need to check if anyone else was already there. Once the flushing tank refilled, she scooped up some water and drank it down. Then she refilled the cup once more and used that water to wash the sore on her leg. She wrapped the heavy metal clamp with another thick layer of toilet paper. She couldn’t see for sure if it was helping, but the pain in her leg seemed to be subsiding.
She was on her mattress again, staring up into the darkness, when she heard the familiar sound of his approaching truck. The Boss was coming home. He was back. She hated it, while at the same time she was relieved and grateful. Roiled by a storm of countervailing emotions, her whole body began to quake. Now that he was here, he would probably replenish her dwindling supply of kibble. That meant she wouldn’t starve to death. The power would stay on. The water would keep on flowing. She wouldn’t die of thirst, either, but Latisha was pretty sure she was going to die.
If he had brought another girl home with him, chances were that he’d take her first. Sandy had told her that was how he usually operated. However, if he chose Latisha instead, at least she’d have a bath—at least she’d be clean—and whatever came after that would happen. Would he stuff her in the freezer, too? Not so long ago, she was pretty sure she wouldn’t have been able to fit inside it. Now things were different. She had seen her sagging skin and sallow complexion in the pockmarked mirror up in the bathroom. For months she’d eaten nothing but kibble. Latisha was literally just skin and bone.
She heard the upstairs door open. Heavy footsteps pounded across the planked floor. They stopped moving on the far side of the room, and something heavy fell to the floor with an ominous thump. What was that? A body, maybe? Had the Boss carried the new girl into the room and dropped her on the floor rather than putting her on the bed. Had something bad happened to her on the way home? Was she already dead?
Latisha held her breath, listening for the sound of voices or conversation—anything that would indicate if the new arrival was dead or alive. She heard the creaking of bedsprings, as though he had sat down on the edge of the mattress, but aside from that there was nothing. Yet then, after what seemed forever, the springs creaked again and footsteps thudded across the room, heading for the top of the stairway. A moment later the upstairs door was yanked open and the lightbulb flashed on.
Latisha had grown accustomed to the momentary blindness that always followed that initial stab of light. Once her vision returned, she saw first his work boots and then the legs of his jeans, slowly making their way down the stairs. When he got to the bottom, she saw he was empty-handed. If he had brought someone home with him, he hadn’t forced her to go downstairs. That meant he was definitely coming for Latisha.
He took an unsteady step forward, but then he stopped and had to lay a hand on the freezer in order to steady himself. She knew he drank. She had smelled it on him sometimes, so was that what was happening here? Was he drunk?
“Hey, Latisha,” he called. “Long time no see. Did you miss me?”
Drunk, she realized, most definitely drunk.
He let go of the freezer and staggered toward her. He always kept the key to the shackles in his right hip pocket. Usually he had no trouble locating the key or operating it, but this time he had difficulty extracting the key from his clothing and fitting it into the hole, cursing and swaying from side to side as he tried to do so. And yes, she could smell the booze on his breath. How drunk was he?
Latisha lay perfectly still while he struggled with the key. Any movement from her would be deemed resistance. Any offer to help him would mean she was belittling his efforts or making fun of him. In either case the punishment would be swift and severe.
As last he got the key to work. The lock clicked open, and the clamp came loose. “Okay, now, girlie,” he said, tossing aside her blanket and then standing there leering at her. “Let’s get ourselves upstairs. Daddy’s got a surprise for you tonight—a big surprise.”
Latisha struggled to her feet. Rising from the floor had always been difficult, but months of disuse had robbed her of muscle tone, and that formerly simple maneuver was growing ever more challenging. Once she was upright, walking wasn’t easy, either. Without the weight of the chain on her leg, it was as though she had to learn to walk all over again. Making her way across the room toward the bottom of the stairs, she realized she was probably staggering as much as he was, but for very different reasons.
Latisha had to use the handrail to help drag herself up the stairway. By the time she reached the top, she was winded and gasping for breath. Looking around the room, she noticed a bag of dog food lying on the floor just inside the door. It appeared to have fallen close to the same place where she’d heard that earlier thump, so maybe the noise had been the dog food falling, not a body.
He had gone hunting for another girl and had come home empty-handed. That meant there were just the two of them here now—Latisha and the Boss.
He brushed past her, stumbled over to the bed, sat down heavily on the bare mattress, and attempted to remove his boots. That was odd. Usually he walked her as far as the bathroom door and locked her inside. For the time being, she stood where she was and waited for him to walk her to the door. Instead, after untying his lace-up work boots, he made two halfhearted attempts to remove one of them. Finally, giving up, he looked up and glared at her.
“Come help me with these damned boots!” It was an order, one not to be disobeyed.
Each time Latisha approached that bed of horrors, she wanted to avert her eyes, but she couldn’t help herself. The faded and filthy surface of the mattress was dotted with stains—some yellow and some rusty red. The original flower pattern of the mattress surface had long since faded into oblivion, while the stains seemed to grow ever more vivid. Latisha understood those stains because some of them belonged to her. Each of them offered mute testimony to some awful act of violence, and each of them was a visible reminder of terrible suffering.
