Chapter Text
It had to be later, Laura realized. Much later. Because everything had been bathed in the warm, orange-gold melting light of afternoon, and now the dining room was almost completely dark.
“... what the fuck.”
Her head tipped forward. With an effort, she jerked it back up. Shit.
“All right, ma’am?”
“Don’t fucking call me ma’am.”
A tsk. “That mouth of yours.”
Laura’s vision blurred. Then cleared. Blurred, and cleared again, until she could see past the glow of the gas lamp in the middle of the table.
There he was, just sitting there. She swallowed and tried to keep from tilting to the side - fuck. Travis Hackett, sitting there, his brow furrowed, wearing … those half-moon reading glasses, and the sweater that made him look like a middle school math teacher. Checking off items on receipts. Same old receipts; there they were, piled up. And there was the shoebox. Same old shoebox.
There was a coffee cup in front of her, half full.
“Travis.” She swallowed saliva again. “What happened?”
“Hm?”
She heard the scratch of a pen. The rustle of another receipt, carefully placed into the shoebox.
“What. What was in the coffee?”
“Nothing.”
She could almost hear the smile in his voice.
“Bullshit, nothing. What the fuck, Travis -”
“Your mouth, young lady.”
“... You swear too,” she slurred.
“I do. But your swearing,” there was the sound of paper, the click of a pen cap, and a long sigh, “would be a bad example. Bad habits, Miss Kearney.”
Laura shuddered, her eyes falling shut.
“To answer your question: there was nothing in that coffee. And you didn't finish it anyway." Another tsk.
“Then where?”
“Surely you would have noticed, a bright young lady like yourself. Hm?”
“... what was it …”
“Well.” And she could definitely hear the smile now. “Nothing much.”
Laura forced her eyes back open, glaring at the cup. “You did give me something. Again. You’re fucked up. Dirty cop - I. I can't. Travis.”
He sat there in shadow, at the end of the table. She heard a sigh. Then a shadow hand came out and touched the side of the lamp, and all the light went down - the cup vanished from her sight. But she thought that she could still see the shadow within shadow: Travis, sitting there in the dark, watching her.
“It’s been a nice day, hasn’t it? But now it’s time for you to go back downstairs.”
She jerked in place. Chains rattled against the dining table top; the sores round her wrists sent up jolts of pain. “No.”
“Yes. Bobby’s cleaned up by now. Even with his arm and all. Next time, make sure you can’t kick the bucket over?” His voice had an edge. “Please? It’d save us some bleach.”
Kick the bucket, her mind sang, merrily. On repeat. Kick the bucket. It had been a good idea, hadn’t it? Wash day: sweaty hair, grimy skin. Kick two buckets, one of which was ... And then all the cages reeking like shit. Someone would have to come down to get her out, to wash - but that someone would get thrown by the extra mess, and then she’d jump with her knife, and hold - someone - hostage, until.
But Laura had been tired. Who would’ve thought it? That being this hungry would make a person so tired.
And then Travis had taken her knife away. Somehow. Her memory of it had blurred.
“You don’t want anything for supper?”
She shook her head.
“You’re sure? I picked up some apples on the way here.” A chair creaked; the floorboards creaked. He was walking over to her - fuck. Fuck. “Farmer’s market.”
Laura shook her head again, where it lolled forward. It felt too heavy to lift.
“Miss Kearney.” A pause. And another creak.
Laura cracked one eye open; flinched. He - Travis - was kneeling at her side. He had left the half-moon glasses by the receipts. His eyes - so black, even in the gloom - were fixed on her.
“Honey …”
The word slithered out of the dark.
She tried to guess where his shin was; kicked. Felt a thwap, and then only a huff of his breath … hot against her kneecap.
“There’s no need for that. Is there?”
“You don’t,” she choked out, “get to call me ‘honey.’ “
“... All right. I wonder why, though,” and that breath was still hot. Her skin crawled. “Did someone else call you ‘honey’? Is that it?”
It was always there, in his voice. Curiosity, she had thought, when this had all started, but now she knew it for … greed. Mine, mine, mine - and really, young lady -
“Really, young lady,” Travis’s voice was soft. “You’re making this so much more difficult than it needs to be.”
“- fugh you -”
"Maybe think about what you'd like me to call you. You can tell me next time. Yeah?"
"Fuck you!"
“You’re going back downstairs -” she recoiled, pulling at the chains, and he sucked air through his teeth, with: “Quiet. You’re going back downstairs, because you’ve made a choice.”
“No.”
“Yes. It’s your choice, Laura. You can be a horse's ass, and go back downstairs, and stay there to sleep. Or you can be good, and stay upstairs, and we can talk. That's how this works."
Her gorge rose.
She knew what he wanted to talk about.
“You’re sick.”
“I’m perfectly well. Thanks for asking.”
There was a slight creak and pop as he rose from his knees - creepy old fuck - but Laura flinched away, mid-thought, as Travis reached in front of her, where the chains were fastened to the tabletop.
“It’s all right,” he soothed. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Dirty cop,” Laura slurred. “Fucking dirty - bastard.”
