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She had no choice, of course, trailing along after him, her hands bound behind her back with duct tape that was too tight, while Harry acted like a tour guide straight out of the Travel Channel, pointing out extraneous details like the dining room with its broken furniture, the wide row of decks overlooking the valley. “Too bad they let those little shits get their hands on this place,” Harry said briskly, tying her to a chair near the fireplace. “There’s nothing you can do with bad kids—hell, there’s nothing you can do with good kids either. Might as well get rid of the whole lot.”
He was using thick yellow nylon rope, tight around her already bound wrists and ankles, pulling it around her neck, and then flinging it over one of the thick logs that made up the exposed rafters. It took him a couple of tries to get it, but he laughed anyway, clearly in an excellent mood. “Wish you could appreciate those knots I tied, Ms. Spenser. I’m proud to say I was an Eagle Scout. You know how hard that is, what kind of commitment it takes? The years of hard work? I know what you’re thinking—” He looped the rope back under her arms, then tossed it back over the rafter. “You’re thinking the rich kid’s father bribed them. But you can’t bribe the Boy Scouts of America, Ms. Spenser. I know, because I tried. The only way I could get to Eagle Scout was to earn it the hard way, and I pretty much did. I think my old scoutmaster would be pleased as punch to see how good I still am with my knots. Of course, he might not be so happy to see how I’m using my expertise.” Harry chuckled to himself.
He was kneeling down behind her, and she could no longer see what he was doing, and she wasn’t certain she cared. The yellow nylon was scratchy against her throat, and when Harry tipped the chair back she could feel it tighten against her.
She tried to cry out, but the sound was forced down by the gag. Harry took a step back, surveying his handiwork with pride. “Now, that looks just fine,” he said, “if I do say so myself. You gotta be careful not to move, not to squirm. That chair is balanced very precariously, and if it slips then that rope is going to tighten around your neck and strangle you. I wish I could promise you that I’d done such a good job that it would be instant, that your neck would break and it would all be over, but I don’t think I’m that good anymore. I’ve done it in the past, but I’ve lost the touch over the years, and I’m afraid if that chair falls over you’ll choke to death, and it’s going to be slow and nasty. Just the way I like it,” he added with a happy smirk.
“Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking Peter will rush in here and cut you loose before you can choke to death, but I’m afraid that’s not the case. I did a real good job with those knots, and the more he tries to free you the tighter they’re gonna get. You’ll be dead, Ms. Spenser, and then he’ll get to play with me.” He let out a gusty sigh of deep satisfaction. “This is almost better than a paltry dam break in India or a few bombings. Nothing feels better than doing it hands on, doing it yourself, don’t you think? But then, you can’t answer, can you? Must be murder for a mouthy woman. That’s pretty funny, isn’t it? Murder? Though I tend to think of it as simple justice. You get in my way, I get in yours.”
She stared up at him, trying to put all her contempt and hatred in her eyes, but he was past noticing. “I’m just going to go get myself a little drink. ’Fraid I can’t offer you one—your mouth is otherwise occupied. And then we can sit here and wait for Peter to show up. I don’t expect it’ll take too long—he’s smart, I’ll give him that. But don’t bother trying to escape while I’m out of sight. You’ll just wind up killing yourself before Peter even gets a chance to save you, and then how would you feel?” His laugh was getting creepier by the moment. “You just wait for me, y’hear? I’ll be right back.”
Leaving her alone in the cavernous room, hog-tied and ready for a lynching, staring at the sign over the fireplace: The Truth Shall Set You Free.
It wasn’t much of a noise overhead—it might have been the scurrying of mice left behind to clean up after the troubled teenagers, or maybe the faint flutter of bats outside. The wind in the trees, except there was no wind—the damp fog had closed down around everything.
She was afraid to move her head, to look up. Her balance was so precarious, the rope around her neck so tight, that she was afraid any movement at all might send her tumbling to a slow, agonizing death. But she heard the sound again, barely more than a breath of noise, as something moved in the balconies overhead.
