As he spoke, he drove out of the parking garage and got into the line at the payment booth. Finally, he hung up. “They’re sending an ambulance and police to the scene.”
She breathed relief. Maybe they’d get to Trish in time and catch the man.
“They told me to bring you to the police station to make a statement. Tell me what you saw.”
She couldn’t catch her breath. “This guy had a syringe. He must have injected her with something because she was passed out … ”
He paid the woman in the booth, and the exit rail came up. “Was she breathing?” he asked as they drove out.
She looked back, wishing she’d told the woman. The police weren’t here yet. Maybe she could have alerted security.
“I didn’t stay around long enough to tell. How far to the police station?”
“Not far. Just calm down, honey. It’s going to be okay. My name’s Dr. Leigh. What’s yours?”
“Emily.” The word doctor snatched her thoughts away from the crisis. Cravings reared up in her like a flock of bats. “Do you have, like, medication?”
He frowned. “Some, why?”
“Because … ” She touched her chest, gasping. “I have an anxiety disorder,” she lied, “and I left my bag in her car. It had my Xanax. I’m having a panic attack.”
“Don’t you want to wait to take something until after you talk to police?”
She made a show of hyperventilating. “No, I don’t think I can talk to them until I have that. I feel like I’m having a heart attack.”
He pulled over to the side of the road, touched her neck and took her pulse. “Your heart rate is fast, but you’ve been running. I can give you something to calm you down.”
He reached into the backseat and she waited, almost forgetting the events at the garage. She couldn’t see where he was reaching, but she hoped he was digging through his doctor bag, looking for Xanax.
A scent filled the air … the scent she remembered in Trish’s car.
His hand came up with a rag, and before she could react, he pressed it to her mouth and nose, shoving her head back against the seat. She leaned back, fighting him. He was smothering her … killing her …
Her brain felt like it was melting out of her skull, running out her ears, her nostrils, her eyes …
And as she plunged into darkness, his face faded into the shadows of her consciousness.
When Emily woke, she was no longer in the car. She found herself in a room she’d never seen before.
Her vision was foggy as her eyes came open. The walls were painted apple green, with a big orange stripe slashing diagonally across the wall. A big teddy bear on a chest of drawers. A pair of ballet shoes hanging off the lamp. She was under a goose-down comforter, and the light of a lamp shone down on her.
As her eyes began to clear, she realized someone was sitting beside her. Mom? Her head gonged as she turned her face …
Not Mom. It was the man. Her rescuer, the doctor who was supposed to take her to the police station. But he hadn’t taken her. He’d smothered her, instead.
“Where am I?”
“You’re at my cabin,” he said in a smooth, low voice. “How are you feeling?”
She tried to sit up, but her head exploded. “Terrible headache.”
“You passed out.”
“You … tried to kill me.”
He laughed softly. “No. I gave you something to help you relax. You asked me for it, remember? I brought you here because the woman you were with is dead. I heard on the radio that they think you killed her.”
Dead? Trish was dead? “I need to call the police and tell them what happened. I didn’t do anything.” She tried to slide out of bed, but her head was too heavy. “Please … get me a phone.”
His voice was unnaturally calm. “I can’t do that, Emily. You’re an addict, and you need help to get sober. The drugs are going to kill you.”
“No, you’re going to kill me. Whatever you gave me made me like this. I have a high tolerance for drugs, so you had to give me some pretty powerful stuff to knock me out.”
“If I’d taken you to the hospital, they would have locked you in the psych ward and put you on detox. They don’t know how to do it properly. I do.”
Was he crazy? She glanced from wall to wall. “Whose room is this?”
For a moment he was silent, then he looked around, his cold eyes softening. “It’s my daughter Sara’s. She died of a drug overdose, and I don’t want it to happen to any other person, ever. I don’t want it to happen to you.”
“It won’t! I was on my way to treatment. I want to call my mom.” She tried to sit up, but he pushed her back down. “My mom is going to worry. She needs to know where I am.”
His eyes grew glacial again. “You don’t care about your mom. How many times have you stayed out all night, never letting her know where you are? Not even a phone call?”
She twisted her mouth. “You don’t know me.”
“I know addicts. I knew my daughter.”
“I’m not her!” She managed to sit up, and tried to gauge the distance to the door. Would he let her leave? “Listen, my mom’s going to freak.”
“I’m sure the police have called her by now. They’ve told her you’re a killer.”
“No!” She shook her head, trying to shake out the cobwebs.
Would her mother believe them? Of course she would, after all the stuff she’d done.
“Are you hungry?”
She couldn’t think of food. “No, I don’t want to eat. I want to go home.” She started to cry. He reached for her, and she recoiled … then he stroked her face, of all things. “What do you want from me?”
“Nothing but your sobriety. I’m not going to hurt you. You can trust me. I’m not that kind of man.”
“But you’re the kind who kidnaps a girl and holds her hostage?”
“I’m not holding you hostage. I’m helping you.”
“You’re not helping me! Trish was helping me.”
