Come and Get Me

by August Norman

  She sat at a wooden table big enough for two across from an empty chair. Underneath Paige’s Barbie sign, the twin-sized bed she’d woken on earlier waited with neatly applied sheets, also bright pink. The off-white wall looked smooth and slightly reflective. The ghostly tint of fluorescence lit the room from behind. The air felt humid; her skin, sticky.

  She looked at the ceiling. Smooth, off-white like the wall, possibly metal. A faint column of air moved against her face from a single darkened light fixture made of round translucent plastic with a one-inch ringed gap around the edge—a bathroom light and fan combo.

  To the right, another smooth wall, maybe two feet from the table’s edge. To the left, a cheap plastic shelving unit held a stack of clothing and three unopened Barbie dolls.

  She’d seen walls like this before. A reporter she knew from National Public Radio had installed a similar soundproof room in her garage for home recording, minus the Barbie dolls, mattress, and threat of endless rape.

  Caitlin shuddered. I’m gonna die in here.

  The light above came on.

  She took a deep breath. Not without a fight.

  Two deadbolts turned behind her, then the door opened. Caitlin saw the profile of a man shadowed on the wall. He paused, shifted to one side, then back again, almost a small dance.

  She wouldn’t let him control the moment. “Either murder me or come around where I can see you, Branford.”

  “Looks like you’re awake,” he said. No movement.

  “Is this where you tell me how much power you have over me, or are you jacking off again?”

  He laughed, then brushed past her, pulled out the other chair, and sat. “Welcome, Caitlin Bergman, to the rest of your life.”

  His black V-neck T-shirt and blue jeans seemed innocent enough. His leather gloves did not. Caitlin hadn’t memorized Branford’s face, but his toothy grin lacked the former shiny toothpaste-commercial goodness.

  “Jesus, Branford, you wear false teeth?”

  “Not I, Caitlin. Chad has a set that would blind most people. Part of his appeal.”

  “You’re not Chad Branford? ’Cause you look just like him.”

  He shook his head no.

  “Okay, who the hell are you?”

  He smiled. “Now that’s the real question, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe I don’t want to know.” She flexed her arms against her straps, found no give. “What day is it, anyway? How long have I been here?”

  “All in good time. I’d like to teach you the rules.”

  “What’s to know? You come in, rape me until I die, then dump me in a soccer field.”

  “I’m not going to force myself on you, Caitlin. I’m certainly not going to kill you.”

  “Right, ask Paige Lauffer.”

  “I didn’t rape Paige Lauffer.”

  “Still ended up naked and dead in a goal box.”

  “Paige didn’t listen to the rules.”

  “Chad Branford’s secret dungeon rules?”

  “I told you,” he said, his voice steady but with an electric current buzzing below the surface, “I’m not Chad Branford.”

  “What should I call you? Dungeon master? Barbie doll enthusiast?”

  Branford put both elbows on the table, rested his chin in his palms. “Are you done?”

  “Not in the slightest, you wannabe actor. I can do this all day long.”

  “And I want to hear every precious word, Caitlin. This is why you’re here.”

  “To ask questions about your obvious narcissism—despite the inevitable micro-penis or downstairs mix-up you’ve got going on that makes you the sicko you are, Not-Chad-Branford?”

  He held up a hand. “Rule one, when I raise my hand, you stop talking.”

  “That crap didn’t work for my first-grade teacher, and you’re not half the woman Mrs. Browning was.”

  He stood. “Caitlin, my hand was raised.”

  “And you can shove that right up your—”

  His sharp punch connected with her left cheek. Her head snapped to the side, a mix of white hot pain and instant dizzy.

  “When I raise my hand, you stop talking. Do I need to repeat myself?”

  She rattled her head no.

  “Good.” He sat back down. “It brings me no joy to hurt you. Rule two—eat what I give you, then place your empty plates and things in the drop.”

  “What drop?”

  “You haven’t seen the room yet, but you’ll be able to move around soon. Eventually, you’ll be allowed in the playroom as well. So follow rule two. Eat what I give you.”

