Torture? Well, Emily can't be killing 24/7, that just would not be conducive to good storytelling. Saavik, dear, the song featured last chapter was 'Put Your Lights On' by Carlos Santana and featuring Everlast, it is from the Santana album Supernatural. Tis one of my favorites. Snap Emily out of this? No, not yet. She has a few more… surprises up her sleeve.

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There was a day

When the sun did not rise,

And the people looked up

Into dark skies.

Birds did not sing

Without morning's dawn.

Children could not play

With their bright light gone.

Sun dials told no time,

And the roosters made no sound.

Time slowly lost its meaning,

Though the clock's hands went 'round.

And one by one

The stars faded away.

The moon grew so dim;

I knew it could not stay.

We were left in the dark,

But our eyes were opened wide;

We saw pairs of red lights-

The eyes of monsters, no longer forced to hide.

-The Sun Did Not Rise by Laurel Fisher

*****

Sun filters through a fine haze of dust as the bed is shoved forcefully back against the wall. The air stinks of fresh paint, and the walls gleam a sanitary white. It would be nice if there were some air circulating in the room, but that is difficult with the wooden window frames being nailed shut. Bright, shiny penny nails, the heads of which at least, gleam in the sunlight. The daybed itself is pristine white, fresh from the beloved Pottery Barn. It had a trundle beneath it, although he doubted it would come of any use. The room is sparsely furnished, and besides the bed, there is a dresser, with a wide, old mirror on the wall above it; a low white bookcase, yet to be filled; and two chairs set in front of the closet that fills one wall. A lamp occupies the dresser top, and a set of sheets rests next to it. Fortunately, the sheets are not white, but instead a pale blue. He is quick in his actions as he dresses the bed.

A comforter and a blanket rest in one of the chairs, and he grabs them next, laying them atop the sheets. A large feather pillow and a couple of throw pillows complete the bed, and he steps back to look at it. All the white brilliance reminded him of an institution, but he was not trying to completely achieve that look. A check of his watch and he steps from the bedroom into the short hall to the kitchen. A bathroom and a closet occupy the doors on either side of the hall. The kitchen is immaculate, but tiny, with a small dining area adjacent to it. The oak table had a place for two, since he doubted there would ever be more than that in this residence. The kitchen is separated form the living room by a wall and an open doorway.

The living room is overwhelmed by a large couch and an old oak desk set at a right angle to it. A green shaded and brass desk lamp and a black laptop computer perch on the desk. A long white phone cord snakes from the back of the laptop and along the wall to the phone jack in the kitchen. Phone service had been established and he had relegated himself to the dial-up connection out here. There was no television in the living room, only a stereo cabinet and two speakers. An antique loveseat rest against the wall that divides the kitchen from the living room, and has a cashmere afghan draped over it. Purple the afghan, aubergine to be precise, like the eggplant his sister so dearly loved. It was a nice contrast to the ivory of the upholstery.

He rests for a moment on the loveseat, looking about the little world he has made here. Here being a tiny cabin outside Sebastopol. far enough away from civilization, but not so far if there were to be an emergency. The front windows of the cabin are open, and curtains float on the breeze. Through them, he can hear nature herself. The sighs of the redwoods that dwarf the cabin and hide it from prying eyes. Though, not that there will be many prying eyes. The cabin is set on four acres of land, backing up against the Russian River, and set a good distance back from the road. A porch runs around three sides of the cabin, and there is a rickety carport still standing nearby. For all its deceptive appearances as quaint and charming, perhaps even more than a bit rustic, it belies nothing of its true purpose.

Another look at his watch, and he decides that it has been enough for one day. Back to the bedroom, collecting a few tools that he had left on the dresser. He grasps the doorknob and pulls the door shut behind him, locking it. The door is the first hint at what he has intended this place for. Instead of the standard bedroom door, a heavy white institutional thing takes its place. A window is set in it for observation, as well as a locking slot through which things could be passed. The lock is a deadbolt, and it makes an evil and heavy click as it slides home. He was prepared, as he deposited the tools into a case that sat on the kitchen counter, for her. For weeks he had almost desperately hoped that it would not come down to this. She had left him with no choice.

Stepping onto the porch he draws keys from his pocket and locks the deadbolt there as well. A single glance back at the cabin, quiet in the coming late afternoon, as he slides into the Jaguar. If imprisonment is what it took for them to resolve her issues, then that is what he would supply. He was not going to lose his wife to the system that had incarcerated him. Unfortunately, that day was going to be upon him much sooner than he would have desired.

*****

The phone was held between her ear and her shoulder as she sat in the comfortable chair behind her great mahogany desk. The look on her face was anything but amused as she waited on hold for going on twenty minutes now. If she heard the lovely computer generated voice telling her that her call was important and that she would be helped as soon as there was an available representative, well, she might just have to kill someone. Funny, how that statement coming out of anyone else's thoughts would be thought of as a joke and if she said it within this household, she'd probably experience Defcon One. Finally, there was a toneless beep and the line was picked up by a real person.

"This is Mike, how can I help you?"

"Ah, yes, Mike, I believe you can. I just needed to place an order for a few things in your catalogue."

"Sure, can I get your name and address first?" she could hear the click of computer keys in the background, and was glad that Mike was polite. Rare reed in this world these days. She gave him all the information he needed and smiled as she did so. The catalogue sat in front of her on the desk blotter. A few of the items she was ordering were just fro the fun of it, no use other than they looked nice. The crossbow and the quarrels though… Well, she didn't know just what she would do with them yet, but she was ordering them just in case. If anything, she could keep it locked in the attic or tucked away in the closet until the need arose. She continued smiling as she read off the credit card number. True, it would have been easier to do this online, but then he could find out about it a lot quicker. This way was much more suited to her needs. As the delivery method was agreed upon and she finished her transaction Emily felt in rather high spirits.

*****