received the pain and punishment she deserved, sheâd be the better for it. The chains would drop away and sheâd be pure again.
She was off the carpet now and crawling faster toward the door, knowing she wasnât going to escape, that she had no chance, as always. A woman with an M.B.A. and a responsible jobâ¦what am I doing here? She clenched her teeth and whimpered. She wouldnât scream. That was one of the rules. Sheâd been commanded not to scream. And if she did, if her neighbors heard and called the police, how would she explain? Her bare knees thumped on the hardwood floor, and her hands made desperate slapping sounds louder than her moans.
The whip whistled near her ear, sending a line of fire across her upper back and curling around her shoulder. It burned again across her tender inner right thigh. He knew how to use a whip, this one.
Ten feet from the door.
The whip set fire to her right buttock. There was less time between lashes now. She crawled even faster, hurting her knees and the heels of her hands. The whip followed, flicking her like a dragonâs fiery and agile tongue.
The man standing over her was the dragon.
Afterward, maybe sheâd lie with him, cuddled in his arms, and heâd pretend to love her. It wouldnât be real, like what he was doing to her now wasnât exactly real, but that didnât matter. She had no right to expect real.
As she stretched out an arm and her fingertips brushed the door, he clutched her ankles and dragged her back and away from freedom.
It began again.
What am I doing here?
11
Bent Oak, Missouri, 1987.
Two days before Luther Luntâs fourteenth birthday, state employees in Jefferson City dropped a cyanide pellet in the gas chamber, killing Lutherâs father.
Lutherâs mother had already been dead for more than a year. Sheâd died on the same day and in the same way as his sister, Verna, beneath the thunder and buckshot hail of his dadâs Remington twelve-gauge. Luther had hunted with the gun twice and knew what it could do to a rabbit. What it had done to his mom and Verna was lots worse.
Seeing it, hearing it, smelling it, even listening to the slowing trickle of blood from his momâs ruined throat, was the kind of thing that stayed in the mind.
Luther cried almost nonstop for days and nights, wondering why Verna had to go tell their mom what she and Dad had been up to. He shouldnât blame her, Luther knew, as she was only twelve, and it was his father, after all, whoâd squeezed off the shots from the old double-barrel.
But the fact was, Luther did blame Verna, as well as his mother. They all knew anyway, and it was Verna and his mom who brought it all into the open, who uttered the words that made it real so something had to be done about it. Everything had been going along fine until then. Going along, at least.
And since his father had taken it on himself to start going into Vernaâs room, heâd stopped coming into Lutherâs.
Vernaâs fault.
Verna and his momâs.
Then his fatherâd been taken from Luther to rot away in a cell in Jeff City, waiting to die when his appeals ran out.
Leaving Luther alone.
âHeâs suffered something terrible,â Lutherâs great-aunt Marjean from Saint Louis had said of him after the murders, âbut Iâm eighty-seven years of age and get by hardscrabble on my Social Security. No way I can help the poor thing.â
So Luther had gone into the foster-care system, and was taken in by the Black family, Dara and her husband, Norbert. The Blacks had temporary custody of three children besides Luther, who was the oldest. Dara Black, a stout woman with an apple-round face who almost always wore the same stained apron, watched over the children in the old farmhouse, while Norbert was away painting barns and houses in the surrounding countryside.
Luther used to watch her bustle around the house, smiling too much and
She was off the carpet now and crawling faster toward the door, knowing she wasnât going to escape, that she had no chance, as always. A woman with an M.B.A. and a responsible jobâ¦what am I doing here? She clenched her teeth and whimpered. She wouldnât scream. That was one of the rules. Sheâd been commanded not to scream. And if she did, if her neighbors heard and called the police, how would she explain? Her bare knees thumped on the hardwood floor, and her hands made desperate slapping sounds louder than her moans.
The whip whistled near her ear, sending a line of fire across her upper back and curling around her shoulder. It burned again across her tender inner right thigh. He knew how to use a whip, this one.
Ten feet from the door.
The whip set fire to her right buttock. There was less time between lashes now. She crawled even faster, hurting her knees and the heels of her hands. The whip followed, flicking her like a dragonâs fiery and agile tongue.
The man standing over her was the dragon.
Afterward, maybe sheâd lie with him, cuddled in his arms, and heâd pretend to love her. It wouldnât be real, like what he was doing to her now wasnât exactly real, but that didnât matter. She had no right to expect real.
As she stretched out an arm and her fingertips brushed the door, he clutched her ankles and dragged her back and away from freedom.
It began again.
What am I doing here?
11
Bent Oak, Missouri, 1987.
Two days before Luther Luntâs fourteenth birthday, state employees in Jefferson City dropped a cyanide pellet in the gas chamber, killing Lutherâs father.
Lutherâs mother had already been dead for more than a year. Sheâd died on the same day and in the same way as his sister, Verna, beneath the thunder and buckshot hail of his dadâs Remington twelve-gauge. Luther had hunted with the gun twice and knew what it could do to a rabbit. What it had done to his mom and Verna was lots worse.
Seeing it, hearing it, smelling it, even listening to the slowing trickle of blood from his momâs ruined throat, was the kind of thing that stayed in the mind.
Luther cried almost nonstop for days and nights, wondering why Verna had to go tell their mom what she and Dad had been up to. He shouldnât blame her, Luther knew, as she was only twelve, and it was his father, after all, whoâd squeezed off the shots from the old double-barrel.
But the fact was, Luther did blame Verna, as well as his mother. They all knew anyway, and it was Verna and his mom who brought it all into the open, who uttered the words that made it real so something had to be done about it. Everything had been going along fine until then. Going along, at least.
And since his father had taken it on himself to start going into Vernaâs room, heâd stopped coming into Lutherâs.
Vernaâs fault.
Verna and his momâs.
Then his fatherâd been taken from Luther to rot away in a cell in Jeff City, waiting to die when his appeals ran out.
Leaving Luther alone.
âHeâs suffered something terrible,â Lutherâs great-aunt Marjean from Saint Louis had said of him after the murders, âbut Iâm eighty-seven years of age and get by hardscrabble on my Social Security. No way I can help the poor thing.â
So Luther had gone into the foster-care system, and was taken in by the Black family, Dara and her husband, Norbert. The Blacks had temporary custody of three children besides Luther, who was the oldest. Dara Black, a stout woman with an apple-round face who almost always wore the same stained apron, watched over the children in the old farmhouse, while Norbert was away painting barns and houses in the surrounding countryside.
Luther used to watch her bustle around the house, smiling too much and
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