Page 80 of Broken Bayou
He swings the gun in my direction. “Yes, I do!” His voice is shrill and defensive.
I keep my hands up. “Okay. It’s okay.”
Doyle’s breathing is shallow. He taps his leg with my gun; then his eyes widen as he notices the phone in my hand for the first time. I take a step back. He jumps for me so quickly I fall backward, and he snatches the phone from my grip. The kitchen door clicks open.
We both stare at it as he puts my phone in his back pocket. Every fight-or-flight instinct in my body screamsrun. Doyle may not plan to intentionally hurt me, but his voice tells me he’s afraid. Desperate.That’s a dangerous combination. I wheel around and race for the open door.
I burst into the backyard, but Doyle gains on me fast.
“Stop,” he yells.
I keep running. I hear his breath close to me; then I feel him grab my hair. My neck jerks back, and I scream. Despite his skinny frame, he’s strong. Stronger than me. I fight and kick at him, but he gets on top of me and straddles my chest. I scream again; he slaps me, open palmed. “Shut up!”
I’m stunned for a moment. My cheek burns. Then my adrenaline kicks into overtime, and I twist an arm free and claw for his eyes, but I can only reach his cheek. My nails dig into his face and leave red, bleeding marks as I drag them across his skin. He cries out like an animal and raises the gun. I see the butt of it coming for my head.
That’s the last thing I see.
I come to with a blinding headache. Something sticky covers my right cheek. I try to touch it but realize my hands are tied behind my back. I smell cabbage and body odor, and as my eyes adjust, I wish I was still unconscious. I’m on my side on a small bed in a room with bare walls and one window. The window is dark.
I’m in the Arceneauxes’ home. In Emily’s room. In her bed, under her sheets, with a broken, one-eyed baby doll tucked in next to my head. I moan a low throaty sound as I move away from the doll. My breathing is stilted, and I work to keep my heart rate under control. Hyperventilating will not help here, but I’m having a hard time keeping my head clear. I remember being at the house, in the kitchen. Doyle with the gun. Me, running.
Another moan escapes as I manage to push myself into a seated position. My head swims. My arms burn. I try to judge the time from the night sky through the window, but the darkness tells me nothing.A ripped piece of paper, however, with scrawled handwriting tells me plenty.I want to help you. This is for your own good.
I cannot be here. Doyle may or may not be guilty of the heinous crimes at the bayou, but now, he’s definitely guilty of kidnapping. And although, in his warped mind, he seems to believe he’s helping me, there’s no way being in this room is helpful.
When I stand up, black dots dance across my vision. I sway but somehow stay upright. I walk to the door and turn around so I can try the knob. It’s locked. I release a heavy breath, thinking of the lock on the outside of the door. I inhale and exhale slowly. Panicking is not an option.
I scan the room. Eddie’s metal dolls are lined up against the opposite wall; most look like the ones he gave me. One looks half-done, like he’s still working on it. Some look sharp. I move my feet across the dusty floor. That’s when I notice I’m not wearing any shoes. I wonder where the boots are I had on earlier but decide it makes no difference. I have much bigger things to worry about. Then I notice my clothes. I’m no longer wearing the pants I had on earlier either. I’m not wearing pants at all. I’m only wearing my underwear and a huge gold T-shirt with LSU written on the front in purple. Eddie’s T-shirt. I remember it from when I saw him on the levee with Doyle. I cringe at the thought of Doyle changing me into this, but I won’t dwell on it. I have to get moving.
I walk over to the metal dolls, sit on the floor next to them, and find what looks like the sharpest one. I turn my back to it and grab it in one hand and try to manipulate it to cut at what’s binding my wrists. But I can’t get my hand to bend in the right way, and I end up dropping it.
“Shit.”
I feel for it behind my back and, in the process, realize the knot does not feel as tight as I thought. If I work it hard enough, I might be able to slip my hands out. I start slowly rubbing my hands together. The friction from the rope burns my wrists, but I keep rubbing, keep pushing to make the hole bigger. My hand slips a little, and I cry out. I keep my eyes on the door. The Arceneaux house is quiet.
After several minutes, I feel the rope give, and one of my hands pops free. I release a hard exhale and bring my hands around, massaging the bright-red marks left behind. I touch a finger to the goose egg on my forehead where Doyle hit me and wince. Then I knock the rope off my other hand and race for the window. It’s set high, but I can still reach the locks. After some prying and pushing, I manage to force the locks open. I try to push the window up, but it doesn’t budge. I try again, harder. It still won’t move. The old congealed paint around the edges acts like superglue. I spend the next few minutes fighting it from every angle with no success. A fluttering jolt seizes my chest, but I refuse to give in to it. I’ll find a way out. I’ll break the window. I look under the bed but only see the shoebox Eddie had in his hands last time I was here. That’s not going to break a window. I turn and eye the metal dolls. Maybe. Then I hear footsteps clunking down the hallway.
I fly onto the bed, under the covers, placing my hands behind my back. The doorknob turns. I see the rope discarded on the floor. I want to reach for it, but it’s too late. A lock turns, and the door swings open.
I shut my eyes. The air in the room shifts, changes, as a mass moves from the doorway to the room. Then something sharp pokes me. I flutter my eyes open. Eddie hovers over me, holding a long stick. He pokes me again. “Alive?”
“Of course she’s alive.”
Doyle moves from behind Eddie and studies me as if he may not be so sure. His cheeks are streaked with dried blood from where I scratched him.
I maneuver myself to a seated position. I focus on Doyle. I swallow the rage at what he’s done. I have to stay calm, speak to him without putting him on the defense. “Doyle, I need to leave.”
He shakes his head.
“No leave. Not safe,” Eddie says. His face drops, and he starts to rock on his feet, heel to toe. He rubs his huge arms, and his breathing becomes labored.
“It’s okay, Eddie.” I glance at the rope on the floor. They haven’t noticed it yet. “Everything’s fine.” He stops rocking.
I look at Doyle.
He shuffles on his feet. “I called the police.”
A wave of relief washes over me. “Oh, thank God.” Then I meet Doyle’s gaze. “Which police did you call?”
