“They’re cousins,” she says simply, like it’s common knowledge. It very much is not.
“All this time they were working together?” A tumble of locks interrupts my question. Light fills the room with a glow from above.
Pressing her finger to her mouth so I can hush, she folds her hands in her lap, covering the injured arm with the working one.
Down the stairs lumbers the big boy who almost killed me.
Heaving like it takes a lot of effort to descend, he expels a breath.
“Sorry.” He says to me in the voice of a toddler. “Sorry.” He says again, his eyes welling with tears, his fists flexing in agitation.
“I-it’s okay.” Keeping my voice mild, I raise my hands to show him I’m fine. “Everything is fine. Everything is okay.”
“Everything fine? Everything, okay? Rev, okay?” he looks to Reverie for confirmation.
“Yes, Jon-Jon, we are okay.” She says with a forced cheer for his benefit.
Jon-Jon claps in relief before turning to Reverie and says in a clear, calm voice more befitting his age. “I need to fix your arm now.”
Whiplash from the turnabout leaves me stunned as I watch as he slowly rotates her arm until it pops back into the socket. Taking a swatch of long material, he stabilizes her arm.
“Bye, bye now.” He waves frantically again, like a three-year-old, before lumbering up the stairs again.
“He’s got like three people inside his head,” Reverie tells me. “From all the trauma, but he’s a good little lamb.”
I don’t move from my spot, not knowing what to expect next. Instead, I take a visual inventory of what I can use to escape.
“Don’t,” Reverie pleads when she picks up on what I intend to do.
“No one gets out of here. He has hound dogs he keeps hungry for this exact purpose. Then there are the boys. Some of them are just as feral as those puppies. On top of that, you have to get past the cameras. Shasta did all of that and still drowned in the river. Can you swim? She couldn’t.” She doesn’t mince words, just lays out the facts with calm, cold clarity, like it’s all been tried.
“Yeah, I can swim.” Not liking the way she seems so resigned but not really blaming her either. This is all she knows.
“The boys you mentioned — why are they here?” She doesn’t answer for a long time. Then, ducks her head as if ashamed.
“They his.” All the polished elocution falls from her voice as she refuses to raise her head. “He won’t leave’em alone. Every time I try something bad happens, just like with Shasta. Her dying is my fault.” Her face crumbles as she uses one hand to cover her face as sobs rack her frame.
Going back over to her. I sit beside her. Unlike me, she lets me comfort her, even going so far as to rest her head on my shoulder.
When her head lolls, and she falls limp across my lap, I look down in alarm. Shaking her gently, remembering how I thought she hit her head pretty hard when Fitch slapped her.
“Hey, hey Reverie?” Nothing.
Easing her head down, I get up and go up the stairs, no longer heeding her warning about making no noise.
“Hey,” I yell. “Jon-Jon.” I’m met with silence.
“Fitch, Fitch! I know you’ve probably got this place wired. Your girl is hurt really bad from what you did to her. She won’t wake up.” I scream at the door. I bang and bang, begging, pleading and threatening — anything so he can come help this sweet girl.
After an interminable amount of time, there is a crackle and hiss as the intercom sounds. “If she dies, she dies. She’s nothing but a burden now, anyway. You just better hope you can be of some use. Your only value is folks wanting a little get back on the el Diablo for interrupting that shipment. I’m sure they’re gone have a real good time before they ship you back in pieces to ol’ Snake and Angel de le Muerta.” His sick chuckle sounds loud, full of disgusting glee over the intercom.
“Yeah, well, you are the only one going to be in pieces, you sick fuck.” Rubbing my back, which is now cramping, along with my tummy, I go back down the stairs, worried and watching over Reverie.
Checking her breathing every few seconds to make sure she’s still alive alternates with my checking around the room to see if there is anything I can use to escape.
Fitch obviously uses this space only for punishment. It’s completely barren. It’s worse than the cell I was thrown in at the county jail. The floors there were concrete. These are packed, hardened dirt. But people bury things in dirt. Scuffing my boots every couple of inches, I make little holes in the ground.
Legs burning and my heel smarting from having done it over a dozen times, I try to ignore the way my tummy and back are rebelling against me. Not to mention the fact that my jeans are saturated.
