Shiver

by Lisa Jackson

And yet she was wide awake.

  “Step up,” he ordered against her ear and she obeyed, her feet catching a little as she climbed two steps, then heard him open a screen door. A key clicked in a lock. “Inside.”

  Oh, dear God, this was the spot where he intended to kill her.

  Her throat closed as she smelled the dry, musty interior of this hidden place. She thought she heard the sound of frantic tiny claws, like rats scurrying for cover, and her skin prickled in newfound fear.

  The screen door slapped behind her and she jumped.

  She wanted to scream, to rail against him and God for abandoning her—like Jesus cried in agony upon the cross—as her kidnapper pushed and prodded her farther into a room that smelled unused, dirty, and forgotten. As if this cabin or whatever it was hadn’t been used in years. Boards creaked under her feet. Her throat was so dry she couldn’t call up any spit.

  Dread inched up her spine as she heard him close the heavy door. He pushed her forward and she wondered if she’d fall off a ledge, be thrown into some dark hole, a deep exposed cellar, and be left here to die. Whimpering, barely holding on to her bladder, she stepped tenuously forward and then she heard it…a muffled noise, as if someone else were in the room.

  She nearly passed out.

  Dear God, he hadn’t brought her to a place where other men were waiting, had he? Fear pounded a new, frantic tattoo in her heart. Her stomach curdled and yet she smelled something, someone else.

  A mixture of sweat, musk, and cold, stark terror trembled over her skin.

  She’d heard of barbaric rites against women and braced herself for whatever sick fate awaited her.

  “Okay, now, be a good girl,” he whispered into the shell of her ear, his hot breath fanning the nape of her neck. “Do everything just as I say and I won’t hurt you. You’ll be safe.”

  She didn’t believe him for an instant.

  His silky words were a trap. A trick she wasn’t going to fall for.

  “Strip.”

  She froze. Thought she would be sick.

  He pressed the gun to her chest and she thought for a minute of disobeying, but in the end, she did what he suggested. Knowing the gun was trained on her, she pulled off her T-shirt and slid out of her shorts. Shaking, she’d never felt more vulnerable in her life. Tears rained from her eyes. Fear clenched her gut. How many people, men, were watching her? How many were going to touch her. Her stomach retched and she thought she might pass out.

  “That’s good.”

  She froze in her jog bra and panties.

  She didn’t have to get completely naked?

  “Now, put this on.” She heard a zipper hiss downward and then she was handed something soft and silky—a dress? Fumbling, her fingers nearly useless, she hurriedly bunched the smooth fabric and found a way to step into it. She didn’t know what it was, but it would cover her nakedness, and right now that was all that mattered. “Turn it around,” he ordered and blindly she gathered and rotated the fabric, then pulled the bodice of the dress upward, over her waist and higher to cover her breasts. Awkwardly, she found the long sleeves and pushed her hands through. Then he was behind her and he held one of her arms again as he slowly pulled the zipper upward where it stopped near her shoulders. His breath was hot. Nasty. Nearly wet as it touched the nape of her neck.

  Now…if she could just find a way to stop him. But that was impossible.

  Slowly, still holding her with one hand, he trailed the barrel of the gun against her skin, so that the cold metal caressed her neck.

  Goose pimples rose on her skin.

  If she spun around quickly now, she might catch him unaware, be able to knock the weapon from his hand, rip off her blindfold, and run like crazy. She was fast. And with the adrenalin pumping through her bloodstream, she could run five or six miles without stopping to catch her breath.

  “Uh, uh, uuuuh,” he murmured so close that she felt his chest against her back, his erection, though the soft folds of the dress, pressed into the cleft of her rump.

  Her chin wobbled. He was going to rape her…and probably the silent others in the room would have their turns with her, too.

  Why? Oh, Father, why?

  Run, Mary! Take a chance! So what if the gun goes off?

  The arm holding her shoulder snaked around her waist, drawing her tight against him. “Now, Mary,” he rasped and she nearly wilted when she realized he knew her name. She hadn’t been a random target. He’d wanted her for whatever evil purpose he had planned. “Here’s what you’re going to do to save yourself. Are you listening?”

