"I'm going to have to cut the blindfold off, Peter. Don't move."
His breathing slowed, and he held still while I slid the blade between the cloth and the side of his head. It was harder to cut than the rope because it was tighter to his skin and just a bad angle. But the blade finally sliced through it, and the cloth fell away. I had an impression of red marks in his skin where the blindfold had marked him. Then he flung himself on me, hugging me.
I hugged him back, knife in one hand.
He whispered, "She said she was going to cut it off when she came back." He didn't start crying again. He just held on. I rubbed his back with my free hand. I wanted to give him comfort, but we had to get out of here.
"She won't hurt you anymore, Peter. I promise that, but we've got to get out of here." I pulled back from his desperate arms until I could see his face and he could see mine. I held his face in my hands, the knife carefully pointed up. I looked into his eyes. They were wide and shocky, but there wasn't much I could do about it now.
"Peter, we have to go. Ted's getting Becca, and we're leaving."
Maybe it was his sister's name, but he blinked and gave a small nod. "I'm okay," he said, which was the best lie I'd heard all night.
But I accepted it and said, "Good." I had to stand to reach the ropes at his ankles. He was just that tall or I was that short. The hug had put him facing forward, and he seemed suddenly aware that he was exposed. He started grabbing at his underwear and pants while I tried to cut his ankles free.
I had to pull the knife back. "If you don't hold still, you're going to end up cut."
"I want my clothes on," he said.
I stood at the foot of the bed, and said, "Get dressed."
"Don't look," he said.
"I'm not looking."
"But you're looking at me," he said.
"But I'm not lookingat you." But I couldn't explain it to him, so I turned and looked at the door while he struggled into his pants.
"You can look now."
He had everything zipped and buttoned, and just that had taken some of the raw terror out of his eyes. I cut his ankles free, sheathed the knife, and helped him to his feet. He jerked away from me, then almost fell because the ankles had been tied too tight for too long, and he didn't have all the feeling back. Only my hand on his arm kept him upright.
"You need to walk a little with help before you can run," I said.
He let me help him to the door, but he wouldn't look at me. His first reaction had been that of a child, grateful to be saved, wanting to hold on to someone, but his second reaction was older. He was embarrassed now. Embarrassed at what had happened, and probably at me seeing him nearly naked. He was fourteen, a trembling age between child and adult. Somehow, I think he'd been younger when he went into the cell than when he came out.
Edward met us in the hallway with Becca held in his arms. She looked pale and sick. Bruises had already started blooming on her face. But it was her hand that made me want to cry. That tiny hand that I'd held only days ago, while Edward and I swung her in the air. Three of the fingers looked crippled, at unnatural angles. They were swelling, the skin discolored. It was early for that, which meant they were bad breaks and wouldn't heal easily.
She said, "Anita, you came to save me, too." Her voice was high and thin. It made my throat tight.
"Yeah, sweetie, I came to save you, too."
Peter and Edward stood staring at each other. It was Edward that reached out first, just his hand, because the arm was underneath Becca's legs. Peter took that hand and hugged them both. His fingers hovered over Becca's hand, and fresh tears fell down his face, but there was no sobbing now, just tears so quiet you wouldn't have known he was crying if you hadn't seen them. "She'll be all right," Edward said.
Peter looked up at him, as if he wasn't sure he believed, but he wanted to. But he stepped away from them, rubbed the tears from his face with his hands. "Can I have a gun?"
I opened my mouth to say, no, but Edward spoke first. "Give him your Firestar, Anita."
"You're kidding," I said.
"I've seen him shoot. He can handle it."
I'd been following Edward's orders for a while. He was usually right but ...
"If we go down, I want him armed." Edward looked at me, and the weight in his eyes was enough. He didn't want Peter and Becca taken again. If he put a gun in Peter's hand, they'd kill him not torture him. If the worst happened, Edward had decided how the boy would go out. And, God help me, I agreed.
I pulled the gun out of the band of my jeans. "Why the Firestar?"
"Smallest grip."
I handed it to Peter, feeling vaguely like a child molester myself, or maybe a corrupter. "It holds nine if you carry one in the chamber. It's only holding eight. Safety's here."
He took the gun and popped the clip out to check it, then looked vaguely embarrassed. "Ted says to always check if something's loaded." He popped the clip back in, put a round in the chamber so it was ready to fire.
"Try not to shoot any of us," I said.
He clicked the safety on. "I won't."
Looking into his eyes, I believed him.
"I want to go home," Becca said.
"We're going home, honey," Edward said.
Edward led the way around the corner still carrying Becca. Peter went next, and I brought up the rear. I didn't burst anyone's bubble, but I knew we were a long way from safe. We had Simon and the rest of his men to get through, not to mention Harold and Newt and the local guys. Where were Russell and Amanda? I was really hoping to see them before we left. I'd promised Peter that she would never hurt him again. I always keep my promises.