tights, tears running down her face.
Melanie glanced at Mrs. Harstrawn and Susan Phillips, crouching together, speaking in abrupt sign. The teenage girl’s pale face, framed by her stark hair, was still filled with anger. Her dark eyes were the eyes of a resistance fighter, Melanie thought suddenly. Their conversation had to do with the students.
“I’m worried they’ll panic,” Susan said to the older teacher. “Have to keep them together. If somebody runs, those assholes will hurt them.”
With the audacity of an eight-year-old, Kielle Stone signed, “We have to run! There’re more of us than them. We can get away!”
Susan and Mrs. Harstrawn ignored her, and the little girl’s gray eyes flashed with anger.
All the while Melanie agonized: I don’t know what to do. I don’t know.
The men weren’t paying much attention to the girls at the moment. Melanie rose and walked to the doorway. She watched them pull clothes out of canvas bags. Brutus stripped off his T-shirt and with a glance at her walked under the stream of water, letting it cascade over him as he gazed up at the murky ceiling, eyes closed. She saw his sinewy muscles, his hairless body, marred by a dozen pink scars. The other two men looked at him uncertainly and continued to change clothes. When they pulled off their workshirts she could read the names stenciled on their T-shirts. Stoat’s said S. Wilcox. Bear’s, R. Bonner. But still, seeing Bear’s fat, hairy body and Stoat’s lean one, his slippery eyes, she thought of them only by the animal names that had instinctively occurred to her.
And, seeing the look of amused malice on his face as he stood under the cascading water, arms outstretched like Christ’s, she understood that Brutus was a far better name for him than L. Handy.
He now stepped from the stream of water, dried off with his old shirt, and pulled on a new one, dark green flannel. He picked the pistol up from the oil drum and gazed at his captives, that curious smile on his face. He joined the other men. They looked cautiously out one of the front windows.
This can’t be happening, Melanie said to herself. It’s impossible. People were expecting her. Her parents. Danny, going into surgery tomorrow. She’d been in her brother’s recovery rooms after every one of his half-dozen operations in the past year. She felt the absurd urge to tell these men that they had to let them go; she couldn’t disappoint her brother.
Then there was her performance in Topeka.
And of course her plans afterwards.
Go say something to him. Now. Plead with him to release the little girls. The twins, at least. Or Kielle and Shannon. Emily.
Beverly, racked with asthma.
Go. Do it.
Melanie started forward then looked back. The othersin the killing room—all nine of them—were staring at her.
Susan held her eyes for a moment then gestured for her to return. She did.
“Don’t worry,” Susan signed to the girls, then pulled the tiny, chestnut-haired twins to her. Smiling. “They’re going to leave soon, let us out. We’ll be in Topeka late, that’s all. What do you want to do after Melanie’s recital? Everybody tell me. Come on!”
Is she crazy? Melanie thought. We’re not going to . . . Then realized that Susan was saying this to put them at ease. The girl was right. The truth didn’t matter. Keeping the younger girls comforted did. Making sure there was no excuse for the men to get close to them; the memory of Bear gripping Susan’s breasts, holding Shannon tight to his fat body came starkly to mind.
But no one wanted to play the game. Until Melanie signed, “Go out for dinner?”
“Arcade!” Shannon signed suddenly. “Mortal Kombat!”
Kielle sat up. “I want to go to real restaurant. I want steak medium rare and potatoes and pie—”
“Whole pie?” Susan asked, mock astonishment on her face.
Choking back tears, Melanie couldn’t think of anything to say. Feebly she signed, “Yes. Whole pies for
Melanie glanced at Mrs. Harstrawn and Susan Phillips, crouching together, speaking in abrupt sign. The teenage girl’s pale face, framed by her stark hair, was still filled with anger. Her dark eyes were the eyes of a resistance fighter, Melanie thought suddenly. Their conversation had to do with the students.
“I’m worried they’ll panic,” Susan said to the older teacher. “Have to keep them together. If somebody runs, those assholes will hurt them.”
With the audacity of an eight-year-old, Kielle Stone signed, “We have to run! There’re more of us than them. We can get away!”
Susan and Mrs. Harstrawn ignored her, and the little girl’s gray eyes flashed with anger.
All the while Melanie agonized: I don’t know what to do. I don’t know.
The men weren’t paying much attention to the girls at the moment. Melanie rose and walked to the doorway. She watched them pull clothes out of canvas bags. Brutus stripped off his T-shirt and with a glance at her walked under the stream of water, letting it cascade over him as he gazed up at the murky ceiling, eyes closed. She saw his sinewy muscles, his hairless body, marred by a dozen pink scars. The other two men looked at him uncertainly and continued to change clothes. When they pulled off their workshirts she could read the names stenciled on their T-shirts. Stoat’s said S. Wilcox. Bear’s, R. Bonner. But still, seeing Bear’s fat, hairy body and Stoat’s lean one, his slippery eyes, she thought of them only by the animal names that had instinctively occurred to her.
And, seeing the look of amused malice on his face as he stood under the cascading water, arms outstretched like Christ’s, she understood that Brutus was a far better name for him than L. Handy.
He now stepped from the stream of water, dried off with his old shirt, and pulled on a new one, dark green flannel. He picked the pistol up from the oil drum and gazed at his captives, that curious smile on his face. He joined the other men. They looked cautiously out one of the front windows.
This can’t be happening, Melanie said to herself. It’s impossible. People were expecting her. Her parents. Danny, going into surgery tomorrow. She’d been in her brother’s recovery rooms after every one of his half-dozen operations in the past year. She felt the absurd urge to tell these men that they had to let them go; she couldn’t disappoint her brother.
Then there was her performance in Topeka.
And of course her plans afterwards.
Go say something to him. Now. Plead with him to release the little girls. The twins, at least. Or Kielle and Shannon. Emily.
Beverly, racked with asthma.
Go. Do it.
Melanie started forward then looked back. The othersin the killing room—all nine of them—were staring at her.
Susan held her eyes for a moment then gestured for her to return. She did.
“Don’t worry,” Susan signed to the girls, then pulled the tiny, chestnut-haired twins to her. Smiling. “They’re going to leave soon, let us out. We’ll be in Topeka late, that’s all. What do you want to do after Melanie’s recital? Everybody tell me. Come on!”
Is she crazy? Melanie thought. We’re not going to . . . Then realized that Susan was saying this to put them at ease. The girl was right. The truth didn’t matter. Keeping the younger girls comforted did. Making sure there was no excuse for the men to get close to them; the memory of Bear gripping Susan’s breasts, holding Shannon tight to his fat body came starkly to mind.
But no one wanted to play the game. Until Melanie signed, “Go out for dinner?”
“Arcade!” Shannon signed suddenly. “Mortal Kombat!”
Kielle sat up. “I want to go to real restaurant. I want steak medium rare and potatoes and pie—”
“Whole pie?” Susan asked, mock astonishment on her face.
Choking back tears, Melanie couldn’t think of anything to say. Feebly she signed, “Yes. Whole pies for
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