by Debra Webb
Lying on her back on the rusty springs, she turned her face to the ceiling. Her neck muscles protested the move. Her muscles were atrophying. As a twelve-year-old she’d broken her wrist. She remembered what her lower arm and hand had looked like when the cast came off. Shrunken and scrawny. The body that no longer belonged to her likely looked that way now. Didn’t matter. It wasn’t her anymore.
Mostly, she was gone.
One by one she counted the beams that held up the roof. She wished it would fall in or break open so the rain would drown her. It had been raining for days. She’d lost count of the number of days she had been here. She’d tried to keep a tally, but without any reliable cues she’d lost the rhythm. Weeks for sure. Maybe a month. Her time should be coming soon.
She had reconciled herself with the realization that she could not be brave enough to survive. Not even for her son. She was too weak. Each day the Storyteller allowed her a small bottle of water and a little prepackaged lunch—the kind kindergarten kids took to school in their backpacks. According to the monster’s calculations, that was sufficient to sustain her. To prolong the agony.
Soon he would kill her. He’d brought the new tools, bottles of black ink and an odd tattoo instrument. He’d said it was more than a century old. The solid-brass tattoo needle that looked more like an iron stake made her stomach roil. Something else to look forward to in the coming days.
The rope around her throat had abraded her skin to the point that it felt like an oozing sore.
She was filthy and weak.
Why didn’t she just die?
In the beginning she had been strong and determined. She memorized every detail of his face as he taunted her. After he’d raped her three or four times she tuned out the shock and horror and studied him. She wanted to remember it all. His torso was covered with scars. Words were carved amid the waffle-pattern scars. Evil. Devil. Who had marked him a monster? His father? Mother? Another intimate?
Then she stopped caring.
She was going to die. She wanted to die. She needed this nightmare to end.
I’m so sorry, Jamie.
The familiar rattle of chains and groan of the door opening signaled he was back. She didn’t have to look to know for sure. She recognized the routine of his movements, the smell of his cheap aftershave. The way he walked, how he breathed. Bile rose in her throat. It was feeding time. Did she have the energy to chew, much less swallow? Didn’t matter.
“Today is a special day,” he said as he came closer.
She didn’t bother to open her eyes. Who cared what today was? There was only one thing she wanted. Please forgive me, Jamie. Mommy couldn’t be strong enough.
A heavy object plunked on the floor by the cot. She opened one eye just enough to have a look. Big, plastic ice chest. She licked her dry, cracked lips. Maybe he was going to chop her up and put her in there.
Not his MO. He had to tattoo his goddamned story first. She would be left in a park or other public place to ensure she was found before decomp had done too much damage. Preserving the story was, after all, the most important step in his MO.
Sick son of a bitch.
Changing the way he disposed of her wouldn’t be the first time he’d deviated from his MO, she suddenly remembered. For the first time in all the years the FBI had been tracking him, he’d changed his pattern when he abducted and murdered Alyssa Powell. He had never, to the FBI’s knowledge, taken two victims in one year, much less three.
“Why did you take her...and me?” Her voice sounded rusty and alien to her ears. The answer didn’t really matter. Nothing mattered anymore. She was already dead in every way that mattered.
He stared at her for a long moment. “I’ve already answered that question, Detective. It was those lovely eyes of yours.”
The tiniest spark of anger fueled her. “No,” she argued, the single word coming out in a growl. “You took Alyssa Powell and then me after you’d already carried out your annual hunt.”
Another of those endless moments elapsed with him staring at her with those empty eyes. “That’s precisely where the FBI screws up. They forget that the monsters they seek are only human. You see, Detective, I lost someone this year, too. For a time I was quite beside myself. We all seek solace in our own way. Sweet little Alyssa was like a healing balm to my tortured soul.” A sickening smile spread across his face. “You, however, were for pure pleasure.”
Whatever flicker of emotion she had experienced vanished. Don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. She lay still and silent, and waited for what came next.
He removed the top from the ice chest and steam rose in the cold air. Somehow her other eye opened. After the last beating she wasn’t sure if that eye would work again. The pungent scent of bleach permeated the room. He reached in and pulled out a white wad of cloth and then he replaced the lid.
“It’s time for a little housekeeping, Detective.” He smirked. “We wouldn’t want the FBI to find any trace evidence. I prefer to keep my DNA to myself.” He sniggered. “And, of course, I want you to look nice for release day.”
He started to wipe her face with the cloth. Heat melted into her skin. She couldn’t move or resist. It felt...good even if the bleach smell stole her breath.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” He laughed, and taunted, “So good.”
She ignored his voice and allowed herself to cling to the promise of the warm cloths. Again and again he removed a hot cloth from the chest and washed her. The smell of bleach burned her nose and her eyes. Every inch of her body was carefully cleansed and left stinging by the harsh chemical. The FBI profile said this was his final step before tattooing the story. The Storyteller always cleaned the bodies with bleach before disposing of them. He never left evidence.
Yes, death was near.