  She nodded, hating herself. Hating him.

  “You’re going to take this gun and you’re going to shoot it into a pillow.”

  What?

  “That’s right, I’m going to put it into your hand, but you’re not going to turn around and kill me with it, okay? I won’t let that happen. My hand will be over yours. Like this, see…” He pressed the gun into her shaking, sweating hand and curled her index finger over the trigger. His strong grip guided hers, and when she tried to turn it, he forced the hand forward.

  “All you have to do is squeeze.”

  Her whole body trembled. This was insane. Crazy. She wasn’t going to shoot blindly into the dark. For a second she wondered if this was some nutty college prank, the kind sororities and fraternities were famous for, but she didn’t believe it. She hadn’t pledged any house on campus and was going to drop out of All Saints College soon. Besides, this overriding sense of pure, malicious evil didn’t have a drop of fun or jest in it.

  It was no prank.

  “Come on,” he urged, his breath whispered out in excited little bursts. She heard it again, that muffled cry—laughter? Terror? Where was it? Nearby? Far away? Someone hiding in a closet, or watching her? One person? Two? A dozen?

  So scared she physically shook, she knew that if it weren’t for the steely fingers pressed intimately over hers, the weapon in her hand would have clattered to the floor.

  If only this was a nightmare!

  If only she would wake up in her dorm room!

  “You’ve got five seconds.”

  No! Again the muffled noise.

  “Five.”

  Please, Father help me.

  “Four.”

  Do not abandon me, I beg of you.

  “Three.”

  I am your humble servant.

  “Two.”

  Have mercy on my soul!

  “One.”

  He squeezed the trigger for her.

  Bam! The gun blasted, jerked in her hand.

  A muted squeal came from somewhere nearby.

  She smelled cordite and burning material and something else…the stringent odor of urine?

  Another tortured, strangled groan.

  New terror crystalized.

  Dear God, had she just shot another human being?

  Please, please, no!

  What was this? She started shrieking in terror behind her gag, struggling to get away, but the lunatic held her tighter, kept his hand over hers and quickly untied her blindfold.

  She immediately retched, just as her abductor yanked the gag from her face.

  In the glow of a single small lantern she witnessed what she’d done. A man who was vaguely familiar was seated in a chair, a thin pillow strapped around his torso. His hands were bound behind him, his ankles strapped to the metal legs of the chair. He was slumped forward, and beneath him, in an ever-widening pool, was the blood draining from his body. Feathers were still drifting toward the floor, like wispy snowflakes, slowly settling into the oozing reddish stain.

  Mary lost the full contents of her stomach and she threw up on the floor and the front of the white dress he’d forced her to wear. She was crying, trembling as she watched the man die. His eyes glazed in the soft golden light, and Mary, tears tracking from her eyes, sobs erupting from her throat, was certain she saw his spirit leave his body.

  Dear God, she’d murdered an innocent person, tied to the chair
. She moved her gaze to focus on the small gun still clutched in her hand…her gun…. the little pistol her father had given her for protection.

  And with it she’d killed a man.

  No, Mary. Not you. The monster who kidnapped you. Take the gun. It’s still in your hand. Turn it on him. God would never punish you for taking his filthy, sin-filled life.

  Just as the thought reached her, his grip on her hand tightened. “You killed him, Mary,” he said almost endearingly, as if he wanted to caress her.

  She shivered, started to protest, but felt the pressure in his grip increase. He yanked her backward so that her body was pressed to the hard wall of his chest, the back of her legs wedged against his thighs and shins, her rump nestled against his crotch, his erection bulging against her cleft again. Her heart hammered wildly. Sheer terror paralyzed her.

  “Killing’s a sin.” His breath was hot and silky, the air filled with his depravity. “But you know that, don’t you?”

  She didn’t respond, just felt the rain of her own tears against her cheeks. It didn’t matter what she said. She was doomed. She knew it. There was no escape.

