A sudden tug on the line. Then another. The rod bends so much that I think it will snap.
“Pull back,” says Rex. “Gently now, Amelia. You want to snag him, make sure that hook gets good and stuck in his cheek before reeling in.”
The water ripples in circles and the line is so taut I’m sure it has snagged a rock. The line jolts again.
“That’s it, Amelia. Bring it up. Slowly, now. Slowly.”
The fish is fighting. The reel is whirring.
“Wind it, quickly, that’s it.”
The fish breaks the surface and dances on its tail. I reel furiously and bring the fish in to the riverbank. Rex unhooks the flapping creature and lays it on the plastic bag.
“I did it,” I say, exhilarated. “I really caught a fish.”
*
He roasts the brown trout in foil over the fire. He allows me the first bite, flaking off the milky white flesh into my bowl. It tastes good and fresh and real. Not like the thrice-crumbed grocery store fish that has been minced with God knows what else and shaped to look like a fish. We eat until there’s nothing left except a wide-toothed comb.
“I’ll wash up, Amelia,” he says. “It’s only fair.”
He tosses the bones into the flames and scrapes and washes the plates. When he’s done he sits down and stares at the fire.
“I’m going to let you go,” he says. I look at him to see if he’s joking. “Take you back so you can carry on with whatever you were going to do.”
“Now?”
He lifts his eyes to the forest.
“It’s too close to nightfall. Tomorrow.”
14
I sleep in fits and starts. Is he playing me? Stringing me along in some twisted mind game? The desperate part of me wants fiercely to believe that I have managed to humanize myself enough for him to release me. It happens, doesn’t it? There are entire true-crime series made about survivors of terrible crime who live to tell the tale. Yes, I say inwardly, that’s it. Think positive. Send out those optimistic vibrations to the universe—believe it and it will manifest.
By first light I’m fully awake but he’s still asleep beside me. I wait, watching his passive face inches from my own, and tell myself this is the last time I will be tethered. Tonight I will be sleeping in a bed, an actual bed, on my own.
He stirs and opens his eyes.
“Morning,” I say an octave higher than usual.
He blinks at me and says nothing and for one horrible moment I think he’s going to rape me again. I mean, why wouldn’t he? Once hardly makes the trip worthwhile, does it? He knows I won’t resist, that I won’t risk him not letting me go. But he breaks off eye contact and sits up.
“I don’t know about you, Amelia, but I need coffee,” he says, clapping his big hands together.
I nod. “Yes, coffee would be good.”
As usual, coffee is followed by porridge and him washing the dishes and putting them away. When he’s done, he turns to me.
“Let’s get you cleaned up before we hit the road.”
I want to tell him I don’t need a bath. I can live with myself. Even though I stink worse than week-old trash. But it’s a good sign. He probably just wants to get rid of any trace of his DNA on my body before he lets me go.
We take the hour-long hike to the lake and once there, he digs inside his duffel bag, hands me soap, and points to the water.
“In you go. I won’t look. I’ll sit right over here.”
He does what he says and settles down on a log, facing the opposite direction. Quickly I undress and dip into the water, which is breathtakingly cold but fresh. I put my head under, wet my hair, scrub my face.
“Finish up now, Amelia,” I hear him call. “There’s clean clothes in the bag.”
I splash soap from my face and check that his back is turned then hurry from the water naked. Inside the bag I find a fluffy white towel and a brand new summer dress made from expensive cloth. It’s embossed with exquisite daisies and comes complete with a $150 price tag. It’s chilling, I think, the extent to which he has thought this through—the moonboot, the tire, the camp in the woods, the dress meant for his perfect size four victim. Trying not to think too hard about it, I slip the thing over my head, and when I go to remove the tag, I see that it’s secured with a tiny safety pin. Something tells me to hold on to it, so I do, attaching it to the underside of my hem where it can’t be seen.
“Put your old clothes in the bag when you’re done.”
I comply and stuff my fancy high-priced trekking gear into the bag and tell him I’m finished.
He turns around and nods his approval.
“Suits you,” he says, walking over.
He fills the duffel bag with rocks and tosses it into the lake.
“Let’s go.”
But “let’s go” doesn’t mean let’s go back to civilization and the gas station where this entire sorry mess started, it means let’s go back to camp so he can work on his car for the next three hours while I sit holding my breath. It means checking and filing every one of the Capri’s four spark plugs, disconnecting and removing the battery so he can examine, clean, and oil the carburetor and four other critical parts. It means getting on the ground and sliding on his back under the chassis to adjust the front and rear axles and check the tread on the tires and an apparent hole in the muffler.
I tell myself to be patient, that there’s still time to leave before nightfall, that he’s just making sure the car can handle the journey back into town. But morning light changes to afternoon light then to dusk. Finally he stops what he’s doing and closes the hood and throws me a tin of spam.
“Eat that.”
He turns away and soaks a rag in turpentine, uses it to wipe grease from his hands. I think to myself, okay, this is better, something to eat and we’ll get going. I peel open the can and eat. Rex is lingering over by the tarp lean-to drinking a bottle of water.
“Aren’t you going to have any?” I say.
He shakes his head. “I’m good.”
“Is the car fixed now? Are we going soon?” I say, between mouthfuls.
He doesn’t answer and heads for the box of supplies instead. He pulls out the longhead matches and fire starters.
I put down my can of Spam. “What are you doing? We don’t need a fire. We’ve got to get going.”
He won’t look at me.
“What are you doing?”
“Tomorrow,” he says, without lifting his eyes.
He criss-crosses the kindling and places three fire starter cubes on top.
“Tomorrow? What do you mean tomorrow? You said we would go today.”
He strikes a longhead match and ignites the fire starters.
I get to my feet.
“Sit down,” he says.
“We’re leaving today,” I stammer. “Now.”
He doesn’t move.
“You said we would.”
“Sit down, Amelia.”
I am shaking with anger. “You need to let me go.”
“I said tomorrow.”
“I don’t believe you,” I say.
“Suit yourself.”
“You were never going to let me go.” I bunch my fists. “You’re a liar.”