“Well,” he demanded, startling her out of her momentary reflection. “Are you going to take them off or not?”
Kneeling at his feet, she tugged the boots off one by one and set them next to the bed.
“Get going, now,” he ordered. “Get yourself ready. You know what to do.”
Latisha did know what to do. She let herself into the bathroom and closed the door. Knowing it wasn’t being locked behind her made no difference—she’d never be able to get away.
She drew the bath and stepped into the tub. The hot water soothed her aching body, but her skin was so chapped and dry that the water stung almost as much as it helped. She examined the sore on her leg. The toilet-paper cushioning seemed to be helping. The last time she’d seen it, the wound had been an oozing open sore. Now at least it was scabbing over. She soaped herself down and shampooed her hair. It was an impossible matted tangle now, totally uncombable, but it least it would be clean.
She stepped out of the tub and dried herself on the communal towel. Next she brushed her teeth with the communal toothbrush. Finally, dreading what was to come, she squared her shoulders, opened the door, and stepped out into a whole new world.
The Boss was still on the bed—but rather than sitting on the edge of it, he was lying on it. He had undressed, dropping his clothes on the floor next to the boots. He lay there stark naked, obviously waiting for her, but to her amazement he was sound asleep and snoring like mad.
Latisha had prayed for deliverance for so long that when it was finally at hand, she was too astonished to move. She stood frozen to the spot, staring first at him and then at the door. Could she tiptoe out without waking him? But then what? It was clearly winter. As cold as it was in the basement, it would be colder outside. Not only was she naked, her hair was wet, and she had no shoes. Looking down at her bare feet, misshapen by those long curled toenails, she was overcome by despair. If she ran outside and he came after her, how would she ever get away, especially if he had shoes and she didn’t? That would be hopeless. If she tried to run, he’d catch her and drag her back—back to the freezer, most likely.
Still unmoving, Latisha heard her stepfather’s voice, as clearly as if Lyle Montgomery Richards were in this appalling room standing right beside her: “God helps those who help themselves.”
Latisha had heard those words before, and more than once. He’d told her that when she’d been smarting off or arguing with him because the homework at Christ the King was too hard. His admonition came to her now like a bolt out of the blue, and that’s when she saw the boots—his boots, the Boss’s boots. They were still sitting next to the bed, exactly where she’d left them.
The Boss was a good five or six inches taller than she was. With any luck his larger shoe size would be able to accommodate her oversize toenails. So if she had shoes to wear, what about clothing? Even with shoes on, she couldn’t very well go out into wintry weather bare naked. For clothing there could be only one answer—the army blankets on her mattress downstairs. She might still be naked underneath, but if she wrapped one around herself and wore it as a cloak, the heavy wool would help to ward off the cold.
Going back downstairs was the last thing she wanted to do. What if he woke up, followed, and trapped her there? But if she was going to get away, going down to grab that blanket was her only option. Holding her breath, she tried to tiptoe past the bed, but the muscles in her calves were too weak. She couldn’t do it. Instead she had to walk flat-footed. Her heart pounded in alarm as one of the old wooden planks creaked under the weight of her body, but when she glanced over at the bed, the Boss hadn’t moved.
She paused briefly at the foot of the bed, gathering her courage. And then, because praying had become a habit for her, she did so at that moment, moving her lips in a silent whisper to keep from waking the Boss.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”
At the top of the basement steps, she paused long enough to find the switch and bathe her hellhole prison in light. There were sixteen wooden steps in all. She took them slowly and deliberately, stopping on each one to recite the prayer once more. She didn’t want to rush for fear she might stumble and fall and give herself away.
Down in the basement she made her way to her mattress. She collected the blanket she’d used for a pillow because it was already folded. After a moment’s hesitation, she reached down and grabbed the container of kibble. She had no idea where she was or how far she would have to go to find help.
She was almost to the bottom of the stairs when she thought of something else—water. If she was in the desert, she’d need water as well as food. Hurrying back to her mattress, she located the container that had once held Amelia’s kibble. She took that into the bathroom and filled it from the water in the flushing tank. She didn’t bother putting the tank lid back when she finished. If a rat fell in and drowned, it wouldn’t matter now. One way or another, she wasn’t coming back here—ever!
Overhead, the snoring continued. Climbing back up, she made it as far as the landing with her heart hammering in her chest and with her breath coming in short gasps, this time more from exertion than fear. Once again she forced herself to move slowly and deliberately across the room. She deposited the blanket and the two containers next to the door, then went to retrieve the boots, carrying them with her rather than putting them on. She was reaching for the doorknob when she noticed the jacket—a leather jacket—hanging on a hook next to the door. It had been there the whole time, but she hadn’t seen it until just now. Wearing a jacket would make better sense than trying to run while holding a cloak closed around her. It would free up her hands. It would make it possible for her to bring along the blanket and the precious containers of food and water.
She eased the jacket down from its hook and shrugged it on. It was far too big for her. The sleeves were so long that the ends of them hung beyond the tips of her fingers. Compared to the scratchy wool of the blanket, the soft flannel lining felt heavenly against her bare skin.
