August Ansel - The Attic

“Stop,” he said. Despite his deft maneuvering, there was a faint quaver in his voice. He pulled Arie in front of him, short spear in one hand, his free hand crossed over her collarbone so that he gripped her opposite shoulder. His chin grazed the top of her head so that her hair caught in his short beard. He smelled of campfire and damp living, rough living.

Renna froze, face averted, staring off into the unseeable places around the deep edges of the room.

“You’re not moving well,” he said. “You go crawling around up here and you’ll end up with wood in your hands and knees. That, or fall through the ceiling. I saw through the windows downstairs. You’d break your neck in that mess.”

“Conditions have declined,” said Arie, her voice steady, quiet. “No prize, this place. Better if you move on.”

He raised the short spear closer to Arie’s upper body. “Get back over here,” he said to Renna, “before something happens that we can’t undo.” He motioned to the Packard seat with a jerk of his head. When he did, the blade of the short spear, honed to the thinnest possible edge, made a whisper of contact with Arie’s throat. It wasn’t deliberate; he didn’t appear even to realize what was happening. But she felt the fine sting, a delicate slash probably no wider than a hair’s breadth, and the beginning trickle of blood, warm on her skin. The soft flesh under her old chin was a small protection, like the wattles of a turtle. Watching Renna crouch in the dark, Arie thought that up against Renna’s smooth neck the blade would get up to real mischief.

“You’re cutting me,” Arie said, voice firm and declamatory. “If that’s your intention, you may just as well do it properly.” Before he could react, she grasped his forearm with both hands and simultaneously lifted her chin, banging the top of her head into his jaw. “I am only a sojourner. Pilgrim, will you give me rest?” She tried to pull the blade closer. He cried out and shoved her away. With her low center of gravity and practiced sense of balance, Arie stumbled only a little. She faced him, knees bent slightly, ready to run, or pounce.

“Arie?” said Renna behind her. “Are you hurt?”

“Just an accident, I think,” Arie said, not taking her eyes off the man.

He stared at her, slack-jawed. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Under the thick scruff of beard his face was pale and damp. He looked to be in his late twenties, though the deep lines etched between his dark eyes may have put him closer to Handy’s age.

“Wrong with me?” Arie said. She smiled, and there was an atavistic shift in his posture, a tiny shrinking away. “I’m suffering an overabundance of company,” she said, “and I’m waiting to see if it’s terminal.” She looked him over with slow deliberation, crown of head to cuff of jeans. “You don’t seem entirely well, either. You’re sweating.”

He armed his forehead reflexively with one sleeve. “Enough,” he said. “No matter what you try, I can grab that one before she gets halfway out.” His voice sounded far more tired than menacing. “Tell her to get over here.”

He was right, of course; no matter how Arie might distract or waylay the man, Renna couldn’t exactly make a run for it. Why was Arie primed to protect her anyway? The impulse filled her with a niggling fury. All these years she’d practiced it: manage herself. Leave others to manage themselves. “My life is my own,” she said. “And this girl’s is hers,” said Arie. “Not for me to interfere.”

“I’m interfering,” he said, “and I’m done asking.” He raised the blade of the short spear with a hand that had begun to shake in earnest.

“Don’t,” said Renna. “I’ll come out.” She did, ducking back into the middle of the space in an ungainly, crabwise scuttle and back onto the sofa.

“Better,” he said. The expression on his face, far from being the black threat that he seemed hell-bent on projecting, was one of weary frustration. Whatever his plan had been when he jumped inside, it was definitely not going as expected. “You, too,” he told Arie.

She settled herself on the Packard seat. Renna grimaced at the sight of Arie’s collar and shirtfront. “Oh damn, you’re really bleeding.”

“It’s not bad,” Arie said.

The man pulled a coiled length of nylon cord from his jacket pocket and tossed it into Renna’s lap. “Tie her wrists with one end of it,” he said. “If you leave any slack, I’ll tighten it, and I can’t promise she’ll have a lot of feeling in her hands after that.”

Arie held out her hands side by side. She strained to catch any sound of Handy, but the tinny rhythm of the stove vent and the wind in the trees around the house were all she could hear. The open sky panel and her knife on the work table tugged at her attention, so she nailed her gaze on the intruder.

“Not like that,” the man said to Arie. “Put the insides of your wrists together.”

She rotated her forearms, face placid, not taking her eyes off him. The cut part of her thumb was a raw inch, ugly but not bleeding much. Renna saw it and hesitated.

“Go ahead,” Arie said.

Renna fumbled with the loop of cord, paying out a length from one end. She bent over Arie’s hands, winding the rope in careful arcs and struggling with the long remainder that was now puddled in both their laps and draped onto the floor. “Is this hurting you?” she said.

“Move away from her,” he said.

“She’s an old woman. You cut her.” Renna’s voice was rising. “Look at the blood on her, you pig.”

“Stop—” Arie began, but before she could say more the man strode forward. He pushed Renna against the seat back and held her there, his big fingertips pressing against her collarbones.

“Yes,” he said. He was breathing heavily, searching Renna’s face. “Stop.” Renna went quiet, and Arie thought she might drop her eyes, but she sat rigidly, glaring as though she’d like to bite him.

He held her a moment longer, then sighed and took his hand away. Where each finger had been was a round, pink impression in the pale skin of Renna’s chest. Tears, more rage than fear, Arie thought, now brimmed in her eyes.

With a small step backward, he looked bemusedly at his open palm. “Don’t you know that I could break your neck with one hand and put out her eye with the other?” His voice was utterly without rancor, casual: Did the mail come yet? Shall we order pizza? Do you think it will rain? He almost seemed to be asking himself the question. He placed the hand over his heart, and for just a moment closed his eyes. This caused him to sway tiredly, and he shook himself.

“Make some room,” he told Renna. She scooted away from Arie, favoring her right hip. He quickly ran the cord from Arie to Renna and tied Renna’s wrists, then looped the remainder around the back frame of the car seat, knotting it with a hard tug that made the old springs squall. He checked Arie’s hands; the binding was apparently snug enough to satisfy him. With the two women secured, he climbed the ladder, Arie’s weapon in one fist. He cocked an ear, listening, and eased up to look around the roof. Renna reached for Arie’s arm and squeezed, no doubt hoping that Handy was out there waiting. Nothing happened.

Back inside, he looked around, getting his bearings. His eyebrows went up, and he hurried to the table. Arie figured she was about to lose her knife, but instead he reached for the plastic crate of apples, still pulled out and uncovered. He picked up two, one in each hand, and ate them in huge, gobbling bites, not bothering to spare the cores but eating them whole. “Really good,” he said, mouth full. He took a third and ate more slowly this time. As he chewed, he examined the short spear, getting a close look at its business end. “Did you make this,” he asked Arie, “or did he?”