raggedness of her tongue where she’d bitten it. Klijsters leaned closer. The sickle scaler teased her mouth and poked into her lower lip, pulling it open.
“Does it hurt?” he said.
“Stop. Don’t,” she mumbled.
His eyes examined her face. He jammed the scaler all the way through her lip and pulled it up as though she were a trout hooked on a lure.
“Answer me. Does it hurt?”
She shrieked. He hit her with the Taser again. Her vision shot white and she jerked stiff.
He twisted the scaler through her lip and ripped, tearing her mouth open like a broken zipper. She felt a warm gush of blood, and gutted flesh and numbness.
He touched the bloody scaler to her cheek. His gaze was clinical. The scaler groped its way up her face, covered with the gore of her bottom lip. The sharp tip tugged her flesh like a talon.
His face was all business. The scaler clawed its way up her cheek. Deeper, cutting open her face, again and again.
He put his thumb and forefinger on either side of her left eye and spread the lid wide.
“Answer me. Does it hurt?”
His eyes were dispassionate, but more. Like the guys Wally talked about who should never have been admitted to dental school, the Little Shop of Horrors dentists who loved it too much. And then a great sob welled inside her chest, because she knew that Wally wasn’t on his way over here. Nobody was.
Behind her ruined lip she worked her tongue to form the word. “No.”
He drove the scaler into her eye.
4
When the patrolman appeared at the rec center flanked by two Shore Patrol officers, I was talking to Becky O’Keefe. She had a little photo album open on the picnic table, showing me pictures of her two-year-old son.
“He’s a fireball.” She smiled broadly. “You’ve really written three novels? That is so neat.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s always awesome when you can find a way to make your passion work. Like me and crafts.”
Becky’s appliqué T-shirt stretched mightily to cover her beer-barrel torso. It was chartreuse and featured tiny pom-poms and glitter paint. The cover of the photo album was decorated to match. Jesse was next to me, playing hang-man with Travis Hankins. He didn’t look up, but he did smile. I took the pencil from him, drew lines for nine letters, and filled in good sport .
The Shore Patrol officers stopped a man in a Go, Hounds cap, who pointed them toward the playground. They crossed the patio and walked out into the sun. Wally and Abbie were chatting while their girls climbed on the jungle gym.
Becky turned a page. “Ryan’s big for his age. Don’t know if you can tell.”
“He’s beautiful. He looks like . . .”
“Winston Churchill. I know.” She laughed good-naturedly. “So do I.”
The patrolman spoke to Wally. Wally’s face fell, and Abbie grabbed his arm. He walked off the playground with the cop and Shore Patrol officers, head down, pale and grim.
Abbie watched him go, her blond hair swirling in the wind. She caught my eye. Her hand went to her mouth and her shoulders began to shake.
I stood, grabbing Jesse’s arm. He looked up, alarmed.
“Something bad’s going on,” I said.
Five miles out of China Lake I pulled the Mustang off the highway at a truck stop. I couldn’t wait to put two hundred miles between myself and this town, but if I kept driving I would run the tank dry, and there wasn’t another gas station for sixty miles.
Back at the hotel, the parking lot had looked like a scene from a disaster movie, with people throwing luggage in their cars and hightailing it for the hills ahead of an avalanche. People who lived in China Lake, I knew, were stocking up on ammunition or attack dogs.
The wind gusted against the car and the sun burned gold in a shattering blue sky. I filled the tank and grabbed my purse.
“I’ll get drinks.”
Jesse gave me a thumbs-up.
The truck stop was a weary place with a café attached. The screen door griped open for me. Inside, an air conditioner struggled in
“Does it hurt?” he said.
“Stop. Don’t,” she mumbled.
His eyes examined her face. He jammed the scaler all the way through her lip and pulled it up as though she were a trout hooked on a lure.
“Answer me. Does it hurt?”
She shrieked. He hit her with the Taser again. Her vision shot white and she jerked stiff.
He twisted the scaler through her lip and ripped, tearing her mouth open like a broken zipper. She felt a warm gush of blood, and gutted flesh and numbness.
He touched the bloody scaler to her cheek. His gaze was clinical. The scaler groped its way up her face, covered with the gore of her bottom lip. The sharp tip tugged her flesh like a talon.
His face was all business. The scaler clawed its way up her cheek. Deeper, cutting open her face, again and again.
He put his thumb and forefinger on either side of her left eye and spread the lid wide.
“Answer me. Does it hurt?”
His eyes were dispassionate, but more. Like the guys Wally talked about who should never have been admitted to dental school, the Little Shop of Horrors dentists who loved it too much. And then a great sob welled inside her chest, because she knew that Wally wasn’t on his way over here. Nobody was.
Behind her ruined lip she worked her tongue to form the word. “No.”
He drove the scaler into her eye.
4
When the patrolman appeared at the rec center flanked by two Shore Patrol officers, I was talking to Becky O’Keefe. She had a little photo album open on the picnic table, showing me pictures of her two-year-old son.
“He’s a fireball.” She smiled broadly. “You’ve really written three novels? That is so neat.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s always awesome when you can find a way to make your passion work. Like me and crafts.”
Becky’s appliqué T-shirt stretched mightily to cover her beer-barrel torso. It was chartreuse and featured tiny pom-poms and glitter paint. The cover of the photo album was decorated to match. Jesse was next to me, playing hang-man with Travis Hankins. He didn’t look up, but he did smile. I took the pencil from him, drew lines for nine letters, and filled in good sport .
The Shore Patrol officers stopped a man in a Go, Hounds cap, who pointed them toward the playground. They crossed the patio and walked out into the sun. Wally and Abbie were chatting while their girls climbed on the jungle gym.
Becky turned a page. “Ryan’s big for his age. Don’t know if you can tell.”
“He’s beautiful. He looks like . . .”
“Winston Churchill. I know.” She laughed good-naturedly. “So do I.”
The patrolman spoke to Wally. Wally’s face fell, and Abbie grabbed his arm. He walked off the playground with the cop and Shore Patrol officers, head down, pale and grim.
Abbie watched him go, her blond hair swirling in the wind. She caught my eye. Her hand went to her mouth and her shoulders began to shake.
I stood, grabbing Jesse’s arm. He looked up, alarmed.
“Something bad’s going on,” I said.
Five miles out of China Lake I pulled the Mustang off the highway at a truck stop. I couldn’t wait to put two hundred miles between myself and this town, but if I kept driving I would run the tank dry, and there wasn’t another gas station for sixty miles.
Back at the hotel, the parking lot had looked like a scene from a disaster movie, with people throwing luggage in their cars and hightailing it for the hills ahead of an avalanche. People who lived in China Lake, I knew, were stocking up on ammunition or attack dogs.
The wind gusted against the car and the sun burned gold in a shattering blue sky. I filled the tank and grabbed my purse.
“I’ll get drinks.”
Jesse gave me a thumbs-up.
The truck stop was a weary place with a café attached. The screen door griped open for me. Inside, an air conditioner struggled in
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