M.I.A.

Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen:

Corey

Cutter is on track for forgetting that my inmate needs to be tended. He has a tendency to forget, sometimes for days at a time, that the bodies chained to the bed upstairs are humans, not bleeding canvases.

He sits at the kitchen table whistling that same stupid song to himself, sipping strong coffee and reading yesterday's paper. He never gets mail or papers delivered here, that would allow someone to get too close to his broken-down sanctum—more than a hundred acres of farmland covered in wild grass and a muddy, mosquito-infested cow pond. A battered two-story farmhouse with a yawning attic and a creepy basement housing a hell-hound. A lopsided garden shed. A decaying barn filled with rusty old farm equipment, cars, and tractors.

I reach into an open cabinet and shove out a box of oatmeal. It lands on the counter, spilling apple cinnamon packets onto the floor. I scoot one over the cracked tile and leave it meaningfully in the doorway. Cutter glances up at me. "What? You want me to feed the Little Duck?"

I shove a half-consumed bottled water away from where he left it next to his oil-stained lunch box.

He snaps his paper. "I shouldn't. I should let her suffer after what you did yesterday. You kidnapped my girls."

Growling at him, I shove Nadine out from where I hid her just out of arm's reach under the refrigerator. She comes skidding out, trailing dust bunnies, and hits the opposite counter with a thunk.

He puts down the paper and grins at me. "That's better. You cooperate, I'll be nice to your little girlfriend."

I punch him. Just 'cause I want to. But it does nothing. He turns, grabs his half-finished breakfast of eggs and ham, and heads toward the basement door. I keep my distance as he opens it and tosses the plate's contents into the damp, murky beyond. There are no stairs to the basement—most likely to keep Delilah where she belongs—so the eggs and bacon fall through space. Below, I hear Delilah snap something out of the air, her slobbery jaws clacking.

I shiver. Delilah isn't natural. Perhaps she was once a nice little puppy, but years of being locked alone in the dark wet of a basement with only a cistern and whatever Cutter tosses her to eat have turned her into something else. A crazed monster, half starved and living in her own filth, raised to do what Cutter needs of her. Yet, at the same time, I pity her. Usually I like animals, and she's the victim of cruelty. But again, there's nothing I can do for her. Uselessness is the story of my life.

***

I trudge after Cutter as he brings a tray of simple food up to my inmate. He puts the food on the hospital table and pushes it over the bed. I watch, concerned, as he unlocks the shackles with a key that he never takes from around his neck, but she doesn't stir.

Is she still alive? I reach out and touch her skin. She's still warm. Too warm. She has a fever. I glance around the floor searching for the aspirin I tried to give her last night. My ability to push things is so limiting. Much as I had good intentions to aid her when I finally found the courage to present myself to her in shame, I couldn't help her. I shove the aspirin until it hits Cutter's boot.

He leans down and picks it up. "Ibuprofen, huh?" He pops the cap and rattles a few into his hand. "I suppose."

He sits on the edge of the bed and gives the inmate a shake. "Wake up, Little Duck, it's time for breakfast."