“They weren’t going to help you where she was taking you. The people at Road Back Recovery Center don’t care anything about you. They just dope you up and let you run around town. You’d be right back where you started, maybe worse.”
“Are you crazy? I was going willingly. I need help. I’m going to go through withdrawal, and I don’t want to do it here.”
“I’m a doctor. I’ll monitor you closely.”
“So, you’re keeping me locked in here against my will, without telling my mother or anybody?”
“It’s a risk. A sacrifice I’m willing to make to save a life.”
“This is kidnapping. You could go to prison for this.”
“You’ll thank me one day.” He got up and backed to the door. “I’m going to leave you in here to rest. You can’t get out. The windows are barred. I’ve taken out everything you can hurt yourself with. There is a bathroom if you need it. If you get hungry, just knock on the door and I’ll bring you something.”
“But what are you gonna do about my withdrawals? I can’t be here all panicked and sick.”
“What were your addictions?”
“Everything. You name it.”
He shook his head. “No, you name it.”
“Cocaine, Xanax, painkillers … ”
“You’ll be sick, have diarrhea, dilated pupils, tremors … You’ll have trouble sleeping … but you won’t die.”
“You’re not going to give me anything for it?”
“There are a couple of things I can give you to help you through it. But I won’t dope you up with something as bad as what you were on. I won’t be an accomplice to your getting high. There’s not going to be anybody here who can teach you new tricks about how to work the system, or who will promise to leave with you on a pass and hook you up with dealers. That’s not going to happen here.”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Of all the cars to jump into, why had she chosen this one? “I don’t even know what you’re talkin
g about!”
He closed and locked the door, and she sat on the bed, legs beneath her, trying to work through what she remembered of the events at the airport. Could Trish really be dead? That woman who had done nothing wrong? She wasn’t someone who deserved to die.
Was the man in the car with the syringe a dope dealer? No, he hadn’t had time to find a vein. He had injected her too quickly for a tourniquet. Had that injection killed her?
She lay back in bed, wondering if God had ordained this … that she would jump into the car with a stranger who promised to save her, only to find that he was crazy, and had some murderous desire to heal her. How could she wrap her mind around that? And why did her head hurt so bad?
Whatever was on that rag had knocked her out, so he could get her here without her protest. He wasn’t the man in Trish’s car. But was he working with the killer?
Her mother would assume she had taken off. Maybe she would even blame her for what happened to Trish. Would anybody care, or would they just imagine that another stupid addict had gotten herself into a mess?
God was probably laughing.
Emily slept fitfully that first night, so exhausted that she couldn’t stay awake. But she woke as soon as the sun came up, lighting the curtains in the window. Panic shot through her. She had to make a run for it somehow, had to do something to get word to her mom. She stood on the bed and reached the window. It was nailed shut and had black wrought-iron bars on the outside. There was no way she could get through it.
Across the yard, she saw the doctor walking out to a pile of firewood. An ax blade was stuck into some large chunks of wood. He wrenched the ax out and began to split wood.
She slid off the bed and pulled open his daughter’s drawers, rifled through them for anything she could use. There were barrettes and snapshots, a hairbrush. Beneath a scarf lay a school ID card. It was laminated, stiff. Perfect.
She went to the door and stuck the card between the door and its casing, and tried to slide the latch back. It didn’t stick, just slid across the metal. She tried again, turning it sideways, hitting against the lock bar, pushing as hard as she could.
It took several tries and she almost gave up, but finally it began to move. This could work, she thought. It was actually possible. She tried again, this time applying as much pressure as she could while still sliding it back.
The doorknob clicked. Holding her breath, she turned it and pulled the door open. She looked into the house, didn’t see him anywhere. He must still be outside. She tiptoed through, careful not to make a sound.
She followed the hall to a large room, richly decorated like a lodge, with a big stone fireplace. The kitchen was big and ruggedly decorated, something her mother might have done for a rich guy’s hunting lodge. Her heart pounded and her hands trembled as she stole through the kitchen. She saw him through the window just outside the door, talking on his cell phone and walking toward the door. He was coming back in with an armload of firewood.
She thought of making a run for it, hoping the wood would slow him down. But she was too weak to outrun him. No, that wouldn’t work.
She looked around for a place to hide, but the room was too open. She’d have to go back and wait.
Just as he reached the door, she stole back up the hall to the girl’s room, locked the door from the outside and closed herself in. She slid the card into her jeans pocket and heard the outer door close as he came back in. She would wait and listen, and maybe she could tell when he went out again.
She heard the television in the great room, heard his footsteps as he walked around the house, but he didn’t go back out.
Several times during the day he brought her food and water, checked her vital signs, offered her blankets. But he didn’t go out again until the sky had grown dark. How would she have the courage to escape in the dark? All she could see around the place was forest.
When she heard the door close again, relief almost brought tears to her eyes. Determination revived her courage. She went to the window, peered out. She saw a light come on in the back of the yard. He had gone into a shed, then he came back out with a bag of charcoal.
