Читать книгу My Stockholm Syndrome - Бекки Чейз - Страница 6

I opened my eyes in surprise to find that the gamekeeper wasn't going to kill me. Not yet, anyway. I lifted myself from the ground and met his colorless eyes again, and wrapped my arms around myself, trying to stop trembling.

′′I'm not going to repeat myself twice,′′ Jason warned me as he tucked his gun behind his belt. ′′Drag this lard-ass over to that birch tree there.′′

Pointing out the direction, he picked up Stu's rifle and hat and began walking. Grabbing cowboy by the legs, I slowly crossed the clearing dragging him along. The jacket on the corpse was baggy and slowed me down, clinging to tree roots and branches lying on the ground. I was exhausted by the time I dragged Stu to the right place. Jason had cleared an area of about two square meters under the birch. The dry branches he'd moved aside had previously covered a small latch sticking out of the ground. Pulling on it and, it seemed to me, twisting a piece of turf out of the way, Jason swung open the leaf-covered hatch. Beneath there was a shallow bunker, like a shipping container buried in the ground.

′′Throw him in there,′′ he ordered.

I pushed Stu's body down.

′′Now get in there yourself.′′

′′What?′′

′′You have five seconds to decide if you're going in there alive or with a bullet in your head.′′

He didn't even reach for his gun. On shaky legs, I climbed down into the metal coffin and laid down. Jason unloaded the rifle and threw it on the corpse together with the hat.

′′If you make a sound, you're dead,′′ he promised me and closed the hatch.

In the darkness, I could hear him covering the bunker entrance with branches again. Then the sounds faded away. Breathing heavily, I tried to count to a hundred but lost track and went to tens. It didn't make me feel any better. I wasn't claustrophobic, but lying in total darkness next to a dead body was very unnerving. I could almost feel the walls beginning to shift and take in the air. At times it seemed to me that Stu was still alive and about to grab his rifle. The minutes of pressing silence dragged on and I felt like I was ceasing to exist, shrinking under the strain of waiting.

Only once did I hear footsteps over my head. My hope of getting out into the light stirred, but I shrank inwardly as I heard the voice of their owner. If that person found me, a resurrected cowboy would seem like a gift from heaven.

′′Did you hear?′′ The unsuspecting Outcast sniggered. ′′Stu was disqualified for shooting both the kid and the slut.′′

′′So why didn't he pay the fine?′′ His companion wondered. ′′He wanted to finish with the blonde.′′

′′Apparently, she wasn't good enough to lose money over,′′ Outcast laughed. ′′That's why he left.′′

I didn't recognize the second voice.

The gamekeepers had left and I was digesting what I'd heard. Jason told everyone I'd been killed by the cowboy. Officially, I was dead. He could have eliminated me as an unwanted witness more than once… so why didn't he? I didn't delude myself into believing he was in love with me. My future seemed bleak, considering who my life depended on. Then again, it wasn't a sure thing that he hadn't already gotten rid of me by burying me alive in the middle of the woods. As I brooded over this, the branches above my head rustled and the hatch lifted. Seeing Jason's silhouette against the darkening sky, I sat up. Wondering whether or not I could come out, I heard the first order:

′′Take his clothes off.′′

Overcoming my squeamishness, I took the cowboy's boots off. The clothes were a bit of a pain to take off; Stu hadn't been very physically active even when he was alive. Hearing the tear of fabric I pulled the jacket off him, barely able to move the body, and ripped the sleeves off his shirt while pulling it off. I stuffed the scraps into a backpack I'd been handed down, and then collapsed tiredly on the cold floor. Jason watched me in silence. After taking a breath, I stood up again, kicking the cowboy's fat body and shoving my knees under him, and finished with the jeans.

′′Now cut them off,′′ Jason threw me something looking like a cross between a pair of pruning shears and a pair of scissors.

′′What?′′ I almost dropped them.

′′Cut off his fingers.′′

God, I think I'm going to be sick.

′′The first bone of each finger is enough,′′ Jason explained when he saw that I couldn't decide which part of the cowboy's finger to put between the sharpened edges of the scissors.

My hands wouldn't cooperate, and Stu's finger kept slipping out from between the sharp blades, but I stubbornly pressed on the handle until I heard a quiet crunch – it had broken through the bone. One down, nine more to go.

I couldn't decide which was more terrifying: knowing that the sword of Damocles was hanging over you, or realizing that there was someone even more frightening than the sword of death. Hearing the gunshots behind me, or the crunch of breaking bones. The third finger gave me a blister on my palm, and the seventh scratched my skin until it bled. Trying hard to control my gagging, I cut off the last pinky finger. Jason shoved the pieces into the bag and picked up the rifle. This was it. Now he was going to kill me for sure.

Instead, Jason swung and forcibly brought the rifle butt down on Stu's head. The impact caused the mangled arm to slide off the cowboy's flabby belly and thud on the bunker floor. I covered my ears and squeezed my eyes shut. I didn't want to hear that sound, and I didn't want to see the skull turning into a bloody mess. But I could still feel every blow. Worst of all were the words that came out in the sudden silence: