by John Locke
Then she walks to the back of the house to check out the closet where Jack keeps his freezer.
9:45 p.m.
After folding her laundry and making her bed, Emma fluffs three pillows, props herself against them, opens the pack of balloons she bought at the Jessup Mall party store. It’s an assortment of twenty-four balloons, all colors, shapes, sizes. She closes her eyes, sniffs the latex. Lets her fingers pick through the bag. Touches and rubs the stretchy texture. She hears herself murmur, and smiles with mild embarrassment.
She opens her eyes, selects a pink one.
Stretches it, to enhance the scent, and weaken its structure.
Puts the valve to her lips.
Chews it gently, allowing her tongue to flit around the rim, back and forth, up and down.
Breathing heavily, she works her tongue inside the valve, and feels her pulse quicken. She stops momentarily, to calm herself, then turns her attention back to the balloon, takes a deep breath, and begins blowing it up.
Balloon fetishists are generally poppers or looners, but there are endless variations of each classification. Looners love balloons, and treat them like frail children. When one pops or becomes deflated, they become devastated, as if a part of them has died.
Poppers are different.
They attach sexual emotions to balloons. A typical female popper blows a balloon till it pops, at which point she experiences an intense orgasm.
Emma’s a popper, but not in the classic sense.
For her, balloons are seductive. Everything about them—the touch, smell, feel of latex against her skin—is sensual. When she blows air into a balloon she feels the life force enter it. Revels in knowing she’s turned an inanimate object into a living thing.
Emma’s selective. She doesn’t attach feelings to random balloons. She buys packages of assorted balloons, chooses perhaps one of twenty. When she’s ready, she gets completely naked, blows her select balloon to its absolute maximum, to tease herself. When she’s convinced no more air can enter the balloon without bursting it, she ties off the valve, lies back on the bed, tosses it in the air, watches it fall, taps it back up with her fingers.
Looner foreplay.
Each time her fingertips make contact with the balloon, her senses become heightened. When she can stand it no longer, she spreads her legs, places the balloon snug against her triangle, squeezes her thighs gently, while touching herself. Ideally, her climax occurs at the moment the balloon pops between her thighs. When that happens, she gushes. But if the balloon proves too durable, she stabs it with a fingernail at the moment of fulfillment. This causes a different type of orgasm, less intense, less fulfilling, but like any man will tell you, there’s no such thing as a bad one.
Emma’s not a screamer.
A few gasps, the occasional low moan, assorted facial grimaces—and she’s done.
The balloons usually burst against her inner thighs, causing a delicious sting that lasts ten or fifteen seconds. But when a balloon happens to burst against her clit, the pain is intense, long-lasting, and memorable.
Unlike most poppers, Emma doesn’t require a loud explosion. In fact, she prefers a muffled pop, which is why she covers her legs with bedding after putting the balloon in place. If you were in her bedroom right now, with the lights off, you’d have no idea what’s happening under the covers.
Until you hear the little gasps, and the muffled pop.
If you’ll listen you’ll hear…
There!
Did you hear it? And that little sound just now?
A shudder.
Moments later, she falls into a deep, sound sleep.
Doesn’t even hear the sound the front door makes, as someone turns the knob and tries, unsuccessfully, to enter.
10:45 a.m.
“The casserole was wonderful!” Emma says, handing Milly the empty dish.
Milly places it on the counter, opens the refrigerator, frowns.
“You hardly touched it,” she says.
“I don’t eat much. But what I had was truly delicious. I plan to have some more for lunch.”
Milly says, “You’re slim, all right. Guess that’s why Jack chose you.”
She glances at the kitchen countertop, then starts opening cupboards.
“Can I help you with something?” Emma says.
“Where’d you put all your canned goods?”
“They’re scattered about.”
Milly frowns again. “You don’t have a bomb shelter, do you?”
Emma laughs. “Can I make you some coffee?”
“Might as well. I’m not planning to leave till I’ve told you who in town can and can’t be trusted.”
Emma squeezes her eyes shut, forces herself not to scream.
2:15 p.m.
The knock at the front door comes so soon after Milly’s departure, Emma wonders if her new friend forgot her casserole dish. She opens the door to find Sheriff Cox standing on the front porch.
“No crimes to investigate?” she says.
“I might be investigating one right now,” he says. “Mind if I come in?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“To let me in? Yes. To answer questions? No.”
She motions him to enter.
“Coffee?” she says.
“I’m coffee’d out. Let’s sit at the kitchen table.”
They do. He says, “I’ll get right to the point. Your ID doesn’t check out.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’re thirty years old, but the first record anyone has on you is a month’s worth of wages at the Pancake House in Davis, Kentucky. And that was last month.”
“I came late to the work force.”
“No shit you did.”
“Is it a crime not to receive a salary before attaining the age of thirty?”
“It might be, depending on how you managed to support yourself all these years without a husband or parents.”
“What makes you think I have no parents?”
“Your social security number belongs to a girl whose parents died in an automobile accident twenty-one years ago.”
“Did it ever cross your mind I may have inherited a substantial sum of money from their estate?”
“Not for a minute.”
“Why’s that?”
“According to the police report, you died in the same wreck.”
“Well, here I sit, Sheriff, so whatever police report you read is obviously bogus.”
“How do you explain having the same social security number as a dead girl?”
“Government ineptitude.”
“Ever been married?”
“None of your business.”
“Where’s Jack Russell?”
“Traveling the country, seeking buyers for his business.”
“Let’s give him a call.”
“Go ahead.”
“What’s his number?”
“If you’d come here last night and treated me with a modicum of respect, I would’ve been glad to tell you. But I don’t appreciate your tone, your comments, or your demeanor.”
“You’ve got a fancy way of talking.”
“And you don’t.”
His lips curl into a sneer, but his voice remains civil. “I’ll make you a deal, Emma. Or whatever your name is. You get Jack on the phone, let me corroborate your story, and I’ll get my nose out of your business.”
Emma pauses a moment, then reaches for her cell phone. She opens it, places her index finger slightly above the key pad, then closes the phone and says, “No.”
“Excuse me?”
“Why should I make your job easy?”
“Why shouldn’t you?”
“Because you’re an asshole, Sheriff. Either arrest me, or get out of my house.”
He shows her a thin smile. “It’s not your house, Emma.”
“I have more right to be here than you.”
He stands. “For now.”
“R
un along, Sheriff.”
4:20 p.m.
Emma puts her cell phone in her jeans’ pocket, walks to the end of the hall, opens the closet door where Jack keeps his freezer. Last night she did this with the light on, but this time she closes the door and tries it in total darkness. She reaches behind the freezer, and pulls it toward her. It slides easily, twenty-four inches, same as it did last night, same as Jack said it would.
She takes a moment to think about Jack. Wonders if he’s alive. If so, she hopes he shows up soon, because her story’s unraveling faster than a Taylor Swift romance.
She climbs over the freezer top, turns her back to the wall, hoists herself down into the narrow hole behind the freezer, till her heels find the top step of the built-in ladder.
She descends four steps, then pulls the freezer back in place. It proves harder than she anticipated, but she’s able to manage. She descends the ladder till her feet touch the concrete floor of Jack’s secret room. She feels the wall for the light switch. Finds it, flips the lights on.
Funny how Milly asked about a bomb shelter this morning.
Emma takes inventory. Mini-fridge, cot, wallet, money, forty bottles of water, snacks, canned goods, can opener, paper plates, plastic utensils, wet wipes, camper’s toilet, box of plastic bags for her waste, light bulbs, flashlight, batteries, ear buds, Jack’s handgun, box of bullets. Extra clothing. Sheets, blanket, and pillow for the cot. Table, chair, laptop computer.
Laptop computer?
She plugs the power cable into the outlet, hits the on button, waits for it to power up. Spends the next thirty minutes typing everything she knows about Jack into three different search engines, but nothing comes up.
That’s a good thing. If his plane crashed, it would have been reported by now. But the fact he’s not here could mean someone killed him and dumped his body in a swamp.
She turns off the computer, walks to the ladder, climbs the first step…
…And hears someone kick the back door open!
She starts to flip the light off, then decides it’s safer to keep it on. At least she won’t trip over something and make a noise.
She crosses the floor, sits on the cot, loads the gun. Listens to the heavy footsteps moving slowly down the hall above her. Hears a man’s voice calling to her in a mocking way.
“Are you hiding, Emma? I know you’re in here. Come out, come out, wherever you are! Emma?”
She knows exactly where he is by his footsteps and running commentary.
“Are you in the laundry room? No? How about the coat closet? No? Maybe you’re in the powder room? No? Could you possibly be hiding behind…the couch? No? Where are you, Emma?”
Even though his voice is high and creepy, she can tell he’s a big man. He’s almost certainly drunk, as well.
“Are you upstairs, Emma?”
She hears him climb the steps.
“What’s up here, Emma? A bedroom? Another bathroom? Maybe I’ll give you a bath. Would you like that, Emma?”
He continues speaking in a weird, sing-song voice, but he’s too far away for her to make out the exact words.
Until he comes back down the stairs.
She hears him walking directly above her, hears him open the door to the closet above her, where the freezer is kept.
“Don’t tell me you’re hiding in the freezer!”
She doesn’t hear him turn the closet light on, or open the freezer, but she assumes he does. She lifts the gun, aims it at the top of the built-in ladder. She can literally see the bottom of the freezer. If he happens to pull it toward him and lean over it, he’ll see the open area that leads to the secret room. If Jack’s gun works, she’ll blow him away as he descends the ladder.
He’ll have no chance of surviving if he descends the ladder.
If Jack’s gun works.
If she has the guts to pull the trigger.
She doesn’t hear him close the freezer, or turn off the light, but she does hear him close the closet door.
“I saved the master bedroom for last,” he says.