Bobbie closed her eyes. The bleach smell no longer bothered her. Soon she would be out of her misery. She was so tired. All she wanted was for the pain to stop. She didn’t want to remember anymore.
She had failed her husband and her son. If she hadn’t been so gung ho to be a part of the investigation, this piece of shit would never have laid eyes on her.
This was her fault—all of it. Her husband’s murder, her son becoming an orphan. She didn’t deserve to live.
He untied her hands and her feet and lifted her up.
“Time for a potty break.”
She didn’t argue or struggle. She couldn’t. The ability to fight had deserted her days ago. He carried her to the five-gallon bucket and set her down on top of it. Her body instinctively relieved itself. He cleaned those parts of her again and dragged her back to the cot.
“Almost finished with this step.”
From the chest, he pulled a large rubber thing with a small hose attached. An old-fashioned douche bottle, she realized. He wasn’t leaving anything to chance even though he’d used condoms all the times he’d stuck his dick inside her. He bragged to her about how he kept his body free of hair, except his head. He couldn’t walk around bald. His father was bald; he was nothing like his father.
The bleach stung. She closed her eyes again and tried to go someplace else. A place far away by the water where it was warm and sunny. James would be sitting next to her. Jamie would be playing in the sand a few feet away, his blond hair gleaming in the sun. His bright gray eyes would be dancing with excitement and that beautiful little-boy smile would be wide on his face.
“Jamie,” she murmured. She missed him so.
The bastard stuck a water bottle to her lips. Her mouth instinctively sipped at the cool wetness. She tried to stop herself, but her body was too desperate for water.
He poked food into her mouth. She chewed, and then swallowed. Why did her body keep gasping for the next breath, reaching toward the next sip of water or bite of food? All she wanted was to die.
As
if the God who had forsaken her suddenly felt pity on her, her mind and body seemed to float away from the rusty springs and the tight ropes. The pain disappeared.
Jamie’s sweet face swam before her eyes. “Mommy’s so sorry, baby.”
“You don’t mind if I use that, do you? It’ll make a great line in your story.”
The ugly voice shattered her fantasy.
“Over you go.”
Brutal hands flipped her facedown on the scratchy, rusty springs.
A needle pierced her hip. Something hot singed the muscle there.
“Sweet dreams, Detective.”
Chapter Five
January 16
It was daylight again. More sun than usual penetrated the film on the window. The sky must be clear. No more rain.
Her cot was in a different location. Farther from the wall. More in the center of the room, away from the place where the roof leaked. He probably didn’t want to risk his masterpiece getting wet if the rain started again.
She wished she had the strength to get up and look out the window. It had been days or maybe a week since she had allowed herself to wonder if the FBI and her partner were still looking for her. They wouldn’t find her. The Storyteller’s victims were never found until he was ready for the reveal.
Didn’t matter. She was going to die, like the others. She had resigned herself to that fate. Maybe her partner would take Jamie in. Tears burned her eyes. She found it amazing given her numerous injuries and the level of pain she continued to endure that she still noticed the sting of tears. Yet, somehow she did.
She wished she could hold her baby one last time, give him a kiss and promise him that he would be okay.
How could he be okay? His father had been murdered.
Had they buried James already?
Her chest tightened. She hadn’t gotten to say goodbye.
Don’t think about it. Focus on the pain and the promise of death. It was the only relief she could trust.
Today she had new pain. Her back was raw and burning from the hundreds of tiny pricks of the needle. The rest of her wasn’t much better. The rusty springs had scratched and rubbed at the front of her body, inflaming the old as well as the new cuts and scrapes. The bleach had irritated her skin and her insides.
She quieted her thoughts and listened. When had he left? A frown drew her eyebrows together. Her hands felt different. Ever so carefully she moved her right hand. It wasn’t restrained. With much effort she lifted her head. It felt as heavy as a bowling ball. The room spun a little. Her left hand wasn’t restrained either. He couldn’t have gone far. Out to that black SUV he drove, maybe. He would never leave her unrestrained like this if he was going far.
Moving slowly, she drew her hand to her face and touched it. The small rectangles of the springs had imprinted on her cheek. She thought of all the times he had sliced and split her skin, and then sutured or glued the lacerations. She hurt in so many places. Yet, it was inside that hurt the worst. The things he had done to her where no one would see had finished her off, stolen her desire to go on.
Though she was still breathing, she felt dead. Jamie needed a better mother than she could ever be after this. He would be safer and happier if she died. She was too broken to be reliable.
Unable to keep holding her head up any longer, she lowered her cheek to the bedsprings. She closed her eyes and thought of her precious little boy. He would grow up to be smart and kind like his father. She hoped they would tell him stories about his parents. Maybe keep pictures in his room so he would remember her and his father. Would he remember her as he graduated high school or married one day? When he had children of his own, would he wish his mother could meet them?
A plaque with her name on it would be added to the long line of others commemorating fallen officers at the Montgomery Police Department. Years from now when Jamie was in the fifth grade, his class—like all the fifth-grade classes across the city—would take a tour of the department. Would he point to the plaque and tell his friends that one was for his mom?
