The Variables

Lucy’s mouth dropped open and she withdrew as if slapped. She tried to form a retort, but before she could her mother stalked forward, stopping merely inches from Lucy’s face.

“Don’t you dare attempt to win a war of words with me. You have something to say, and if you don’t want to be embarrassed, you discuss it privately,” Maxine whispered. “I will not stand for being disrespected. You want to fight a war? That war is not with me. You want to fight a war with me? You will lose.”

Grant put his hand on Lucy’s back and moved her toward the door, but he felt resistance as he pushed. The tension was palpable, and he never handled conflict with much ease. He resisted the urge to smirk or make a joke. An ill-timed smile had been the bane of his formative elementary school years. Cutting remarks and tension were the building blocks of his mother and father’s relationship. Until the cancer. Imminent death always had a way of masking the anger.

He was on Lucy’s side, and he understood the basis of her moral argument, but he couldn’t help but think that Maxine had a valid argument, too. The girls were wasting their energy. If the men in charge wanted Hunter dead, then there was nothing any of them could do to stop it.

Maxine spun and extended both hands to Atabei. “We’ve overstayed our welcome. I’ll take my own troubles back to my place. You don’t need our drama cluttering up your own issues,” she said, gripping Atabei’s hands firmly in her own. And with that, she walked briskly out of the apartment and waited in the hallway for Grant and Lucy to follow.

Lucy turned and rushed to Cass, burying her face in her friend’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry this happened to you. All of this,” Lucy said. “We hardly had a minute to talk. What were you doing down there anyway?” she asked, but she stopped and put her hands up, recognizing her inopportune intrusiveness. “I’m sorry. That was a dumb question. It doesn’t matter.”

Cass hugged Lucy again and sighed. “I think I need to go lie down,” she said and disappeared without another word into her bedroom.

Out in the hallway, Maxine tapped her fingers against the wall.

Lucy glared at her mother, but her mother ignored her with dogged tenacity.

They entered their own apartment and stopped short.

Ethan was sitting on the couch. His legs, real and artificial, were outstretched before him, and two crutches leaned against the coffee table. He was burying his head in his hands, and when they entered, he looked up, his eyes red.

He stood up, the prosthetic holding his weight, and he moved forward with a jerky, unsure movements. The fake leg was stiff, and he moved with the gait of Frankenstein’s monster as he came toward them. His mother’s and sister’s shock must have amused him, because his lips curled into a reserved smile.

Ethan took two more steps and Maxine moved toward him, her eyes filling with tears.

“Stop,” Ethan said, putting his hand out. She stopped. “I want to see Teddy,” he said.

Maxine sighed. “I don’t know if you can...Blair’s been keeping him pretty isolated.”

Grant noticed that Ethan’s shirt was covered in blood. Thick, blackening streaks spread across the white cotton. Ethan caught him staring at the stains, and before Grant could say anything, he pulled the shirt off and held it in a ball in his hands. He didn’t toss it to the floor; he just stood there, holding the bloodied shirt tightly, and staring at his family, expressionless.

“You are looking good,” Maxine said. “There’s some color back in your cheeks.”

“Don’t,” Ethan replied.

“Ethan—”

He took another stilted step forward. “Stop, please. There are two things I want. I want to see Teddy and I want to get away from this place. Just tell me when we get to leave...tell me when we can get out of this hellhole.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Sometimes the food was drugged. Sometimes it wasn’t. Sometimes Lou allowed Darla, Ainsley, and Dean to congregate upstairs and sit on the old-fashioned furniture and listen to the perpetual static of a radio while Lyle spun the dial—hoping, waiting. Sometimes they talked fluidly of old times and memories, and sometimes Lou grilled them about what they knew and who they were going to see. Questions which they dutifully ignored.

The stun guns and Tasers were the Hales’ weapons of choice, and when the captives’ legs were untied, or they were allowed to use the bathroom, they were never alone. It was degrading and humiliating, and with each day that passed, Darla grew angrier at the prospect of not seeing her son. Angry didn’t even begin to scratch the surface of her emotions. Her veins ran cold with rage. Nebraska was still so far away. Teddy felt intangible—like a concept and not a real person she needed to see. The drugs addled her brain, and made her forget her sense of urgency. It wasn’t that she hadn’t tried to escape or plot a way out of the basement. Every moment of every day became dedicated to convincing Lou that she was not a threat.

For the first time in her life, Darla was despondent and careless. The Hales only wanted information, and she refused on principle to trade that for her own release. If only she had something else of worth to offer them. She didn’t. And soon they would realize their energy was wasted, the kidnapping was in vain. Maybe they’d kill them. Maybe they were ca

Lindsey had accompanied Darla to the bathroom. She looked away as Darla peed into the tall green bucket next to the toilet. Lou had fashioned a plastic lid, complete with a tidy hole at the center. They emptied the bucket when it got full and the room reeked like urine and feces. Darla heard a fly buzz around her head and she swatted it away.

She had stopped talking to Lindsey. Stopped trying to convince her that she wasn’t the enemy. Lou was staunchly committed to the idea that his captives were Sweepers or knew when the Sweepers were coming. He would launch into wild-eyed rants; the fragility of his mental state was evident to everyone. Sometimes Cricket would stop him before he resorted to violence, and sometimes she would leave the room and let him deal with the prisoners with impunity.

Darla wiped herself and dropped the rationed toilet paper into the bucket. She lifted her dirty, unwashed pants and underwear and liberally applied a layer of hand-sanitizer. Then she nodded toward the door and waited. But Lindsey didn’t budge.

“I’ve been thinking—” Lindsey started, rubbing a hand over her neck. “Because it wasn’t supposed to go on this long...”

She paused, as if waiting for Darla to interject, but Darla refused to engage. She blinked lazily and yawned without covering her mouth.

“It’s not up to me,” she continued. “Just tell him what he wants to know and he’ll let you go. If you’re not working for the Sweepers, then what do you have to hide?”

The fly landed on Darla’s shoulder and she batted at it. It buzzed off toward the shower.

From downstairs Lyle shouted up at Lindsey to hurry up. Lindsey leaned down, slipped the rope over Darla’s wrists, and led her out into the hallway. Darla tried to kick at Lindsey’s heels, but she failed. Even though it was midday, the house was dark and stuffy; not a single shaft of light sneaked through the blackout windows. The entire house felt oppressive and severe, and Darla closed her eyes as Lindsey led her back down the steep cement steps to the basement.