  “You just sinned, Mary,” he whispered seductively and she swallowed hard. Searched desperately in her soul for her inner strength. Knew what was coming.

  Father, forgive me…

  “And we all know the wages of sin is death…”

  Slowly he rotated her hand in his, then pushed the muzzle of her own pistol to her temple.

  CHAPTER 3

  “Three o’clock would work out,” Abby said, cradling her cellphone between her shoulder and ear. Two days after she’d listened to Luke on the radio and made a pitch for the Nolan-Smythe nuptials, Abby was carrying a sack of groceries in one arm and her portfolio in the other. She’d spent most of the day before and the early hours of this morning at her studio in town, going through her bills and consulting with some college seniors for their graduation pictures, before stopping at the store, then racing back home.

  She dropped the sack onto the kitchen counter where Ansel was seated by the window, his tail switching as he watched birds flutter near the feeder hanging from the eave. “Shoo,” she whispered as the woman on the other end of the line made arrangements to view her house.

  Her FOR SALE BY OWNER sign had been up less than seventy-two hours and she’d already received several calls from potential buyers, this being the first who actually wanted to “view the property,” after hearing the price and details.

  As Ansel stretched on the counter and patently ignored her command to hop onto the floor, Abby walked into the living room, where she placed her portfolio onto a gate-legged table.

  “What was your name again? And your number?” she asked as she hurried back to the kitchen, retrieved a pen from her purse, and began scribbling the pertinent information onto a note pad she kept near the phone. “Okay, see you at three.”

  Abby hung up and glanced at her watch. The potential buyer would be here in less than four hours.

  Not that the place was in too bad a shape. Unless you spied the film of gray cat hair that clumped everywhere and collected in the corners. Despite her best efforts with the vacuum, she could barely keep ahead of the fur as Ansel was in full shed mode. “Maybe what I need is an electric razor for you rather than a vacuum cleaner for the house, hmmm?” She plucked the heavy cat from his perch near the windowsill and held him close to her for a second. Petting his soft fur, she whispered into his ear, “I love you anyway. Even though you and I both know that you can be a real pain in the backside when you want to be.” He rubbed the top of his head against the underside of her chin and purred so loudly that she felt vibrations from his body to hers.

  It felt right to just spend a second saying stupid things to the cat.

  The last two days had been so hectic, she hadn’t had a chance to catch her breath. She’d gone from sitting to sitting and fortunately hadn’t had time to stew about Luke or his public annihilation of her character.

  Abby had decided not to let Luke’s diatribe over the airwaves get to her.

  “It’s just not worth it.” She kissed the cat between his ears then set him on the floor and checked his water dish. Still half-full. He trotted to the back door, circled, and cried until she opened it. Darting outside, Ansel made straight for the tree near the bird feeder where chickadees and nuthatches fluttered. The warmth of October, caught on a gentle breeze fragrant with the earthy smell of the swamp, swept inside.

  Abby stepped onto the porch. Sunlight was struggling to peek through a wash of gray clouds. For a second she thought she saw the pale arc of a rainbow, but as quickly as the image appeared, it faded.

  “Wishful thinking,” she told herself and closed the door behind her as she walked inside. Glancing around, she realized she’d have to spruce things up before the showing.

  In her bedroom Abby peeled off her slacks and blouse, then yanked on her “cleaning clothes,” a favorite pair of tattered jeans and a T-shirt that showed off not only old coffee stains, but bleach spatters as well. After snapping her unruly hair into a ponytail, she went to work, polishing tables, cleaning windows, scrubbing counters, and washing the old plank floors.

  Turning on the television for background noise, she listened to warnings about a tropical storm forming in the Atlantic, one poised to enter the gulf within days. After much meteorological speculation, there was a break for a commercial, and when the news resumed, Abby, swabbing a windowsill, heard a phrase that always caused her heart to freeze.

  “Our Lady of Virtues…”

  Abby’s head snapped up. She turned her attention to the little set balanced on a bookcase shelf. On the screen, a willowy reporter with perfect makeup and short dark hair stood in front of the grounds of the old hospital where Faith Chastain’s life had ended.

