Mean Streak

The nurse who answered recognized him by name. “How can I help you, Mr. Surrey?”

“Is Dr. Charbonneau around?”

“I thought she signed out until tomorrow.”

“She did. But I was expecting her at home by this afternoon, and

I’ve been unable to reach her on her cell. No one answers at the clinic. I thought she might have stopped there to check on a patient and had gotten tied up.”

“I just came on duty, so I don’t know, but I’ll ask around.”

“Thank you. If anyone’s seen her, please ask them to call me. And if she shows up, tell her that her phone is going straight to voice mail. She needs to check the battery.”

He disconnected, dropped his cell onto his desk, stood up, and began to pace, trying to decide what he should do about this. He debated it for another several minutes, but there was only one logical option.

Ten minutes later, he was speeding north on I-85.

* * *

Emory picked at the grilled cheese sandwich, feeding herself small bites, testing her stomach to see if it would reject solid food. She’d had no more nausea today, only a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that she might not leave this cabin alive.

After his refusal to let her use his laptop, she’d retreated to the bed, but not before defiantly setting up the folding screen. She lay down on top of the covers, pulling only one corner of the bedspread over her legs.

She’d lain there, tense and wary, but he ignored her and busied himself around the cabin. She’d smelled the coffee he brewed and the egg he fried. He washed the dishes, then went outside for only a couple of minutes. She’d dropped off to sleep while listening to him moving around in the living area.

When she woke, hours had passed. It had grown dark. Through the louvers in the screen, she could see that the lamp with the burlap shade was on.

She’d worried that maybe her lame and unsuccessful attack on him had jostled her brain and left her even more enfeebled. But when she’d sat up, she noted that the dizziness was actually better. Her headache, however, persisted.

She’d gotten up and used the toilet; then, although she’d sworn that hell would freeze over before she left her flimsy sanctuary, that he would have to drag her out from behind that screen by her hair, she stepped around it.

Just as she had, he’d come in from outdoors, bundled up as he’d been before. He’d been carrying an armload of firewood. Seeing her, he’d paused on the threshold, then closed the door with a backward kick of his heel, wiped the soles of his boots on the jute doormat, and carried the wood over to the hearth. He was conscientious about keeping the wood box filled.

Once he’d added the fresh logs to it, he removed his outdoor garments, shaking ice pellets from his coat before hanging it on the peg. “It’s started to sleet.”

“What a lucky stroke for you. The worse the weather, the easier for you to hold me prisoner.”

Matching her wryness, he said, “Look on the bright side, you won’t starve. I have enough food to last us for several days.”

After that exchange, he’d gone about preparing canned chicken noodle soup and the cheese sandwiches, which up till now she’d been picking at. But, in fact, that simple fare tasted delicious, and the more she ate of it, the hungrier she became. Following her run yesterday, she’d been carb-depleted. The soup replaced sodium. She finished the meal.

He noticed her empty dishes, but didn’t comment on them as he carried them to the sink. “Coffee?”

“No thank you. Do you have any tea?”

“Tea.” He repeated it as though he’d never heard of it.

“Never mind.”

“Sorry.” He carried his mug of coffee to the table and sat back down across from her. “I’m not a tea drinker.”

“You should keep it on hand. You never know when a captive will request it.”

“You’re my first.”

“First captive or first tea drinker?”

“Both.”