More tears welled and she closed her eyes. She was so tired. It was time to die. Perry would be back soon to finish her story. Then it would be over.
Bobbie dozed off. She had no idea for how long. The sound of her little boy calling for his mommy awakened her.
“Jamie?”
She blinked. Reminded herself that she was still here in this hellhole. No one was coming to save her because no one knew how to find her. They never found the Storyteller’s victims until he was ready.
She had been dreaming.
It was still daytime. Sunlight filtered in through the grimy window. She needed to pee. It was so cold. Her aching body shivered. If she peed on the floor, he would make her lick it up. She wasn’t sure she had it in her to do that again.
Could she get up and make it to the bucket? Were her feet unrestrained as her hands were? Why would he leave her this way? Was it a trick? Was he watching from some hiding place she couldn’t see?
Moving slowly, she worked her way into an upright position. The dull ache in her right leg made her cry out. Her ribs were better but still sore. The only thing good about the new pain on her back was that he hadn’t touched her in those other horrible ways since he started his twisted tattooed story.
Once she was sitting with her feet on the floor, she grabbed hold of the table and attempted to pull herself to a standing position.
“Oh God.” She flopped back down onto the cot. The springs bounced and squeaked. She panted to ride out the wave of nausea and the intense pain. Slowly, the worst of the pain subsided and she tried again. She pulled to her feet. Her legs wobbled and the room spun, but she stayed upright. After a few deep breaths, she tried to walk. The pain in her leg was nearly unbearable, but she refused to give up.
The bucket was nearly full of urine and feces. The smell as well as the sight had her retching. Didn’t matter. She had no dignity left—who cared where she peed or puked as long as it hit the damned bucket? After she’d relieved herself, she stood for a few moments, testing her weight. Wherever he had gone, he’d taken his bag of tools. Had he really left her here untethered for this length of time? Hope dared to register. She hobbled to the window and peered outside. The snow was long gone as was the rain. The woods looked denser without all the snow; the tree limbs were bare and desolate. She could see the narrow dirt road now. It was muddy and rutted. No sign of his SUV or of him.
Maybe he was dead. Maybe he’d been in a car accident. What if he’d been arrested? He could have left evidence at her house. The decision to take her had been a hasty one, the act not as well planned as his usual ones. Was there some reason he’d acted so carelessly? Oh yes, he’d told her he lost someone.
The hope that had registered minutes ago dared to expand. She needed clothes to protect her from the cold. Shoes. Could she escape before he came back?
Maybe he wasn’t coming back. The bastard could be dead or incarcerated.
She laughed, the sound as rusty as the bedsprings she had lain on for weeks.
She could run. What did it matter if she died in the woods or here? Dead was dead. At least if she ran she had a chance...to get back to Jamie.
Agony flooded her. How could she dare to hope? Giving up all hope had been her only escape from this hell. If all she wanted was to die, nothing else mattered.
But she didn’t want to die.
Sobs rose in her frail body and shook her. She dropped to her knees and cried so hard she couldn’t breathe. Her baby’s face filled her mind. All she wanted was her little boy. She wanted to keep him safe, to take him to his first day of school, to watch him graduate and get married one day. She wanted to hold his children...
She didn’t want to die.
The realization roared through her like a train bursting from a dark tunnel.
She wanted to live. By God, she had to get out of this damned place and back to her baby.
Even if she died tomorrow, today she had to try.
She struggled to her feet. Where were the lounge pants she’d been wearing? He’d cut the sweatshirt off her body. She searched the cabin. Nothing.
Damn it. She’d been barefoot when he dragged her out of her house. She’d just have to make it without shoes or clothes. Freezing to death was as good an option as having him strangle her.
She touched the rope around her neck, tried to loosen it but couldn’t. All she succeeded in doing was breaking the scabs beneath and causing blood to seep from the damaged skin. The rope could wait. The lead to the noose was only two or three feet long. It wouldn’t get in her way.
You can do this.
She was making a run for it. Adrenaline lit inside her. She was getting out of here right now.
She tried the door. It wouldn’t budge.
Shit! She’d forgotten it was chained on the outside. The window. She could shatter it with the chair and then climb out.
The roar of an engine broke the silence and snapped her attention to the door.
Fear detonated in her heart.
He’s back!
She glanced around the room. Like before, there was nothing she could use for a weapon. Her gaze landed on the bottles of ink on the table. Between the bottles lay the Asian tattoo needle. It was bigger around than her thumb, save the pointy needle tip, and at least twelve inches long. Her heart kicked into a faster rhythm. That could work.
He was at the door. Chains rattled. Oh, hell!
She grabbed the needle and quietly settled facedown on the cot. With the weapon hidden by her hand and forearm, she laid her right cheek against the springs, closed her eyes and waited.
The door opened with its too familiar, weary groan. Fabric rustled as he removed his coat and tossed it aside. His footfalls echoed around her as he came nearer. She held her breath. He sat down in the chair next to the cot.
