They used duct-tape to tie her up – she actually told them they'd find some under the sink, because before the man – Michael Scofield – released his hold on her, before she had the occasion to adjust the thin fabric of her robe on her nude upper body, before the threat of death wasn't at a reasonable distance from her, Sara found she was incapable of anything but sheer, shameless compliance.
In the living room, with her robe knotted firmly at the waist, even with her hands tied behind her back, Sara felt a little less desperate than she had a moment before, outside, where the dark woods and sky had fostered an atmosphere of savage permissiveness.
The four men were a strange sight, in the living room, usually so quiet – just yesterday, she'd spent an hour reading on that same couch, drinking tea. Tea. Their inmate jumpsuits were brown with dirt up to the knees, their shoes leaving big muddy imprints on the wooden floor.
Only Abruzzi was sitting, his index travelling across the arm of the wicker chair with nonchalance. The three other men – Scofield, Burrows and Sucre – Sara remembered from the news, were pacing around, throwing ideas at each other. From a distance, their situation looked nearly as desperate as hers.
"You wanted to be the good guy, college boy," Abruzzi commented wryly. "The hero. Hell, you've been calling the shots since the beginning of this operation, so go on, now, won't you? What do we do now, Mr. Mastermind?"
"You shut up," Burrows barked.
Sara thought he was maybe the sort of guy that looks like two different persons, depending on whether he is or isn't dressed like a prisoner. At the moment, with his filthy jumpsuit, he looked like a bull if that bull had been shaved and had an angry vein protruding from his forehead instead of horns.
His brother, Michael Scofield, was a different matter. After that flash of fear she'd caught in his eyes when he was holding her down, he had quickly regained his composure. The smeared outfit didn't change him much – really, he looked like a calculating businessman on the verge of winning a case. She bet that's what he looked like, even when he was facing defeat.
"No, no," Abruzzi went on, "we've been through too much to be coy around each other, haven't we? I'm just asking what the lot of you think about our options if we don't kill the girl."
"We aren't killing anyone," Michael answered inflexibly.
Shock prevented Sara from finding it strange that they would say all this in front of her. Maybe this was shocking enough to them, too, that they weren't really aware she was there watching.
Having her own murder discussed in front of her was not nearly as terrifying as she would have thought. A fleeting thought crossed her mind, that it was a shame there was nobody here she knew to witness her remarkable self-possession.
Don't fool yourself that you're some brave survivor. It's just the shock. You're there and you're not there at the same time.
Of course, Sara wasn't always so calm on the brink of death.
Last time had been rather –
A flash from the past struck her like a fist to the stomach, wreaking chaos in her brain.
Oh God, oh God, let me go, please, TOM –
Sara blinked and the memory was gone, panic vanished along with it, leaving nothing but this strange scene, the four intruders in her living room, her hands glued behind her. It might have been pulled out of one of those plays that like to show you how people behave like animals when they're in a place remote from society. A huis clos.
Sara loved plays that dealt with the complex, flawed nature of humankind.
But they never end well, do they? Not for anyone.
Abruzzi shrugged – he looked very calm, Sara thought. The pepper-and-salt stubble on his face didn't become him, made him look a little unkempt. If this had been a movie, he would have been his most impressive self, he would have been clean-shaven. He probably had been, in his glory days – Sara couldn't help but remember what he was in prison for. There was a reason why John Abruzzi hadn't been caught for a very, very long time – he was clever. Always did a neat job. No witnesses was the golden rule to any decent criminal.
I'm going to die, Sara thought as a matter-of-fact, logical conclusion. But she didn't feel it, her body refused to have it. If she had been going to die at the age of twenty-nine, then it ought to have been six months ago, before she went through the pains of rehab and the insanities of insomnia, before she half lost her mind from grief and guilt. If there had been any mercy in the world, any sense, she would have died in Tom's arms, high, and death would have come over her like a train shooting into the night and not stopping for anyone.
Death, she felt, was not so bad when you didn't feel it, when you didn't have to come to terms with it.
"All right," Abruzzi said, without raising his voice. "So what's the idea here, fellows? We stay hidden here forever, hey? Or we get some rest then leave that woman behind – even if we cut all the phone lines, she'd have reached the next town in the next twenty-four hours. Less than that if she chances upon a driving car –"
"Lincoln's right, John," Michael said, calm also, but with a tone of warning. "You should shut up."
"I'm just waiting for you all to come up with solutions." He got up from the wicker chair with a sigh. For a second, Sara remembered seeing her father sitting in that chair, the newspaper in his hand, and a shiver momentarily shook her out of her numbness. "When you're ready to move on to mine, you'll let me know. After all, we have time to waste. No one should come looking for us here. In the meantime, I'll be in the kitchen, fixing myself one hell of an overdue dinner."
He disappeared from the living room in a series of heavy, still muddy footsteps. Sucre rubbed a sweaty palm over his smooth scalp, while Lincoln muttered something about keeping an eye on the "Toe-cutting freak".
Michael turned away from them both and she could see his face, clear, distinct. It took her a moment to realize he was looking at her.
"We aren't going to hurt you," he said. "You have my word."
She thought it was extremely funny. Just trust the escaped con who broke into your house! But laughter lay dead somewhere in the pit of her throat, like a block of ice.
"This wasn't meant to happen," as if that were an excuse of sorts, that she was just a mishap in the grand order of things. "I'm sorry."
Then he turned back to his brother and Sara felt she had suddenly ceased to exist. That's when she knew, truly realized, that Michael Scofield stood between her and death. Part of her felt erased already, washed out like a sand sculpture on the beach.
"There needs to be someone watching her all the time." Michael resumed. "I don't trust what Abruzzi's up to."
"Sure," Lincoln nodded.
Sara stared in silent astonishment. Here he was, king amongst the cons. Look at that. Acting as if he was their leader – and it didn't look like it was all just about a prison break.
When you thought about it, there was a deeper level to the men's exchanges, something that let on there was more going on than you would think.
Jesus, Sara closed her eyes, am I living the adventure of a lifetime? How's that for some quiet time alone in the countryside?
Four runaway inmates, and at least one who very much wanted to kill her.
And you didn't want to forget the one they'd been talking about before, the one who'd lost a hand.
By all means, this was going to be a long night. Longer still than she could guess.
…
AN: I hope you've enjoyed this second chapter. I'm really getting into the stories, got a lot of ideas for it. I'm always happy to hear yours so don't hesitate to comment!
