Every Vow You Break(65)
“And you, Jill Greenly, do you plead guilty, also, to infidelity and wantonness?”
Abigail looked over at Jill, who was quietly crying. She watched Jill slowly lift her head and nod, and then Carl was behind her, also wearing a mask that covered the top half of his face, leaving his mustache visible. The masks looked homemade, probably constructed with papier-maché, then painted green; she had a sudden surreal vision of these men crafting them. Or had they simply found them in the camp’s old theater department, some leftover from a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream? Abigail turned back to Bruce, no longer being held back by Eric, and she tried to read his expression. He was excited, his eyes gleaming and his body rocking back and forth like a little boy who needs to pee. But there was also fear in his face, his jaw clenched, his neck rigid.
Jesus, are they really going to kill us?
A flush of cold desperation surged through her body. “Bruce,”
she said. “Make this stop.”
His expression changed, his brow lowering, and for a moment she thought he might put an end to what was happening. Maybe it really was just a performance, designed to scare them, a form of theater as punishment. Then Chip raised his arms again and pronounced, “We sentence you both as whores, and assert our privileges as men to decree punishment in the form of death for both of you.”
Jill raised her head and yelled, “Alec!” over and over, her voice growing louder and more hysterical. Carl, from behind her, grabbed at her mouth and covered it. Porter charged in and helped to hold Jill. At the same time, the pilot and Eric grabbed hold of Abigail’s shoulders and arms and held her in place.
“Bruce, Alec,” Chip said, and both men turned to him. “Are you each prepared to deliver the punishment?”
CHAPTER 27
We are,” Bruce said, but Alec only nodded. His face was flushed, and Abigail realized that she hadn’t heard him say a word since they’d been out here. Chip reached into the front pockets of his vest and pulled a short knife from each. Abigail tried to wrench herself free from Eric and the pilot, but they held on to her tighter, pulling her up off the chair, each gripping an arm. Bruce took one of the knives from Chip and Alec took the other. Abigail struggled, flailing her legs, but the men were too strong. She could feel Eric’s hot breath on her neck, and the pilot was digging his fingers into the soft flesh of her upper arm.
Looking toward Jill, Abigail saw that she was being held upright by Carl and Porter now as well. But she wasn’t struggling. She looked like she was already dead, slumped between them like a rag doll.
Bruce was coming toward her and all Abigail could see was the knife in his hand. I’m about to die, she thought, and terror flooded her body again. She was cold, and felt all alone, more alone than she’d ever felt before in her life. She looked up from the knife to Bruce’s face, which was still rigid, his teeth bared. She heard Jill groan, but didn’t turn. Bruce pressed the tip of the knife against her chest, then pushed.
She felt pressure, but not much else. It doesn’t hurt, she thought. There’s that, at least.
Bruce pulled the knife out, and it made a strange, mechanical click. She still felt nothing. Just dizziness and the cold, terrible awareness that she was dying. He pushed the knife in again, laughing, and turned back to look at Chip, now standing alone, a look of triumph on his red face. Abigail looked down at her chest, and there was no blood. She still felt nothing, and then she looked at the knife, its blade bloodless as well.
Bruce was following her eyes, and he put his finger on top of the blade, pushed down, and the blade retracted into its sheath. It was a fake knife, something used in theaters. There’d been several of them at Boxgrove in the props department.
“Just kidding,” Bruce said, and took a step backward.
Abigail felt her body go limp, collapsing so that she was only being held up by the pilot. Eric had let go of her and stepped away.
There was no real relief, just a wave of helplessness, coupled with rage. Bruce turned his back to her, did a half bow as Chip applauded.
“Fuck you,” Abigail said, and it took everything from her to say those words, but the men didn’t respond. The pilot let go of her and she sat back down in the chair. Her body felt as though it had been wrung out. All of her muscles burned. She looked over at Jill, now sitting back in her chair, too. Carl had taken off his mask and he’d just fist-bumped with Alec and then with Porter. Alec, still holding the knife, was swaying in place, his face hard to read. Carl and Porter walked back to Chip as Alec continued to stand over Jill.
“You really thought I was going to kill you?” Bruce said, and his voice was too loud, as though adrenaline was still flowing through his body.
Abigail said nothing. Her throat ached, and she could feel a sob rising through her, but she didn’t let it come out. The men, regrouped now, were comparing notes, laughing. She watched them, wondering what was going to happen next. Would she be expected to get on a plane with Bruce, leave the island? What would stop her from telling this story to the police, or to a reporter?
Although at the moment she didn’t care about all that; she just wanted to get away, to go home, to forget everything that had happened.
“Alec?” It was Porter’s voice. He was stretched to his full height, looking through the fire to where Alec still stood with Jill. The other men had begun to look, and Abigail turned her head, knowing, from the tone of Porter’s voice, that she was about to see something she didn’t want to see.