  Caitlin worked her jaw around, tasted blood.

  “I know,” he said. “You have so many things you want to say, but I’ve got you hooked, right? You’re already considering logistics. It’s not just one room, but two. If there are two rooms, there must be a way out. You’re a smart woman. Sorry, not merely smart, you’re a genius, Caitlin. You’ll stop asking questions, and you’ll listen to my rules, placate me, bide your time. How am I doing—close?”

  “Close.”

  Branford looked pleased. “Do you know why I know what you’re thinking?”

  Caitlin locked eyes with him. “Because you’re a genius too.”

  He clapped once, rocked back in the chair. “Exactly, and you’re really going to take me to task.”

  “By talking back while you torture me?”

  “At first,” he said. “But we’ll get through this phase quickly if you accept the inevitable.”

  “That I can’t escape?”

  He shook his head no.

  “Paige escaped.”

  “If Paige escaped,” he said, leaning across the table again, “how come you’re here in her room, and she’s lying in pieces in the morgue?”

  If Branford wanted to brag, she’d let him. He was right: she had hope.

  “Fine,” she said. “I live in this room now, I follow the rules. You and I have talks until you decide to hit me or drug me to sleep so you can do whatever.”

  “Your sarcasm doesn’t bother me because you’re on the right track. See, this was the problem with Paige. She didn’t get me.”

  “And I do?”

  “Oh Caitlin, I know you do. Go ahead, tell me.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Who I am.”

  “Don’t you have a class to teach?”

  “Called in sick,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me who you think I am.”

  Caitlin thought back. Once she’d left Scott Canton’s hospital room, she’d looked up Branford’s teaching schedule. He taught on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. If he’d really called in sick, that made it one of the three. She’d been taken on Tuesday, and was fairly certain she’d been there more than one night. Today had to be Friday. Missing for three days.

  The tapping of his gloved fingertips on the tabletop reminded her of heavy raindrops hitting a window, like the night she’d driven back from Kentucky. She took a breath, cleared her throat, and humored him.

  “Fine. You’re a high-functioning psychopath, possibly of genius-level intelligence.”

  “Not possibly,” he said. “I have certificates to prove it.”

  “I’m sure, though the bragging buries the lead.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Which is?”

  “You need to be recognized. You need someone to appreciate your genius.”

  He stood again, paced behind the chair. “Exactly.”

  “Which means you’ll be caught soon. You need the world to know, to share your secrets. Who was it, by the way?”

  He stopped, obstructing her view of Paige’s pink sign. “Who was what?”

  “The parent who didn’t care. Your father or your mother?”

  “Ouch,” Branford said, his hand clutching his heart in mock pain. “What else?”

  “You’ve gotten careless. The decorations in the room, the room itself, all show a level of meticulous planning worthy of a choreographer playing to the single audi
ence of Paige Lauffer—yet here I am in her place.”

  “You have no idea how many moving pieces there are.”

  “Maybe,” Caitlin said. “More likely, part of your need to dominate is fighting with your need for respect.”

  He wagged his finger at her. “That’s where you’re wrong. I don’t need the rest of the world to know. I’ve got Caitlin Bergman, right here, part of my collection.”

  Jesus. His collection.

  She looked away from his smug smile. “How many? Me, Paige Lauffer, Angela Chapman?”

  “Antoine Foreman, eat your heart out.” He sat again, leaned across the table, and reached out, touching her arm near her elbow. “Two years. Can you imagine that?” His gloved fingertip slowly traced its way up her arm, the exploration of each new inch causing Caitlin to flinch against her unyielding restraints. “I didn’t expect the local hicks to have a chance, but they assigned an FBI special agent, a profiler no less, and he hasn’t come close in two whole years.”

  He stopped at her shoulder, looked directly into her eyes, smiled, then pushed some of her hair behind her ear. “You’ve been here what, a month?”