She tried slipping one of the containers into a jacket pocket. It was too large and didn’t fit, but in making the attempt she felt a small bulge at the bottom of the pocket. Curious, she reached in, pulled the object out, and was amazed to discover she was holding a key fob. Could it be the key to the Boss’s truck? Was that even possible? Feeling as though Holy Mary, the Mother of God, had just granted her a miracle, Latisha slid the key fob back into the pocket of the jacket. She picked up the folded blanket and placed the two Ziploc containers side by side on that. Then she placed the boots on top of the Ziplocs. Only then did she turn the knob, open the door, and step outside.
A bitingly cold wind hit the bare skin on her legs and took her breath away. The hard-packed earth under her feet was shockingly cold, but she didn’t pause long enough to put on the boots here, either. If she could find the truck first, she could put the boots on once she was inside that, and if she could figure out how to make it work, she could use that to get away. Using a vehicle would give her a far better chance of escaping than running on foot, boots or no boots.
Clutching her precious load to her chest with her left arm, she slipped her right hand into the jacket pocket, pulled out the key fob, and grasped it tightly in her fist.
It was dark outside. Coming from the unaccustomed light inside, she was momentarily blinded, but her eyes, used to months of almost total darkness, quickly readjusted.
She was standing on the street of what looked like a very old town, or maybe an old movie set. The brick building behind her, the one from which she’d just emerged, had the window covered with what looked like iron bars, making Latisha wonder if perhaps it had once been a jail. There were a few other buildings as well, some still upright and others tumbledown wrecks, on either side of the narrow dirt track. At first she saw no sign of any vehicle, but then, off to the side—parked between the would-be jail and the next building over—sat a huge pickup truck with the emblem of a ram on the hood.
She walked up to the door and tried the handle. The door opened as if by magic, and an interior light came on. She flung the boots and the containers inside ahead of her far enough that they came to rest against the passenger seat’s armrest. Still clutching the key in her right hand, she used her left hand to reach for the grab bar. Scared of dropping the fob, she must have gripped it too tight. Somehow she activated the panic button. Instantly the horn began blaring and the lights flashed on and off.
Latisha plunged into despair. The noise was bound to wake him. He’ll come for me now, she thought desperately. I’m done. It’s all over. He’ll drag me back inside and kill me.
And then she heard Lyle’s voice again. “God helps those who help themselves.”
There were buttons on the key fob. With the lights flashing and her hands shaking, she couldn’t see the labels on the buttons, so she punched one at random. Mercifully, the alarm shut off. On the door she caught sight of the lock button. She pushed that, and the lock engaged. If he came outside with another key, he might be able to open the door and drag her out, but for the moment she was safe. With the lights still flashing, she stared at the dashboard.
Once, right after she and Trayvon left St. Louis, they had gotten into a fight. They’d been in a bar at the time. Latisha was underage, of course, but in the kinds of places where Trayvon hung out, being underage didn’t matter. A few minutes later, when he’d gone to the restroom, he made the mistake of leaving his key fob on the bar. The one for the Cadillac had looked just like this one. Latisha didn’t have a driver’s license, but she knew that with one of those fobs all you had to do to start the engine was press a button on the dash. She had found the right button, but when she pressed it, nothing happened.
Trayvon had come roaring out of the bar right then and caught her in the act. Just like now she’d been smart enough to lock the car door behind her. She had thought she was safe, but one of his friends had handed him a baseball bat. He’d smashed the window to pieces, dragged her out of the car, and beaten her senseless. That was the first time he beat her and certainly not the last.
Later, after he’d gotten the window fixed, he’d laughed at her about it. “Stupid bitch,” he told her. “Don’t you know nothing? Keyless ignitions don’t do shit less’n you step on the brake at the same time you be pressin’ the damned button.”
She hadn’t forgotten the beating, and she hadn’t forgotten what Trayvon had said, either. His voice and his words came back to Latisha now almost as clearly as Lyle’s had earlier. She put her foot on the brake and punched the ignition button. The engine roared to life, and the lights came on just as the door to the jail crashed open and the Boss bounded out into the street.
Latisha found the gearshift and moved the handle. On her first attempt, when the indicator landed on the letter R, the truck lurched into reverse and slammed into a corner of the building next door. By then the Boss, naked and barefoot, was barreling toward the truck. Instead of looking at him, Latisha tried again, moving the indicator until it settled on the capital N. This time the engine wound up to a full-throttled roar, but the truck didn’t move. By then the Boss’s furious face was just outside the window. He was yanking on the door handle and pounding on the window with his fist. Not daring to look at him, Latisha tried one last thing. This time the dial landed on the capital D, and the truck shot forward.
The unexpected burst of speed surprised her. She almost smashed into the building across the street before she managed to twist the wheel to the right. The truck wobbled from side to side before it finally got a grip, and she was able to point it down the street. The mirror settings were all wrong. If she’d been able to look back, she would have seen the Boss, as outraged as he was naked, standing in the middle of the dirt street shaking his fists in her direction and screaming at the top of his lungs.
Rather than try to look back, Latisha kept her eyes on the road, her foot on the gas, and drove like a bat out of hell.