Creep

by Jennifer Hillier

  “You’ll be up all night if you do that,” he said.

  “Where are you parked? Don’t wait for me . . .” The words came out slurred. She blinked again, feeling dizzy, and put a hand on the car to steady herself.

  “I’m just a few spots down.” He pointed to a large black SUV and then looked back at Sheila with concern. She began to feel embarrassed despite her fatigue. “Maybe I should give you a lift home. It’s on the way.”

  “No, no.” She lifted a hand that weighed fifty pounds. “I’ll be fine.” Holy shit, I can’t be this tired. . . .

  It was her last thought as her head rushed to meet pavement.

  CHAPTER : 14

  Ethan’s hand rested casually on Sheila’s denim-clad thigh, a small smile on his face as he headed back to Lake Stevens. This was the first time they’d been in a car together. It might have passed for a date had she not been unconscious.

  The radio was tuned to a classic-rock station and the Rolling Stones “Sympathy for the Devil” was booming out of the loudspeakers. Sheila had once told him about the summer she and her girlfriends drove cross-country to catch the opening of the Stones’ American tour. The story included a car breakdown, hitchhiking, some bad pot, and a zany stop at a truckers-only diner. She’d barely been out of her teens. He wished he could have known her then.

  She breathed evenly beside him, her face peaceful. He figured she’d be out for about three hours—just enough time to get her into the house and make preparations for the next phase.

  The Stones’ song ended and he switched the stereo to MP3 mode. Fiddling with his iPod, he found the song he was looking for. After all these years, Radiohead’s “Creep” still gave him shivers. The first time he’d heard it, he’d been in love. And having sex. And strangling someone.

  All at the same time.

  He smiled as the memories overtook him. The late-afternoon sunlight streaming across his bedroom walls. Books and backpacks strewn across the floor. The smell of her skin, slick with her musky sweat. Her voice in his ear as she whispered his name.

  The way her face looked, pale and slack and immobile, a few seconds after she stopped breathing. Her hair tickling his bare arms as he shook her, trying to revive her.

  The small line of saliva that ran from her bloodless lips and down her chin as she lay heavy and unmoving in his arms.

  You never forget your first time.

  Upon reaching the gate at Briar Woods, Ethan punched in his code, noting with satisfaction that the guard booth was empty.

  He’d timed it perfectly, same as always. The ancient security guard hired by the Homeowners’ Association was predictable—Henry always left at midnight to take a dump. Every shift, without fail, the old rent-a-cop drove to the twenty-four-hour doughnut shop two streets away, did his business, and returned to the guard booth with a large coffee and French cruller. Not that Ethan couldn’t have handled Henry if for some reason the geezer’s bathroom habits suddenly changed. But why take the risk?

  He looked up at the security camera mounted above the booth. It was broken and had been for a year. He was sure of this because he was the one who’d broken it.

  He was nothing if not careful.

  In under a minute he was in his driveway, pressing the button on the remote garage-door opener he’d stuck on the visor of the Chevy Suburban. His street was dimly lit, with no movement anywhere. In the bedroom community of Briar Woods in Lake Stevens, everybody was tucked in for the night.

  He parked right in the middle of the large garage so there’d be ample space on either side of him. His vintage Triumph was gassed and ready to go. Once he got Sheila settled in, he’d be taking the bike and going back out to Renton to get her car out of Tony’s Tavern’s parking lot.

  As for her Volvo, that was easy. He was going to park it back at Sheila’s place.

  He pressed the button to close the garage door, got out of the car, and walked around to the passenger side. He opened the door and unfastened Sheila’s seat belt.

  Hoisting her over his shoulders, he carried her inside the house through the connecting door. There was no alarm to disengage. He’d never had a system installed because he didn’t want the headache of a security company snooping around, should the alarm go off by accident. Besides, security systems were designed to keep the bad guys out . . . and he was the bad guy. The thought made him grin.

  Inside the house, he took an immediate right, heading through the basement door, which he’d propped open before he’d left that evening. The door behind him closed and locked automatically, and it had a keypad. Nobody could enter or exit the lower level of the house without the code.

  It hadn’t been easy to find a house with a basement in the greater Seattle area. The basement mirrored the upper level—huge and sprawling. He felt no claustrophobia here. As he navigated down the stairs, the lights turned on automatically.

  It would only take a few minutes to get Sheila prepared. He hummed, almost giddy with anticipation.

  He placed her gently on the bed and her head rolled to the side. Her mouth was slightly open and a line of saliva trailed down her chin and under her jaw.

  She looked dead.

  Lovingly, Ethan traced the saliva with his finger and tasted it, remembering.

  CHAPTER : 15

  The room smelled pleasant, like the grass after a good rain, reminding Sheila of summers spent on Fox Island as a girl, running around barefoot in the backyard of the house she’d lived in until her mother died.

  That was so long ago, decades really. But, at this moment, it felt as if she were there. The cool breeze kissed her damp skin like a lover. Inhaling deeply, the fresh, clean air expanded her lungs, and it felt good.

  She sensed movement behind her closed eyes and tried to open them, but the eyelashes on her right lid stuck together and it stung as they ripped apart.

  This was not Fox Island.

  Her vision was blurry and her head was thick with the brain fog that only happened after nights of serious drinking or one of her blackouts. Is this what happened? Had she fucked up again? Her mouth was cotton dry, and when she tried to swallow, she gagged.

  The shadow in front of her danced around. She tried to follow its movements, but it wasn’t easy. She heard voices in the background, low voices, chuckling voices, familiar voices. Her breath came faster as she fought back panic. She must have passed out in a public place. What if she was at the university somewhere? What if one of her students saw her?

  She struggled to stand up, but couldn’t. Her arms were lead and her legs wouldn’t respond.

  “Just relax,” a man said in a kind voice. “Nobody’s here but you and me. It’s just the TV. I put it to CNN because you’re an avid CNN watcher, aren’t you?”

  She tried to speak but her parched throat refused to comply.

  “Now listen carefully and try to relax. I know it’s difficult because you don’t know yet where you are, but you have to try. I’m going to put a straw to your lips. I’m going to give you some water. Okay? Here it comes.”

  Something must have happened. She must be at a hospital somewhere, and any minute, the kindly voice was going to explain to her what the hell was going on. Wherever she was, Morris was on his way. He had to be.

  Sheila felt the plastic touch her lips. She puckered in reflex, sucking in the cool water. She took five long sips before he took it away.

  “There. Better?”

  She tried to nod but her head felt heavy.

  “Now, I want you to listen to me. I want you to focus. Can you see me?”

  She looked straight at him. Gradually, the abstract colors started taking shape and her vision began to fill out, transforming him from a two-dimensional picture into real life.

  “Do you remember me from last night?” he asked, smiling.

  She kept staring at him, struggling to focus as his features continued to sharpen. Tawny skin, dark hair, dark eyes appraising her behind thick-framed glasses, tall and confident. It came back to her qu
ickly. Tony’s Tavern. Swiss-mushroom burger and a Diet Coke with lime. Yes, she remembered.

  “James,” she said, her voice hoarse. “You’re James. Where am I?”

  “At my house.” His voice was reassuring. “In a room in the basement, my most favorite room actually, a room only very few people get to see. You’re very lucky.”

  “I don’t understand. Why can’t I move?” Her voice felt a little stronger now. She tried to look around the room but her head felt like rubber, lolling on her chest like a rag doll’s. It was bright in here. From somewhere in the room, a fan blew cool air into her face.

  “Because I tied you down,” he said. “Look.”