  Caitlin swallowed hard, but didn’t look away. “If today’s Friday, I’ve been in town for three weeks. It is Friday, isn’t it?”

  “Nice try.” He pulled back and slapped the table. “I’m hungry. Are you hungry?”

  Caitlin let her breath escape. “What about the rest of your rules?”

  “Fuck the rules,” Branford said, already up and moving toward the door. “This is fun.”

  No way to gauge time, no clue when he’d return. She noticed a black camera dome in the corner above the bed. What did it matter if he watched? Surely he expected her to test her restraints.

  Four seatbelt-like nylon bands kept her pink-pajamaed torso against the chair. One over each shoulder, one across her ribs below the breasts, one around her waist. Her arms, pulled together behind the chair, lay over the straps, bound at the elbows and the wrists, her fingertips pressed together.

  Three days and no cops. Hardly any memories of the time so far. Who knows what he’s done to you, what he’ll do to you.

  Her chest shook. She shut her mouth, kept the breath in.

  Don’t lose control, not yet.

  A similar strap crossed her thighs and flattened her legs against the seat. She tried to move her feet. Another set near the ankles restricted any movement other than side to side.

  Lose control? Who are you kidding? You have absolutely no control.

  Her chest heaved again. “Not now.”

  Words couldn’t stop the looming attack. Fighting against hyperventilation, she tried to remember Scott Canton’s advice.

  The rush of the water. The sunlight above. The run to the car. Dinner with Mary and Aaron. Sex with Greenwood.

  For a second, she felt calmer, but then she remembered the photos of Angela Chapman on her missing person’s poster.

  Which of Caitlin’s photos would they use? After all the years of getting the story, she’d be the story.

  In Bloomington.

  Where it all began.

  Her short breaths couldn’t compete with the straps. She lost her air, her sight, and her consciousness.

  * * *

  She smelled rosemary and garlic, opened her eyes.

  Still in her chair. A plate on the table held a sizable mound of potatoes, steamed broccoli, and a grilled chicken breast.

  Branford held a plastic forkful of food inches from her face. “Here comes the airplane.”

  She turned aside. “No way.”

  “Caitlin, do you remember rule two?”

  “The drugs you’re forcing into my body have clouded my memory. Was rule two ‘Screw yourself’?”

  She braced for another punch, but Branford placed potatoes into his own mouth and swallowed. “See? No drugs in the food.” He forked a piece of broccoli. “No hormones either, and the veggies are organic.”

  She ignored the angry chorus warming up in her belly and changed the subject. “Nice touch with the scars. That was you, right?”

  He smiled. “I’ve found the key to a convincing disguise is an uncomfortable visual disfigurement, which I know sounds awful—”

  “You kidnap and imprison women.”

  “Right? I might be a monster, but I’m not a jerk.” Branford used the edge of his fork to break off a hunk of chicken. “A skin disorder, a facial scar, a handicap. No one wants to face a victim. What’s that about?”

  “The fragility of mortality,” she said, staring at the plate. The chicken looked tender and juicy. “To acknowledge someone else’s impediment is to face our own weakness.”

  Branford’s eyes narrowed. “Well said.”

  The pulsed buzz of a cell phone somewhere on Branford’s body broke the tomb-like silence. She’d guessed they were underground, but the phone’s active signal meant not too far down. He ignored the alert.

  “Try some chicken.”

  She turned away. “Not hungry.”

  “Haven’t I shown you that the food isn’t drugged?”

  As long as he wanted her to eat, she’d starve. “Maybe I don’t want to have to sit in my own feces.”

  “This is only temporary,” he said. “Follow my rules, and you’ll be free to move around. Eat.”

  The fork came back her way. She denied entrance once again.

  He set it on the plate. “I can force-feed you. I’m horrible with the IV, but I’ve done it before.”

  His phone buzzed again. He reached into his pocket, looked down at the screen, slipped the phone back, continued.

  “Or we can go liquid diet, which involves my hands on your throat, you gagging and spitting up baby formula. Does that sound better?”