"I'm clean. Unlike yourself." He tsk’d. “Up you get.”
There was a clink and clatter; she suddenly felt the swinging weight of the chains hanging from her wrists to the floor. And she couldn’t lash out strongly enough as Travis scooped her up. Bridal carry - Laura choked back an hysterical laugh.
“What is it?”
“You.” She coughed. “Fucking kidnapper.”
“Mm.” Travis kept a gentle hold of her, as he walked. “Or I could just be securing a killer.”
He walked for a while, before she could grind out: “Chris. Caleb.”
“Yes, that camper killed Chris, and … you’re right. You know? You're a smart girl.”
Laura tried to twist away from his warm breath on her face. Her head swam.
“Easy, now. Bobby and I are still working on who did it,” Travis had turned - one corner, two - and she heard a door creak and felt the jolt of stairs, “but you’re right. You didn’t kill Caleb. How could you have killed him? He died in the lodge, and you were here in the house.” He turned. More stairs.
“Here in the house,” he bent down, and spoke against her ear. “With me.”
“Crazy fuck -” Laura tried to kick. Whatever he had given her had sapped all the strength from her limbs. Sick freak. Sick kidnapping bastard. Sick rapist -
She didn’t realize she had spoken aloud, until Travis stopped, mid-step.
“This again?”
Laura tried to move.
“It’s a shame you think that, ma'am. But I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
Carefully, he set her down.
Oh, shit. They were still on the staircase. She lurched, and grabbed for the banister.
“Let’s have you walk, then.” He paced two steps down. Clicked his tongue at her. “Come on.”
Laura couldn’t think. She couldn’t balance. “... What was it?” she said. Her voice was small; she hated it.
“Ketamine.”
“What - you can’t do that. How.”
“Mm. Almost the last, from that bust. Gotta say it's handy: one hit, out like a light. I could do anything and you wouldn't notice ... But I wouldn't do anything. You know that." Travis tilted his head; his eyes gleamed in the dark. "It's just to get you to settle down some."
Her stomach churned.
"Takes you too long to come out of it, though. Special K, falling down on the job." His voice coiled around her like smoke. “I like it better when you actually get what's going on.”
Travis took hold of the dangling chains, wrapped them round one big hand, and yanked. She only just caught her footing. Pulled away as best she could; clung to the banister again.
“Bastard.” She sucked in a breath. “Kidnapper. Rapist.”
“Come on.” And there was his free hand, gently cupping her elbow. “You know that’s not true. Let me help you.”
Laura didn’t want his help. But she felt like she would fall.
“Come on. Down you go.”
Creaking steps, her head swimming, and all with that big hand warm on her arm – Grandmother, dear, what big hands you have – calluses scraping her skin. And then she saw the dim red light and heard the buzz of electricity dead ahead; she caught a whiff of sewage and froze in place.
“Let's go, young lady. You’ve made your choice.”
“Choice,” she choked, digging in her bare heels.
He took hard hold of her arm and pulled. She tried to stay put. But her knees wobbled: she was tired - or hungry - or ... drugged. Again.
By a cop? A voice echoed in her memory; she knew she should know whose ... Do they do that?
“It’s your choice,” Travis spoke, softly, right in her ear. His breath was warm and moist. “It’ll always be your choice. You know what I want, and you know what you would need to choose, to give it to me. And then you could go.”
“... bull. Shit."
"Shh."
That big hand trailed down her arm. Then Travis carefully nudged one cuff forward with a thick finger. He traced one of the sores. "You want any ointment here?"
He probably thought he would get to be the one to smear it on. Laura shuddered. "No."
"Suit yourself."
Travis worked at the chains round her right wrist, and then her left. Laura could only hear the loud buzz of the electricity, and his breathing. She watched foggily as he flicked the locks and catches. Big fingers, and thick, just starting to gnarl up - old man - how were they that nimble?
And then it was the same as it had first been. The same as always. Step by step, and one last step and push, and the clang of the cage door closing behind her.
It still stank, under the acrid smell of bleach. Laura breathed through her mouth, shivering in the cold. She staggered over to her cot, and practically fell into it. Groaned.
“Sleep well."
“Fuck you.”
“Well ... no. Right?"
Laura squeezed her eyes shut.
“It’s your choice, Laura," he murmured. “It always will be. Just remember that.”
She said nothing.
“Now, you made a mess today. Don't do that again. Bobby will be down to bring you food,” she could hear his lip curl, “keep everything sanitary, and - hm. I'll stop by round Thanksgiving.”
“... What?” Laura croaked.
Travis hummed again. “That’s about a month. That ought to give you time to consider what we’ve talked about. All right?”
What we’ve talked about sent bile crawling up from her gut, but everything else in her mind screamed a month a month a month and - Thanksgiving, in a month? It was that late in October?
She pushed up from the cot. “Travis -”
“Good night.”
“Travis. Travis!!"
But all she could hear was the same as it had first been. The same as always. His steps, and the stairs, and then the cellar door, and then nothing.