Page 8 of Triple Threat

Keeping Miss Brooks as healthy as possible while she was in her induced sleep had involved just making chicken stock. That had been good practice making liquid gold, the rendered product of boiling the entire chicken carcass. I basted the spatchcocked bird with some of this dew of the gods and put it back to cooking. Spatchcocking involved cutting the whole bird in half, spreading it out so it cooked more evenly, and then surrounding the whole thing with root vegetables and herbs; very French.

While the bird browned, I took a bowl of basic chicken soup to the guest bedroom. It had a bit of chicken, and finely sliced carrots, parsnips, celery, and most of the same herbs as the spatchcock. Ingredient wise, they were almost the same thing.

She was standing at the window when I let myself into the room, after a pair of curt knocks. “It’s good to see you up and about,” I said. She turned to face me, her hair a messy halo around her head. Patchy in color now – blonde, gray, and blue… it was dreadful.

“The kidnapper appears,” she said. The only thing harder than the tone in her voice was the glint in her eye.

“I’m no kidnapper,” I said. “You were brought here unconscious and sick.”

“What do you want from me?” she demanded. “I don’t have anything. No money. Nothing, not a goddamn thing.”

“The only thing I’d like from you is that you give me the benefit of the doubt. Your wellbeing is my paramount concern,” I said.

“I don’t know you enough to even consider trusting you,” she practically hissed, much like a feral cat.

“I figured as much, and that’s why you’re locked in this room. If you get with the proverbial program and relax, this is a rather large and very nice house. It has quite a few amenities that are rarely, if ever, used. The better your behavior, the more access to the house and the more freedoms will be granted to you,” I said. “I know this isn’t ideal, but honestly, if Lach hadn’t brought you here, you’d very likely be dead right now.”

“I thought you said I wasn’t a prisoner,” she said pointedly.

“You’re not,” I told her.

“Your terms definitely make it sound like I am,” she said and crossing her arms she stood a little straighter. “I want out. You know, since I’m not being held here against my will and all.” Her tone was chilly and rife with sarcasm. I had to smile.

“I get that, and I understand.” She crossed her arms defensively. “No, no! I do. However, it’s not up to me. That will be between you and Lach.” She scowled and changed tact slightly.

“Who took my clothes? Who shaved me? What else did they do to me?” She was scared, angry, and her clear frustration had her on the verge of tears.

“How about this,” I said gently, setting the tray on the dresser. “I let you eat this chicken soup, and maybe it will calm you a little, and when you have calmed, we shall revisit this conversation.”

She screamed and ranted for about an hour. There was a particularly entertaining jag about putting Xanax or Valium in the soup. Then she wept for a time, then finally she quieted,likely purely from being spent. She was still quite ill.

While she was having her fit, I went back to my tasks in the kitchen. I was keen to see how well my chicken would turn out. The bird had to rest before cutting. This typically applied more to roasts and steaks, but it didn’t hurt fish or fowl. Anyone else would gladly have served this with a glass of dry oaked Chardonnay, but the only use I had for wine was in the cooking. A glass of water was no French vintage, but six years sober is a long streak to break for a glorified roasted chicken and the pretense of looking and feeling sophisticated. Could I stop after a glass? After a bottle? I honestly didn’t know and didn’t feel like finding out by waking out of blackout.

I didn’t feel like going to weekly meetings and collecting coins.

* * *

Lach eventually returnedsingle word answers to a few texted queries. They were annoying, nattering questions. Sometimes finding out where he was, and when he was going to come back to the house made me feel like a peevish mother. I took a breath and remembered that this chaos was vital to his mental health, and in a perverse way, my own.

I checked back in on Miss Brooks.

“How was the soup?” I asked.

“Fine,” she said, tersely.

“Wonderful, and how are you feeling?”

“Your concern is heartwarming,” she said bitterly. “I’m alive and almost naked.”

“Lach wanted me to make sure you didn’t die,” I said. “He knows you from somewhere but didn’t feel it necessary to tell me. Do you recall meeting him on the road?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about, and no.” She crossed her arms. “I would like my clothes back.”

“There are plenty of suitable clothes in the dresser, and the armoire, I told you this earlier,” I said.

“There’s nothing in there but nightgowns, slips, and fucking lingerie,” she snapped.

“What do you want?” I asked.

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