She’d been with him nearly four days now. There’d been no sign of anybody near the cabin. He’d rather wanted the man who’d abused her to show up. He’d like to have the chance to kill him himself. Where was that bastard? Probably long gone. How much longer should he keep her with him, hidden away from the outside world? At least he didn’t have to worry about her health. The second day he’d given her a third of one of his sleeping pills. When she was deeply asleep, he’d examined her again, checked all the bruises and welts, applied more antibiotic cream, then covered her again. She was healing nicely. She’d never stirred, thank God.
He wondered if she really had a Dalmatian. He realized, too, that he’d put himself in the place of her real father. Well, too bad. As long as she was with him, she was his. But what about her parents? Had they been there when she’d been taken? Maybe they were responsible, maybe they’d allowed it to happen? What were they like? No, it didn’t matter, at least not yet. But, of course, it did matter.
He felt good. This was the first time she’d actually gotten close to him. It had taken his falling asleep for her to get closer, but it was a start, a definite start.
He smiled toward the stove, got up, and opened a can of chicken noodle soup. She liked the soup with toasted cheese sandwiches.
THAT evening after they’d roasted the last two hot dogs, eaten the rest of the baked beans and he’d managed to make some strawberry Jell-O that wasn’t rubbery at the bottom, he said to her, “Why don’t I say some girl names. If I happen to hit your name, you can nod three times or pull on my arm, or kick me in my shin. Okay?”
She didn’t move. Her expression didn’t change. Her lack of enthusiasm didn’t bode well.
“Okay, let’s give it a shot. How about Jennifer? That’s a really pretty name. Is it yours?”
She didn’t move.
“How about Lindsey?”
Nothing.
“Morgan?”
She turned her back on him. That made her feelings clear enough. She didn’t want to play a name game. But why?
“Draw me a picture of your mommy.”
She turned back in an instant. Her fingers fluttered over the blank sheet of paper. She didn’t look at him, just stared at that paper. Then she began to draw. It was a stick figure wearing a skirt, sneakers, and a head of curly hair. The figure was holding what looked like a box with a knob in the front of it.
He said then, “That’s just excellent. Is her hair dark brown like yours?” She shook her head. “Red?”
She smiled hugely and nodded. Then she drew more curly hair around the stick woman’s head.
“I guessed red because it’s my favorite color. She’s got really curly hair? Is it long?” She shrugged her shoulders. “Okay, it’s medium. Is she holding a box?” She shook her head. She pointed to people on the cover of a magazine on the coffee table. Then clicked her index finger again and again to her thumb.
“Ah,” he said. “That’s a camera. She’s a photographer?” She nodded, again pointing to the pictures. “And she photographs people?”
She nodded happily. Then, suddenly, her face fell. She was thinking about her mother, missing her, wondering where she was, and there was not a thing he could do about it. He said, “Now draw me a picture of your daddy.”
She clutched the pen the way one would a dagger. Then she made that horrible mewling sound in her throat. “It’s all right, sweetheart. I’m here. You’re safe.” Then, somewhat to his surprise, she began to draw a man stick figure and he was playing a guitar and his mouth was open. Her father was a singer? Then she pressed down so hard the pencil tip broke. So could her father have been the one who’d left her vulnerable? Abused her? No, certainly a father wouldn’t do that to his own kid. Yeah, right. With everything he knew about life, everything he’d watched and dealt with, he knew, of course, it was very possible. He wanted to ask her questions about her dad, but seeing her reaction, he let it wait.