Good. He was probably cooking on the grill, which would give her some time. She slipped the ID card out of her pocket and worked on the door again. The lock bar moved more quickly this time.
She ran back to the great room, saw him through the window under the porch light, pouring the charcoal into a grill. She searched for another door, but that was the only one, and he was just outside it.
Then she saw his cell phone, lying on the table. She dove for it, ducked behind the table so he couldn’t see her. She flipped it open, then keeping her eyes on the door, made her way to the text screen and punched in her mother’s number. She texted:
mom help me
She heard the grill close outside, saw him wadding up the charcoal bag. The phone rang, and she almost dropped it. It had to be her mother. She clicked and held the power button, until the phone turned off. As he came toward the door, she abandoned it, ran back to her room, and closed herself in, locking it from the outside.
She would keep that card close to her so she could get out again when she had opportunity. As soon as she heard his car pull away she would go. But now her mother at least had a phone number to trace. The immediate call back told her that her text had gone through. Maybe the police would come soon.
But as day turned into night, and night into morning … … No one ever came.
On the third day of her captivity, Emily’s sobriety ebbed like the flu, aching through her, racking every joint and wrecking every bodily function. Fatigue ate into her bones, marrying itself to her nausea and the cold that chilled her no matter how many blankets the doctor brought her. She longed for comfort, but it evaded her.
Emily gave up on anyone coming. She would die here. As the toxins fought their way out of her body, she wished death would finish its work.
When her captor unlocked her door that morning, he held a plate of scrambled eggs.
“Are you hungry now?” he asked.
She sat up. “No, I’m sick. But I’ll try. It might make me feel better.”
“Good. That’s progress.” He brought her the plate and she smelled the food. He had scrambled it with bell peppers, onions, and cheese, even little bits of bacon, much the same as her father used to do. She hadn’t had scrambled eggs like that since before her dad got sick.
Her stomach growled. Hoping the food wouldn’t go right through her, she took the plate and sat down on the bed. He stood over her, watching as she ate.
“Are we still in Atlanta, or some other town?” she asked.
“You don’t need to know that.”
Why did he watch her like that? Was he looking for his daughter in her face? “My mom is probably losing her mind.”
“I’ve been watching the coverage on the news,” he said. “I think you like to keep your mother worried sick.”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t.”
“The reporters have started to dig up your history.”
“Why?”
“I told you. They think you killed Trish Massey. They’re digging up piles of dirt on you.”
She was doomed. They’d never believe she was innocent. Nausea rolled through her. She handed the dish back. “I’m not hungry.”
“I was going to call your mom and tell her you were okay, that I had you here, but I can’t let them find you now. They’ll put you in prison. You don’t want that, do you?”
“No! I can’t go back to jail.”
“So you’ve been there before?”
“Just for three weeks. In juvie.”
“What for?”
“Possession, DUI … Nothing big.” She thought about her terrible mess. Even if she got away, what would she do if they thought she’d killed Trish? “I’ll clean up my act, and explain what happened. I can describe the man in the car.” The moment she said that, she wondered if it was wise. What if they were partners? It cou
ldn’t be a coincidence that he’d come along when he had. “My mom will know what to do.”
“Your mom is the one who chose to send you to Road Back. What does she know?” He took her plate and went back to the door. “I’ll leave the water for you in case you want more. What do you like to drink? I’ll go to the store and get it for you.”
She thought of telling him to get her a bottle of Jim Beam, but it might send him over the edge. “I like Coke and cranberry juice.”
“Anything you like to munch on?”
“No.” She could already feel the eggs turning in her stomach. She felt feverish, and she was getting another headache. Why hadn’t her mother come? “What are you gonna do with me when I’m detoxed? Let me go?”
He stared at her for a moment. “I don’t know. I can’t let you go back out there to the streets, can I? You need significant time sober before your brain can heal.”
“Significant time? Like how long?”
“However long it takes.” A soft smile came to his lips. “But I’m glad you’re here. You remind me of my Sara.”
She was silent as he walked out and closed the door. She sat back on the bed, looking around at the things that had belonged to his daughter. She wondered how long the girl had been dead, and how she’d died. She had to get him to talk about it. Maybe he was just a grieving father doing the wrong thing. Maybe she could help him see that he had to do the right thing.
But her withdrawals robbed her of all energy and initiative, and despite her efforts to stay awake and wait for her opportunity to escape, she kept drifting into semi-sleep, plagued by vivid dreams of predators chasing her.
When she woke, it was dark again. She’d missed a whole day, and still her mother hadn’t come with the police. Maybe she didn’t believe the text was from Emily. Or maybe she’d sent it to the wrong number.
Emily tried to shake her brain clear and think. Somehow she had to get out of this room. Maybe if she acted friendly, engaged the doctor in conversation, he’d think of her more as his daughter and less as his victim.
When he unlocked the door to bring her dinner, she gave it her best shot. “I’m feeling really claustrophobic. I’m hungry, but I don’t think I can eat. Can I please come out and sit at the table?”
Intervention Page 17
