Devoted in Death (In Death #41)(69)

“They need to get the son on his own.”

“That’s the plan.”

With a grunt, Eve turned back to her comp to write the report on Mulligan, and update all salient parties. She’d run a probability on Campbell’s chances. Dead or alive. But she wanted to run it by Mira.

Something was going to break, and soon. She could feel it, almost hear those first cracks in the wall.

But would it be soon enough?

He’d wept while he raped her.

No, no, that wasn’t right, Jayla thought. She couldn’t and wouldn’t call it rape. Not when they’d beaten him first, and cut him.

And her.

Not when they’d forced the sex drug into him, and held a knife to his throat unless he’d crawled on top of her. She’d tried to talk to him with her eyes. Tried to tell him to just do it, it didn’t matter, she didn’t blame him.

His tears had fallen on her. She wondered she didn’t drown in them.

They’d put a knife to her throat, too, when forcing him to push into her wasn’t enough. And Ella-Loo had pulled the gag off, told her to scream, to beg.

Beg him, beg him to stop. Scream!

So she had, though her screams were hoarse and weak, she’d screamed and begged. And all the while her eyes told the weeping boy it didn’t matter. It wasn’t his fault.

Once she’d believed, absolutely, rape was the worst that could happen to a woman. The ultimate violation. She knew better now. This – what they made him (Reed, she remembered. She would think of him as Reed) do to her was nothing compared to what they’d already done.

What she feared they could do. What they would do.

Everybody said rape was about power, control, and not about sex. Maybe that was true, but for Darryl and Ella-Loo, sex was part of it, too.

They pawed each other with their free hands while the boy did what they made him do. And they told each other what they’d do to each other.

And they were in such a hurry to f*ck, they dragged the boy off, trussed him up again right on the floor where he fell, left him there. They raced away because Ella-Loo said she wanted the bed.

They forgot to gag her again. It took Jayla a minute to realize it, to understand the raw sounds she made were actual words.

“Can you hear me? Reed? Can you hear me?”

He kept crying, flat on his face, his hands taped behind his back, his legs bound from calves to ankles.

“I’m Jayla. Jayla Campbell.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t your fault. I don’t care about that.” Maybe she would later, maybe she would never be able to be touched again. Maybe they’d kill her and none of it would matter anyway.

But now, this minute, she was alive. And she wasn’t alone.

“Please. I’m Jayla. Can you talk to me?”

“I’m sorry.” Finally he turned his head so his swollen, blackened eyes met hers. “They made me —”

“I know. They might’ve killed me, both of us, if you hadn’t done it. I don’t care about that. If they make you do it again, remember I don’t care. Do you know what day it is? I don’t know what day it is. I don’t know how long I’ve been here.”

“I… I think Thursday. Or Wednesday. I can’t think. I feel sick. Why are they doing this?”

“I don’t know. They’re the sick ones. Can you move around at all? Do you see the knives, or anything sharp?”

“I don’t know. Everything hurts. I think they broke stuff. My hand…” But he tried to turn. “Who are they?”

“Darryl and Ella-Loo.” The words scraped her throat, like nails on dry wood, but she needed to speak. “You have to remember their names. That’s what they call each other. We have to try to get away. They’re going to hurt you more than they already have. They like it.”

“Where are we?”

“I don’t know, but an apartment, I think. Close to the street because when they open the door the traffic’s right outside. If you can get to the door, or a window, maybe you can get it open. Or find something sharp. They’ve got me tied to this table or board.”

He tried. She could hear his hisses of pain, his choked sobs and harsh breathing as he inched his way toward her.

When he managed to get to his knees, she saw his face again, gray from the effort, his eyes glazed from the pain and the remnants of what they’d forced down him.

His skin was shiny with sweat, and blood from where they’d cut him. He shivered like a man cased in ice.

“There’s a knife – I see a knife on that table. If I can get over to it, maybe I can knock it down to the floor.”

“Try. Try, Reed.”

He did, scooting on his knees. She saw his hand, bone-white and badly swollen, and more blood from more slices and gouges on his back.

Pity stirred somewhere deep inside her, but heavy over it was a fierce and violent hope. If he could get to the knife…

He swayed, nearly went over. “Dizzy. Need to —”

“Stop a minute. Catch your breath.”

But it was too late. He tipped to the side, tried to pull himself back. Overbalanced, he fell backward, landed on his broken hand.

His scream was thin as wire before he passed out.