The ax drove into the door. From the window she could see the blade as it lifted high into the air and caught the sunlight. The cutting edge of the tool glistened, meaning it was very sharp. Mary Beth used to help her father chop wood for their fireplace. She remembered how much she loved watching him edge the ax with a grinding stone on the end of his drill—the orange sparks would fly into the air like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

“Who’s this boy who kidnapped you?” Tom asked. “Some kind of pervert?”

Thunk … thunk.

“He’s a high school kid from Tanner’s Corner. He’s scary. Look at all this.” She waved at the insects in the jars.

“Gosh,” Tom said, leaning close to the window, looking in.

Thunk.

A crack as the Missionary worked a large splinter out of the door.

Thud.

Mary Beth glanced at the door. Garrett must have reinforced it, maybe nailing two doors together. She said to Tom, “I feel like I’m one of his damn bugs myself. He—” Mary Beth saw a blur as Tom’s left arm shot through the window and gripped the collar of her shirt. His right hand socketed onto her breast. He yanked her forward against the bars and planted his wet, beery-tobacco mouth on her lips. His tongue darted out and ran hard into her teeth.

He probed her chest, pinching, trying to find her nipple through her shirt as she twisted her head away from him, spitting and screaming.

“What the hell’re you doing?” the Missionary cried, dropping the ax. He ran to the window.

But before he could pull Tom off, Mary Beth gripped the hand that spidered across her chest and pulled downward, hard. She ran Tom’s wrist into a stalagmite of glass rising from the window frame. He cried out in pain and shock and let go of her, stumbling backward.

Wiping her mouth, Mary Beth ran from the window to the middle of the room.

The Missionary shouted at Tom, “What the fuck’d you do that for?”

Hit him! Mary Beth was thinking. Nail him with the ax. He’s crazy. Turn him over to the police too.

Tom wasn’t listening. He was squeezing his bloody arm, examining the slash. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus …”

The Missionary muttered, “I told you to be patient. We woulda had her out in five minutes and spread-eagle at your place in a half hour. Now we got a mess.”

Spread-eagle…

His comment registered in Mary Beth’s thoughts an instant before its corollary arrived: that there’d been no call to the police; there was no one coming to rescue her.

“Man, look at this. Look!” Tom held up his split wrist, blood cascading down his arm.

“Fuck,” the Missionary muttered. “We gotta get that stitched up. You dumb shit. Why couldn’t you wait? Come on, let’s get it taken care of.”