  She followed his direction and was shocked to see he was telling the truth. She was propped upright in a queen-size bed, pillows at her back. Her wrists and ankles were encased in thick steel bracelets attached to chains that were handcuffed to the wrought-iron headboard and footboard. A thick wool blanket covered her from the waist down. She couldn’t see or feel her feet.

  “I don’t understand,” she said, again fighting the panic that started to churn in her belly. “I—”

  “Are you going to throw up? Tell me now so I can get you a bin.”

  She nodded. In a flash something metallic and shiny was in front of her and she vomited into it.

  “Feel better?” He wiped her face with a moist paper napkin. Scented, like roses and vanilla, nauseating. A baby wipe. The straw touched her lips again. “Here, have more water.”

  Her mouth tasted awful but she sucked anyway.

  “Now, Sheila, I know you feel terrible right now, but that feeling will pass soon enough. It will change into something else, something worse I think, but I promise you that in a little while you’ll be able to think very, very clearly. Because in a minute your body is going to produce a surge of adrenaline and it’s going to help wake you up. Are you listening?”

  She nodded. The voices coming from the TV were distracting. Democrats arguing with Republicans. It was difficult to concentrate. As if reading her mind, he muted the sound and stepped closer to her.

  “Here’s the situation. We had dinner last night. I slipped something into your soda when you went to use the restroom. I’m sure you can guess what it was, because you always discuss date rape in week four of your social psych course. No need to panic, I didn’t rape you. With me so far?”

  She nodded again.

  “But I did bring you here to kill you. And I think it’s important you know this, that you understand this very clearly, because when you understand it, it makes my job a lot easier. And then other people don’t have to get hurt. Do you follow me so far? Do you understand everything I’m saying?” His voice was reasonable, soothing, and familiar.

  She opened her mouth to say yes, but the sound that came out was no more than a squeak. Staring at him, she was helpless, frozen in the bed, her vision alternating between blurry and normal. Bile burned at the back of her throat. She vomited again and the bin was there to catch it. Once more he offered her the bottle of Evian with the white bendy straw, but this time she turned her face away.

  “I need you to say that you understand me, Sheila.”

  “But I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this. Please, James . . .” Her vision blurred. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again, trying to focus.

  “Oops.” He sighed. “I forgot, forgive me. My name isn’t James.”

  With a grin, his fingers reached into his shirt. It was a full minute before Sheila realized the screaming in the room was her own.

  The man was peeling his face off.

  Five minutes passed. Or five hours. She didn’t know. She had passed out, and when she woke up, the lights were off and the room was pitch-black.

  From somewhere nearby, the man laughed, delighted. “Never fails to shock.”

  Sheila heard panting in the room and wondered if there was a dog here. But, no, she was the one breathing hard. She couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen. A thousand questions flooded through her brain.

  Who are you? Why are you doing this?

  But the words wouldn’t come. All she could do was scream again in primal fear.

  “You know, if I hadn’t prepared for this reaction, it’d be rather annoying,” the man said. “I turned off the lights to give you a minute to relax. Are you relaxed?”

  Was he crazy? How could anyone relax in a situation like this?

  “Silicone, darling. Just a little silicone. And some fake hair. You’ll see.”

  She screamed again. It turned into a gag. In the darkness, she felt the water bottle touch her lips. She turned her head away, her breath coming faster. The last time she could remember breathing this hard was when she’d signed up for a spinning class at the university athletic club two months ago.

  “Come on, drink,” he said, his voice gentle.

  Sheila shook her head.

  None of this was happening. It couldn’t be.

  He sighed and she heard him place the water bottle on the nightstand. “Let me know if you want it.”

  “Who are you?” she managed to croak. Her eyes were not adjusting to the absence of light and she couldn’t see anything. “What the hell is this?”

  “I already explained that to you. Do you want me to go over it again?”

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  A momentary silence. Then she heard him walk away.

  An instant later, the lights were on, sending streams of pain into Sheila’s eyes.

