by Matt Hilton
They were forbidden to talk, and for the first few hours after he’d left the girls had obeyed the prime rule. The only sounds were water dripping from a pipe somewhere, the groans and creaks as the ancient structure settled on its foundations at the end of the day, and the scuttling of rodents through cavities in the walls. Elsa was first to find voice, but it was barely above a whisper as she tried to coax from her depths the nerve to call out to her fellow captives. As time went on, and the ambient sounds were all that she heard in response, she grew more courageous. ‘Hello?’ she called, her voice timid, and as thin as sheer fabric. ‘Hello? Can anyone hear me?’
Silence reigned, the hush now deeper as the others held their breath against the expected roar of anger. As Elsa had, they wondered if this was some kind of test, their master was listening for the first hint of disobedience, one for which he’d make an example of the slave who’d dared to defy him. The breath caught in Elsa’s throat, and she screwed her face tight in anticipation of an impending attack. The dripping water ticked, the walls creaked, but that was all.
‘Hello? Anyone? My name is Elsa Moore. What are your names?’
Nobody answered.
‘Please? I know you can hear me. I’m Elsa. Please, to stop me going out of my mind, will somebody answer me?’
‘Shhh!’
‘Please?’ Elsa croaked. ‘Your names? That’s all I need to hear. Just so I know I’m not alone in this. That you’re not alone either.’
‘Shhh … he might hear …’
In the darkness, Elsa shook her head. ‘He isn’t here. He has left. This rule about not speaking: he forces us to stay quiet so nobody hears and finds us. Don’t you see?’
‘He might still be listening,’ came a whispered voice from somewhere to her left. ‘Microphones.’
Elsa wouldn’t believe their captor was the least bit sophisticated. His dungeon was dilapidated beyond repair, with no electric lights in evidence. What were the chances he’d installed listening devices, or worse, CCTV cameras? Her shackles and chains were ancient, rusted, things he’d found close to hand: he hadn’t gone to any effort when designing his cages, except to ensure there was no escape. It’s why she thought he demanded silence so rigidly, because he had no way of soundproofing the prison.
‘He can’t hear us,’ Elsa tried again. ‘He isn’t here. He might not even come back.’
‘Shush. Please? Just stop!’ said another woman from down the passage to her right. ‘He’ll hurt us.’
‘He has already hurt us,’ Elsa snapped, more emboldened now that it appeared she was correct: the devil had left the pit, and he wasn’t the all-seeing, all-hearing, all-knowing fiend she’d imagined. ‘Physically, mentally, sexually, he has abused us. Well, I won’t allow him to take my spirit!’
‘Then he’ll take your tongue instead,’ said a fourth voice. ‘Is that what you want, Elsa?’
‘He won’t do that. It’s only a threat, one he uses to keep us down. He’s a goddamn coward, a snivelling weakling! Don’t you see?’
‘How long have you been here?’ asked the last woman to speak.
‘I’ve lost track,’ Elsa admitted. ‘I don’t know any more.’
‘I’ve been here longer. Do you think you’re the first girl to be held in that room?’ The woman waited for the shocking truth to hit Elsa. In response there was a subdued sob from one of the other girls who’d since fallen silent again.
‘Wh-what happened to her?’ Elsa asked, already fearing the truth.
‘Trust me. He doesn’t make idle threats.’
‘He … he cut out her tongue?’ Elsa moaned.
‘Worse.’ The woman halted. No doubt picturing the fate of the missing girl. ‘Please, Elsa. Be quiet now. For all our sakes.’
‘Yes. OK. I’ll do that,’ Elsa agreed at a whisper. ‘But please, before I do, just tell me your name.’
A long pause followed, and Elsa leaned forward in anticipation.
‘OK,’ the woman finally acquiesced. ‘But this is the last thing I’m going to say. My name is Jasmine Reed. My friends call me Jazz.’
Now, as she recalled their brief discussion, Elsa wondered if having been his prisoner for the longest time, Jasmine was his favourite toy. There was no benefit, except perhaps that Jasmine would be fed and watered first. But what would be forced from her in exchange? She hated to imagine what her friend was about to endure, while yet another part of her, the opposite to the one that had flashed with envy only moments ago, was thankful that when he visited her cell soon, he’d have sated one sick desire and the most she could expect was a beating if he need sate another.
Jasmine’s cell was many yards away, but even across the distance and through the muffling walls Elsa heard the first slap. Others followed, and then the whispering devil broke his primary rule, crying out an animalistic shriek. The rattle of chains followed, then the sound of Jasmine being dragged bodily from the tiny cell. Jasmine didn’t bleat for pity, she snarled and screeched like a wild cat, but her defiance dwindled as she was dragged deeper into the bowels of the labyrinth.
