her children were safe.
Hours later, the car came to a stop, the engine quit, and the driver side door opened and closed.
Karen strained to listen.
Footsteps faded.
As she held Beth she concentrated on the scarcely audible sounds beyond their black cage—the distant continuous slam of car doors, the starting of engines, crying children, and the unmistakable squeak of shopping cart wheels rolling across pavement.
“We’re in a parking lot,” Karen whispered.
Three doors slammed nearby.
A voice came through: “Shannon, quit primping, you look fine.”
“She doesn’t want to disappoint Chris,” another voice taunted.
“Fuck you and fuck you.”
“Help!” Beth screamed. She jerked away from Karen’s embrace and put her lips against the foam. “Help me! PLEASE!”
“Be quiet!” Karen hissed. “He’ll kill us if we—”
“PLEASE! PLEASE! MY KIDS NEED ME!”
Karen wrapped her arms around Beth, put her hand over the woman’s mouth, and pulled her back onto the filthy carpet.
“It’s okay, sweetie. It’s all right,” she said, Beth shaking violently in her arms. “It’s gonna be all right. But you can’t—”
The voices passed through from outside again.
“There is nothing in that trunk, Shannon. You’re crazy, come on.”
“It sounded like a dog barking. What kind of sicko leaves his dog in the trunk?”
“Who cares? Chris is waiting.”
Beth elbowed Karen in the ribs, broke free, and screamed through the soundproofing until she thought her larynx would rupture.
When fatigue finally stopped her, all was silent again save her frenzied panting and the shudder of her heart.
17
LUTHER dislocates a buggy from a caterpillar-like row and rolls it past the enfeebled greeter of the Rocky Mount Wal-Mart.
“How are you today, sonny?” the blue-vested old man asks him.
“Pretty fucking great.” And he is. He adores Wal-Mart.
Luther heads first to the CANDY/SNACKS aisle where he places ten bags of Lemonheads into the buggy. Tearing open one of the bags he drops three yellow balls into his mouth and begins to suck. On average he consumes two to three bags per day. The way he eats the candy is to suck off the tart lemon coating and spit out the white pit.
His teeth are rotting out of his head.
The candy is all he really came for but it occurs to him that a digital camera might be a fun way to memorialize what he’s going to do with Karen. So Luther pushes the buggy into ELECTRONICS.
Against the back wall two dozen televisions of varying size show the same muted cartoon. He is overstimulated with a din of obnoxious sound: bland sedating elevator music pours throughout the store from speakers in the ceiling; a rap song blares from a nearby display stereo; explosions, machinegun fire, and screams of suffering emanate from a videogame.
Luther stops to examine the face of the small boy who holds the controller and stares at the images of gore and violence onscreen. The boy plays the game with rapt engagement and the glaze in his eyes reflects a mix of concentration and awe.
Leaving his buggy in the CD aisle, Luther walks over to the counter. He kneels down and peers through the glass at several digital cameras.
After a moment he rises, clears his throat.
The salesclerk sits on a stool, a telephone receiver held between his shoulder and ear. According to the nametag on the blue vest his name is Daniel. Daniel is tall and thin with short bleached-blond hair and slim black sideburns.
“I’d like to see the Sony Cybershot P51.”
Daniel closes his eyes and holds up one finger.
Luther waits.
He begins to count silently.
When he reaches sixty he says again, “I’d like to see the Sony Cybershot P51.”
“Megan, could you hold on a sec?” Now holding the phone against his chest: “Sir, could you just hold your horses there for a
Hours later, the car came to a stop, the engine quit, and the driver side door opened and closed.
Karen strained to listen.
Footsteps faded.
As she held Beth she concentrated on the scarcely audible sounds beyond their black cage—the distant continuous slam of car doors, the starting of engines, crying children, and the unmistakable squeak of shopping cart wheels rolling across pavement.
“We’re in a parking lot,” Karen whispered.
Three doors slammed nearby.
A voice came through: “Shannon, quit primping, you look fine.”
“She doesn’t want to disappoint Chris,” another voice taunted.
“Fuck you and fuck you.”
“Help!” Beth screamed. She jerked away from Karen’s embrace and put her lips against the foam. “Help me! PLEASE!”
“Be quiet!” Karen hissed. “He’ll kill us if we—”
“PLEASE! PLEASE! MY KIDS NEED ME!”
Karen wrapped her arms around Beth, put her hand over the woman’s mouth, and pulled her back onto the filthy carpet.
“It’s okay, sweetie. It’s all right,” she said, Beth shaking violently in her arms. “It’s gonna be all right. But you can’t—”
The voices passed through from outside again.
“There is nothing in that trunk, Shannon. You’re crazy, come on.”
“It sounded like a dog barking. What kind of sicko leaves his dog in the trunk?”
“Who cares? Chris is waiting.”
Beth elbowed Karen in the ribs, broke free, and screamed through the soundproofing until she thought her larynx would rupture.
When fatigue finally stopped her, all was silent again save her frenzied panting and the shudder of her heart.
17
LUTHER dislocates a buggy from a caterpillar-like row and rolls it past the enfeebled greeter of the Rocky Mount Wal-Mart.
“How are you today, sonny?” the blue-vested old man asks him.
“Pretty fucking great.” And he is. He adores Wal-Mart.
Luther heads first to the CANDY/SNACKS aisle where he places ten bags of Lemonheads into the buggy. Tearing open one of the bags he drops three yellow balls into his mouth and begins to suck. On average he consumes two to three bags per day. The way he eats the candy is to suck off the tart lemon coating and spit out the white pit.
His teeth are rotting out of his head.
The candy is all he really came for but it occurs to him that a digital camera might be a fun way to memorialize what he’s going to do with Karen. So Luther pushes the buggy into ELECTRONICS.
Against the back wall two dozen televisions of varying size show the same muted cartoon. He is overstimulated with a din of obnoxious sound: bland sedating elevator music pours throughout the store from speakers in the ceiling; a rap song blares from a nearby display stereo; explosions, machinegun fire, and screams of suffering emanate from a videogame.
Luther stops to examine the face of the small boy who holds the controller and stares at the images of gore and violence onscreen. The boy plays the game with rapt engagement and the glaze in his eyes reflects a mix of concentration and awe.
Leaving his buggy in the CD aisle, Luther walks over to the counter. He kneels down and peers through the glass at several digital cameras.
After a moment he rises, clears his throat.
The salesclerk sits on a stool, a telephone receiver held between his shoulder and ear. According to the nametag on the blue vest his name is Daniel. Daniel is tall and thin with short bleached-blond hair and slim black sideburns.
“I’d like to see the Sony Cybershot P51.”
Daniel closes his eyes and holds up one finger.
Luther waits.
He begins to count silently.
When he reaches sixty he says again, “I’d like to see the Sony Cybershot P51.”
“Megan, could you hold on a sec?” Now holding the phone against his chest: “Sir, could you just hold your horses there for a
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