Emma gives a sigh of relief when she hears him say, “Are you under the bed? No? How about the bedroom closets? No? The bathroom? Are you hiding in the shower, Emma? I hope you’re naked! I surely do hope you’re naked!”
A moment goes by quietly, then she hears him say, “My, my! What do we have here?”
Then he goes quiet.
She knows he’s up there, in the master bedroom, but doing what?
Hiding?
Waiting for her to return?
Time passes.
No problem, she can wait him out. Thank God she was in the secret room when he showed up. She can sit tight for weeks, if need be.
Emma waits patiently for another twenty minutes, then hears a pop. The type of pop that can only come from…
Her balloons! The bastard has her balloons!
A moment passes, then…
Pop!
Emma makes a face, squeezes her eyes shut, tries to force her mind not to think about the scent of latex, the texture, the…
Pop!
Her face flushes hot. She swallows. Feels her nipples grow hard as she imagines the life force filling a balloon. But what shape? What size? What color? Not knowing which ones he selected is making her crazy.
Pop!
Oh!
She’s…
Pop!
Oh, my God!
She’s…Omigod! Did she just have an accident?
She did.
But…did she scream?
No. At least, she doesn’t think so.
But if he pops another one she will. Because that will take her to Multiple Land, a place she’s never been.
She listens carefully.
Is he blowing up another one?
If he is, she’s toast.
She prays he’s not.
But secretly hopes he is.
She closes her eyes. Feels her hand moving toward…
No! She can’t let it happen. If she cries out, she’ll have to kill him.
Whoever he is.
Thankfully, she hears him walking again. Hears him leave the master bedroom. Hears him walk down the hallway toward the back door. Hears his creepy voice say, “I’ll be back!”
Will he?
She hears the door slam shut.
Has he, in fact, gone?
She carefully places Jack’s gun on the floor, then lies down on the cot.
Two hours later she turns off the secret room light, climbs up the ladder, pushes the freezer away from the wall, climbs over it, puts it back in place, and checks the condition of the back door. She closes it, notices the frame’s intact. She gets a hammer and three quarters, presses the quarters between the door and the jamb, and pounds them flush against the frame. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do, since she’ll be spending her nights in Jack’s secret room for the time being.
She goes to the master bedroom, sees five burst balloons on her bed, one of her bras, and a pair of her panties.
She starts shaking, realizing what he did prior to bursting the balloons.
She goes to the kitchen, removes a knife from the drawer, brings it back to the bedroom, uses it to lift her soiled bra and panties from the bed.
She retches once, twice, in horror and disgust, and nearly drops them on the floor, but manages to carry them down the hall, holding them as far away from her as possible, while trying not to gag. She makes her way to the kitchen, drops her bra, panties, and knife in the trash.
On the way back to the bedroom, she grabs a tissue, uses it to collect the balloon pieces, tosses them in the master bathroom trash basket.
Then she changes into running clothes.
Emma turns the porch light on, goes outside, strains her eyes to see if the kid in the Ford pickup is spying on her again. If he is, she can’t tell. Too much tree cover. But really, what difference would it make? She can’t very well grab his ear and threaten him like her cabbie, Frank Sturgiss, did. She stretches a few
minutes, walks down the porch steps, notices a tiny red dot glowing in the grass a few feet away. Walks over, reaches down to see what it is, but it’s disappeared. She gives up the search, starts jogging Leeds Road in the same direction Frank the cabbie walked yesterday morning. Frank’s been gone about thirty hours, and though she barely knew the man, she misses him. Felt a lot safer when he was around.
Leeds Road runs north of Willow Lake. If you enter from the south, Jack Russell’s place is second on the left. During tourist season, all these homes will be filled to the rafters with families. But tonight, the first four houses she passes are empty.
Jack’s neighborhood is on a peninsula of land that surrounds a large, wooded hill, where Frank says the townies hang out. Normally Emma wouldn’t run in a strange place this close to dusk, but she’s had a rough three days, needs to unwind, and wants to know where her neighbors are.
Leeds Road circles the hill for three-fourths of a mile. In that stretch, Emma sees evidence of four permanent residents. The closest is only three hundred yards away, which is reassuring. Maybe she’ll pay them a visit tomorrow.
When Leeds dead-ends at Route 53, Emma turns left, runs a quarter mile to Thread Hill, which offers another mile of lakefront houses. When the road ends at the woods, she turns around, heads back the way she came. Emma can comfortably run an eight-minute pace for an hour, but it’s getting darker now, so she decides to cut her run short. When she gets back to Jack’s house, she finds a midnight-blue Mustang parked in the driveway.
Approaching from the rear, she sees the windows are fogged. Should she circle around to the back of the house? Or tap on the trunk to see who gets out of the car?
She opts to tap on the trunk, figuring to keep the car between her and the bad guy, should there be a bad guy. Just as she’s about to tap, she thinks, what if there are two men in the car?
By then it doesn’t matter.
The driver’s door opens, a man climbs out. A very large, very angry man who says, “Emma Wilson?”