  He smiled at her from the foot of the bed. At the sight of him, the room spun and the bile in her stomach rose.

  Taking her hand in his, he sat down next to her and caressed her fingers. “Hello, Sheila.”

  “Ethan.”

  It was the only word Sheila managed to say before she vomited all over him.

  CHAPTER : 16

  Morris’s first-class seat on Japan Airlines was reclined all the way back, but he still couldn’t get comfortable. No matter how he sat, he felt as if he were pinching a nerve. He was a big guy, and the only chair he really liked was his oversize Barcalounger at home.

  Glum, he rubbed the hole in his sleeve where one of his lucky cuff links should have been. He still couldn’t seem to pinpoint when, exactly, he’d lost it, and it was driving him nuts. He should have known that losing it was a sign of more bad things to come, because everything had gone to shit afterward. The Okinawa deal had taken longer than normal to finalize, he hadn’t been able to make love to his fiancée, and he’d had to listen to Sheila’s painful confession about her sex addiction . . . which, as it turned out, wasn’t even the worst of it.

  She’d had an affair with her student. She’d cheated on him. It wasn’t as if she were addicted to porn, or a compulsive masturbator. Yeah, he’d read all about those types, and he might have been able to handle something like that. But she’d had sex with another guy under his nose.

  She had broken his heart.

  Morris pushed the call button above his head. In an instant, a pixie-faced flight attendant appeared.

  “Everything okay, sir?”

  Her English was flawless and he wondered where she’d gone to school. Morris had been out of Texas for more than ten years and his damned accent was still as strong as ever.

  “Suki, my back’s killin’ me. Do you have any ibuprofen?”

  “Certainly. I’ll be right back.”

  In a flash, she returned with a two-pack of Extra Strength Advil and a minibottle of Aquafina. Morris accepted the painkillers, but shook his head at the water.

  “Bloody Caesar, please, Suki,” he said, holding out his glass, which was still red from the other Bloody Caesar he’d just downed. He’d already had two.

  The flight attendant’s lovely Asian features showed concern. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to drink if you’re taking—”

  Morris held up a beefy hand. “I’ll be fine, darlin’.”

  Suki looked doubtful but didn’t argue. They never d
id in first class.

  Morris leaned back and tried to get comfortable. His seatmate, a small Japanese man, was curled against the window and snoring softly. They’d chatted earlier and the man told him he’d been married for almost thirty years. Morris had shaken his head in wonder—long-lasting marriages seemed almost as impossible as finding love in the first place.

  Morris had loved Lenore, his first wife, but not the way he loved Sheila. He would never have married his college girlfriend if she hadn’t gotten pregnant during their sophomore year at the University of Texas. Sure, they’d been dating for a year and it was somewhat steady, but, hell, Morris was gunning for the NFL. He was an All-American offensive lineman and had a promising career as a pro football player—the last thing he wanted was to settle down.

  But he couldn’t turn his back on Lenore and the baby. They’d had a quick civil ceremony, and four months later Randall was born.

  Things were all right at first. Both their parents helped with the baby, and Morris was drafted by the Green Bay Packers after his junior year. Lenore was happy to get out of Texas. There were good times in those early days.

  But barely two years later, the ligaments in his right knee were torn apart by a badly timed tackle in practice. Despite a year of rehab, his knee never fully recovered. At the age of twenty-three, his career in the NFL was over.

  They moved back to Texas, where Lenore encouraged him to finish his degree in finance. After graduation, his father, a VP at LoneStar Capital, hired him. Morris liked the job well enough, but the resentment of losing his football life never went away. The death of his dream ate at him constantly, gnawing in his gut like a rat stuck in a cardboard box, and some days it took all his willpower just to get out of bed. Drinking was the only thing that dulled the bitterness.

  Stephen was born two years later. The marriage was already in shambles, but that didn’t stop their third son, Phillip, from arriving three years after that. By then, Morris was a full-blown alcoholic.