Elsa dropped her chain to cup her hands over her ears. She wept for Jasmine, and for herself, and for the other girls whose faint sobs echoed hers. She didn’t want to listen, but she did, and she dreaded hearing that strange roaring of flames rushing up a flume. Mercifully the arrival of a storm shook the building, and any hint of Jasmine’s terrifying fate was buried beneath the tumult of noise from rattling beams, flapping tin-sheet and the shuddering moan of the ancient structure as it strove to remain upright.
Elsa forgot about her desperate thirst for water.
As the building shook and swayed overhead, she stood, naked, bruised and beaten half to death, but defiant. She threw back her head and screamed, a wordless promise.
Now she knew another thirst, this one for revenge on the beast who’d dared brutalize her new friend Jazz.
TWENTY-TWO
‘There’s never a dull moment here in Portland,’ Pinky grinned. ‘I should visit more often, me!’
Pinky had accompanied Po in the pickup truck, following while Alex and Tess raced to the scene in the PPD cruiser on lights and sirens. The pickup was parked outside the police cordon set up around Maxwell Carter’s club, where Tess was forced to wait for news. Onlookers, ready for a night on the town despite the horrendous weather, stood under every piece of available shelter nearby. Tess had joined Po and Pinky in the truck, wedged in the narrow gap between them as she observed the drama.
Chris Mitchell was unhurt, but he was bloody to the elbows, and his normally immaculate hair was hanging loose around his face. His experience as a nurse had saved Max Carter’s life, but the wounded man was critically injured and had been rushed to the nearest ER. Tess watched Chris speaking to a plain-clothed detective in the alcove next to the club’s front door. He looked shell-shocked, and she suspected he would require medical attention when the adrenalin wore off. Before he grew incapable of stringing a cohesive description of events together she hoped to grab a few minutes with him. It irked her to be on the outside of the police investigation, but that was just the way it was. Alex was in the Bar-Lesque, helping his colleagues, and he might not be free to update her any time soon.
More than an hour had passed since Chris’s urgent call and Tess’s race across town to help, not knowing whether he would survive an encounter with Max’s attacker because she’d hung up to summon an ambulance, while Alex called for immediate back up over his radio. Even after they arrived, she got no news on what was happening inside the club because responding officers had beaten them to the scene and Alex had raced inside to join them. She watched Max Carter brought out on a gurney, medics working on him as they loaded him into an ambulance and took off with the siren wailing. Some time after that an old black man came outside to sit on the kerb with his face in his hands, and then Chris emerged. Chris crouched by the old guy, speaking comforting words. The rain pelted them both, but it was as if the old man didn’t notice, maybe he needed
the rain to cleanse some of the images he’d witnessed from his mind. Chris patted the old man on the shoulder in consolation, then stared at his own bloodied hands and his shudder of revulsion was obvious even from where Tess sat. He stood out of the rain, partly slumped in the alcove where he and Po had shared a smoke. He was joined by a uniformed officer, and shortly after by the detective who continually prompted him for details about what happened.
‘Believe it or not,’ Tess assured Pinky, ‘Portland’s usually a safe place to live. It’s not always like this.’
‘Only when you are around, eh, pretty Tess?’ he joked, and nudged her with an elbow. ‘That’s what comes with mixing with the criminal element: like attracts like.’
‘I’m no criminal,’ Po muttered.
‘Ha!’ said Pinky. ‘Criminal is as criminal does. Don’t tell me what you do is totally lawful, Nicolas, despite now being on the side of the angels.’
‘And I’m no angel,’ said Tess, and then shot him a wry smile.
‘He he!’ Pinky said, and shuffled his butt deeper on the bench, enjoying the ringside seat.
‘The cop’s leaving,’ Po pointed out.
The detective had indeed finished with Chris. He patted his left bicep, indicating they were done, and sauntered back under the awning. Chris remained where he was, staring skyward a moment. Again a shudder swept through him, and he visibly exhaled. He dug in his vest pocket, but his features remained stricken.
‘Coming?’ Po asked.
‘Try to stop me,’ Tess answered, and gave him a nudge. It was easier to slide out after him than to wait while Pinky exited the cab.
For the umpteenth time that evening, Tess was battered by the storm. Bent slightly, hands ineffectively covering her hair, she jogged across the street with Po following closely, while Pinky elected to stay in the warmth. A uniformed cop watched them approach, but didn’t stop them joining Chris.
Chris spotted them coming, and relief flooded his features.
But it wasn’t for Tess’s appearance. To Po he said, ‘How’s about you return the favour and give me a smoke, buddy?’
‘F’sure,’ said Po, and dug out his pack, shaking out a Marlboro.
Tess shook rain from her hair as Chris gave way for her in the alcove. He bent, cupping his hands to protect the flame as Po sparked up his Zippo. Gratefully he threw back his head and shot a torpedo of smoke at the sky.
