“She’s his wife.” His expression says that’s reason enough for them to drive over six hours across state lines to drag back a woman who ran.
“So you brought her back?” Makhi asks.
The man’s eyes flick over my left shoulder, where his voice came from. I doubt he sees much since his eyes soon return to me.
“Jeremiah tried to get her to repent after the sweatbox. She wouldn’t.”
“How long was she in the sweatbox for?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I wasn’t around for that. I think they put her in it when they brought her back. It wasn’t me,” he adds in a rush.
I’m not sure I believe him, but he’s talking, so I drop it for now.
“Then?” I prompt.
He gulps.
I get ready to prompt him again after his far too long pause.
He must remember he has his fingers, toes, and teeth at stake if he doesn’t talk, when he blurts out, “He shaved her hair.”
Rage flares up inside me at the thought of someone shaving Byrdie. Hair is just hair. It grows back. But it’s another form of torture. It’s taking a piece of someone's identity, dehumanizing them and treating them like an animal.
You shave sheep. You don’t shave people.
“And?” I grate out, sensing more is coming.
His eyes are wide with fear. I smell the acrid stench of his sweat, and it’s fear-laced too. Whatever he tells me now, he’s afraid I’m going to kill him for it.
“And!” I order.
“We drove her out into the desert, and we left her there,” he says in a rush.
“To die.” My voice is colder than I’ve heard it before.
The man’s eyes are full of terror.
He nods.
“Where and when?” I demand, sounding barely human.
If I don’t keep my mind focused on Byrdie and getting her back, I’ll put my hands around his throat, squeeze, and won’t stop until his eyes have glazed over.
“A couple of hours east.”
“Did she have anything? Food? Water? Blanket?”
He doesn’t respond.
“Nothing.” I’m almost shaking with the need to kill this guy.
I wrestle the urge away and stand up, keeping a tight grip on his arm. “Get up. You’re coming with us, and you’re going to show us exactly where you left her.”
Frowning, he scrambles to his feet. “She could have wandered away.”
Makhi’s eyes glitter with rage, and Nash has a grip on his arm, as if to keep Makhi away from the guy. “Then you had better hope she didn’t wander far, or it’ll be your body someone finds.”
The man sits in the backseat beside Makhi as we drive out into the desert.