It wasn’t Peter. She would know if Peter had come, she would feel it in her bones and she wouldn’t want to die. It was someone, something else. Maybe the ghost of one of those poor kids, maybe the old movie star haunting the place. No, anything human would have made more noise.
Harry breezed back into the room, a glass of what was doubtless bourbon in one hand, another hank of yellow rope in the other.
“Keeping busy?” he inquired cheerfully. “I bet you’re thinking of all the terrible things you’d like to do to me if you had the chance. I’m afraid you won’t, but I encourage you to fantasize. The giving and taking of pain is one of life’s most intimate acts, and I doubt you’ve had much time to explore them. I considered instructing you, but in the end, poor old Jackshit…oh, excuse me, I think you knew him as Takashi…had it right. I don’t want Peter Whatsisname’s leavings.”
He took the new section of rope and tied it around one leg of the chair he’d bound her to, then moved back to the built-in couches surrounding the fireplace. “Wish I could start a fire—make it right cozy. Wouldn’t want you to get a chill, but then, you’ve got that extra vest on underneath, don’t you? You didn’t think I wouldn’t notice, did you? I hate it when people underestimate me.”
He glanced at the huge, empty hearth. “No firewood though,” he said. “I could go get some of the broken furniture from the dining room but I still wouldn’t have any kindling. No, I’m afraid you’re just going to have to sit very still and freeze, Ms. Spenser. But I promise you, it won’t be long.” He took another sip of his bourbon and leaned back on the mouseeaten cushions, perfectly at ease.
She moved her head just a fraction of an inch, and her balance held. She didn’t know whether she imagined the shadow or not, flitting across the dusty pine floors. She didn’t look up, and Harry seemed unaware that things might not be quite as he hoped.
If it was a ghost she hoped it was a ghastly one who scared Harry to death in a p
articularly unpleasant manner. Anything that happened to appear out of the dark would be no problem for her—Harry was more terrifying than any supernatural creature could ever be.
But then, ghosts wouldn’t leave even the trace of a shadow. Or was she thinking of vampires?
One moment she was thinking of vampires, in the next everything changed. Someone had walked in the door behind her, with a slow, lazy stroll that could only be Peter’s, and she tried to call out, to warn him.
“Just in time,” Harry said gaily, yanking the yellow rope so that Genevieve fell backward, and the rope tightened, cutting off her breath. The last thing she saw was Harry taking off, and Peter following him, leaving her to die…
The pressure lifted, and the chair she was tied to went over backward. The ropes went slack, and she could see up into the rafters, into the face of a man she’d never seen before.
Maybe he was the ghost of the old movie actor; he leaped over the side of the balcony and landed on the floor, as light as a cat. “Hold still,” he said, his voice just faintly tinged with French. “I’m a friend of Peter’s. I cut the main rope but the others are still a little tricky.” He picked something up from the floor and began cutting through the ropes. He must have thrown it from the balcony, slicing through the main rope that held her. What if he’d missed?
She didn’t want to think about it, she wanted to get to Peter. Harry had a gun somewhere—she’d seen it, though he hadn’t brought it back into the main hall of the old lodge. The man was cutting swiftly, but he hadn’t touched the duct tape across her mouth, and she wondered if that goddamn Peter had told him too that she was yappy.
She kicked at him, to try to get his attention, only to have the rope around her neck tighten again.
“Don’t do that,” he said. “You’ll only make it worse. If you’re worried about Peter I promise you he can take care of himself.”
He finally cut the last rope, then yanked the duct tape from her mouth.
“He’s got a gun,” she tried to say, but her throat had closed up and she could barely manage a choked whisper. She tried to get to her feet, to go after them, but the man grabbed her, held her back.
“Leave them alone. You’ll only get in the way.”
She had no pencils or keys to stick in the man’s eyes, nor did she want to hit him across the throat and kill him, since in fact he’d saved her life. But there was one other lesson she’d learned.
She went for his face, and when he immediately responded, to fend her off, she went for her true target, using the sweep that Peter said wouldn’t work, knocking him flat on the floor before he knew what was happening.