  Caitlin met his eyes. “You want me to eat, Branford, untie one of these hands.”

  His phone chimed, a different tone altogether. Whatever the two church bells back-to-back meant, Branford’s demeanor changed.

  “Shit.” He reached for his other pocket, came back with a folding knife, and opened the blade. “I don’t have time to play this game anymore.”

  He walked behind her. She heard a crisp snap, then felt the restraint around her right wrist loosen. Another snap freed her arm at the elbow.

  His lips brushed her left ear. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  She heard the door close, the locks turn.

  She reached behind her, found a thick plastic loop around her left wrist, maybe a zip tie, and another near her elbow. Both were looped around the straps keeping her body against the chair. The straps met at a metal ring near the small of her back, but there was no release mechanism. She followed the material to the underside of the chair, where the straps fed into a junction box that allowed excess material to pass through. She tugged on a hanging strap, tried pushing the tail back through the slot, but couldn’t find any give.

  She dropped her head. This monster has this down to a science.

  Fine. If she couldn’t break the straps, she’d break his plan. She reached for the plate, set the dinner on her lap. The scent of rosemary overpowered the garlic, and Caitlin loved rosemary.

  She picked up the plastic fork, tucked it under her right leg, then grabbed a handful of mashed potatoes. No way she’d give Branford the satisfaction. He’d already changed her clothes once, and not for her comfort. He wanted her neat and clean.

  She smeared the white goodness across her chest, careful to get both the straps and the pajama top. She reached back to the plate for a handful of broccoli florets, crushed them against her pants until she felt the wet paste through the material. She finished up with the chicken and remaining potatoes.

  Caitlin didn’t know what damage she could do with a plastic fork, but she wanted to find out.

  CHAPTER

  63

  HE SHUTTLED THE footage backward until he saw the BPD cruiser in the driveway of the duplex.

  They’ve found me. Taking Caitlin was a mistake.

  He changed fe
eds, checked the front door at the same time stamp. A uniformed female officer knocked, peered through the glass, and left after a minute.

  He switched back to the driveway cam. The officer sat in the cruiser for two minutes, then drove away.

  He ran to the kitchen door, grabbed his binoculars, and stepped outside. No sign of the cruiser near the duplex registered to Chad Branford. He replayed the voicemail.

  “Mister Branford. This is Detective Jerry Greenwood from the Bloomington Police Department. Please call when you have a moment.”

  He took a breath, calmed himself. Not a mistake. An opportunity.

  He dialed the detective’s number. Greenwood answered after two rings.

  Chad Branford’s pleasant voice went to work. “I was on a bike ride and didn’t hear my phone ring. How can I help, Detective?”

  “Won’t take long, Mister Branford. I’m looking for a woman named Caitlin Bergman. Know who I mean?”

  “Sure, the reporter. Does this mean there’s been a break in the Chapman murder?”

  Greenwood didn’t answer right away, but Branford hadn’t overplayed the part. His dialogue followed the natural curiosity a college professor might have.

  As if on cue, Greenwood broke the dramatic pause. “Why would you say that?”

  “She stopped by on Tuesday and asked me questions about Angela that no one else ever had.”

  Greenwood took the bait. “What did Miss Bergman ask?”

  “I’m not sure I feel comfortable talking about that.”

  “Do you mean over the phone?”

  Branford gave a little laugh. “Actually, I mean talking to a cop without some sort of, you know, common understanding. I guess you could ask her what we talked about, and anything she says I said would be hearsay.”

  “That’s the problem. No one’s heard from Caitlin Bergman since Tuesday.”

  Branford slapped his face in mock disbelief. “She didn’t get to Los Angeles?”

  “What do you mean?”

  After the right amount of hemming and hawing, Branford said he’d told Caitlin about Angela Chapman’s MDMA pills. When Caitlin learned about the Molly, she said she’d done all she could and that the FBI had the case. Then she’d asked about the fastest way to the airport. Branford told her to take state road 37.