  “…the hospital has been a landmark in the area for nearly a hundred years,” the twenty-something reporter was saying as wind feathered her hair. “This building behind me has gone through several different incarnations in its long, and sometimes scandal-riddled, history.”

  Oh, God, they weren’t going to bring up her mother’s death again, were they?

  Abby felt every muscle in her body tense, as if waiting for a blow.

  “Originally built as an orphanage, the main building was converted to a full-fledged hospital after World War Two, and has been, from its inception, run by an order of Catholic nuns.” The camera panned away from the reporter to capture the full view of the once-stately building.

  Abby’s heart clutched as she looked at the hospital where a wide concrete drive, now buckled and weed-choked, had cut through once-tended lawns to curve around the fountain. Long ago Abby had sat on the edge of the pool and watched koi darting beneath thick lily pads as sunlight had spangled the water and the spray from the fountain had kissed her skin. She’d been able, from that vantage point, to look up to her mother’s room situated on the third floor behind the tall, arched window.

  Abby swallowed hard. How many hours had she spent by the fountain? Now the pond was dry and cracked, the sculptured angels streaked with a green, slimy moss that seemed to track from their eyes like tears.

  “Most recently Our Lady of Virtues was used as a hospital for the mentally ill, and though it was privately owned, it, too, suffered when federal funds dried up. Amid allegations of abuse and the apparent suicide of one patient, the facility closed nearly eighteen years ago…”

  Abby’s throat tightened. She dropped the sponge and watched the news bite that seemed surreal.

  Above the television, mounted on the shelves near the fireplace, was an eight-by-ten picture of her mother, smiling, dark hair pulled away from a beautiful face, no trace of the tortured soul who had hidden behind those wide, amber-colored eyes.

  Swallowing hard, Abby walked to the bookcase and took the picture from its resting place. A deep sadness swept through her and she felt a stab of longing to once again see her mother’s frail smile, feel her cool hands holding Abby
’s, smell the gentle, clean scent of her perfume.

  “…scheduled for demolition, sometime next year if all goes as planned.”

  Abby’s head swiveled back to the television screen. They were tearing the old hospital down?

  A schematic drawing of a two-story building, very similar in appearance to the old one, but newer, brighter, with more modern touches, flashed onto the screen. Gone were the beveled glass windows, gargoyles on the downspouts, and wide, covered flagstone verandas. The brick would become stucco, the windows wider, the fountain of angels replaced by a metal-and-stone “water feature.”

  The screen returned to the newsroom, where the anchor, Mel Isely, sat behind a wide curving desk. In the corner of the screen was an insert of the reporter on the hospital grounds. She was still speaking.

  “The plan is that this facility will become a graduated elder care home, starting with assisted-living apartments and including a full-care facility.”

  “Thanks, Daria,” the anchor said as the inset of the reporter disappeared and all cameras were focused again on the news desk and Isely, a man Abby had met a few times while she’d still been married to Luke. A smarmy suck-up, she’d thought at the time. He was good-looking, but a little too GQ-esque to suit Abby’s taste in men. “Coming up…Sports,” Isley was saying, while smiling broadly into the camera. She thought he might even wink. She recalled one Christmas charity event when, after a few too many drinks, he’d actually made a pass at her. Now, he picked up the papers on his desk and said, “After the break, we’ll be back with news about the Saints!”

  “Save me.” Abby switched off the set and Mel’s face with its startling blue eyes ringed in thick lashes disappeared.

  She let out her breath and considered the news report.

  So what if the facility where her mother had died was scheduled to be razed? So what if a new building would replace the old? That was progress, right?

  Leaving her mother’s picture on the shelf, she walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. No bottled water. “Oh, hell.” She grabbed a glass from the cupboard, then turned on the tap and listened as the old pipes groaned in protest. Resting a hip against the counter, she filled the glass and thought of all the reasons she’d agreed to return to Louisiana in the first place.