‘Jeez, I needed that,’ he said.
‘Looks like it,’ Tess said, but wasn’t referring to the calming effect of the nicotine. Up close the blood on Chris’s arms looked like crimson gloves, and there was more spattered on his vest and jeans, and even a fan of it on his throat. Undoubtedly he had been trying to stem an arterial spray of Max Carter’s lifeblood. ‘You weren’t hurt?’
‘No. I’m fine. Well, as fine as I could be after watching someone have their throat slashed.’ Chris took another deep pull on his cigarette.
‘It’s a good job you were there to help Max,’ Tess said.
‘That all depends on how you define good.’
‘I meant that you were able to save him,’ Tess said.
Chris nodded, eyelids closed.
‘Maybe I should’ve done something before that maniac broke a bottle and rammed it in his neck.’
Tess and Po shared a glance.
‘You said this guy was asking about Jasmine Reed?’ Tess prompted.
Chris nodded, hugged himself with one arm while settling the cigarette between his lips again. Once he’d taken a drag, he said, ‘He wasn’t as nice about it as either you or Trojak.’ He smiled at the absurdity of his words, considering Trojak had resorted to violence, and Po had offered it more subtly. Tess thought about how Po had lifted a glass, and how nasty things could have turned out if he’d resorted to using it as a weapon. Horrible, she thought.
‘Can you tell us what was said between them?’ asked Tess.
‘Not really,’ Chris said. ‘I was prepping the bar and Jeff was mopping the dance floor when the guy came in. I told him that we weren’t open yet, but he just ignored me and pushed his way into Max’s office. I heard him ask where Jasmine was, and then they were arguing. That’s when I rang you, and while I was on the phone Max came bursting out the office with the guy hanging on to him. The guy forced him up against the bar, yelling at him about why Jasmine ran away. He had a gun – I’m sure it was one Max keeps in his desk drawer – but he shoved it in his belt and grabbed the nearest thing to hand instead. He smashed a bottle and stuck it in Max’s throat. Well, after that, I was kind of shocked, can’t get things straight in my head.’
‘Did the guy just leave?’ Tess asked.
‘Must have.’ Chris took another grateful inhalation of smoke. ‘Least he wasn’t there any more while me and Jeff tried to stop Max’s bleeding.’
‘Is Jeff the old guy over there?’ Tess indicated the elderly black man who had moved from his perch on the kerb and was speaking to a uniformed cop out of earshot.
Chris nodded. ‘He does a few odd jobs, pushes around a broom, mainly for beer money.’
Tess dug in her pocket, pulled out the folded sheets of paper, unfolded one, and held it out to Chris. ‘Is this the man who attacked Max?’
She’d decided to show the picture of Calvin Hopewell after his arrest, not the one where he was a clean-cut officer in his parade uniform. Chris’s pupils dilated in recognition, and his face drained paler again.
‘That’s him. He wasn’t dressed like that, he was wearing a ball cap and coat, but I recognize the face. Shit! I don’t think I’ll ever forget it!’
Tess folded the photo and put it away. She looked at Po. After losing Hopewell near Deering Park he must have gone directly to front Max Carter in the club. The guy was on a mission, or a downward spiral where his frustration was making his actions more desperate: neither prospect was good news. In the short time he’d been back in Portland, Hopewell had acted violently on at least the three occasions they knew about, and perhaps more they didn’t. And unless he was stopped, he would undoubtedly resort to violence again, and the next time there might not be a trained nurse around to save his victim’s life.
‘We should check on Margaret,’ said Tess, and Po’s eyelids pinched in agreement.
‘Who is that nutjob?’ Chris asked.
‘You remember when I asked you about when Jasmine was assaulted?’ Tess asked.
‘That was him, the same bastard that hurt her?’
‘His name is Calvin Hopewell,’ Tess said. ‘Does it ring a bell?’
‘Jazz never mentioned him, but wait … yeah, one time Bruno was here, I recall him mentioning Hopewell’s name to Max.’
‘Daryl Bruin and Max talked about him? You don’t remember what was said?’
‘No. I wasn’t paying attention; I tend to keep to myself when Bruno visits. But I do remember Bruno being unhappy about Hopewell coming back.’
‘Coming back? When exactly was this?’
‘Don’t know if I can be exact, but it’s only a few weeks ago. Maybe just before …’ His face sank.
‘Just before Jasmine went missing,’ Tess finished for him.
TWENTY-THREE
‘So finally the cops have taken an interest in Jasmine’s case, huh?’ asked Po as Tess pottered in his kitchen. Because the power was still off at her place, Po had extended an invitation to settle in at his until repairs could be made to the supply. He lived in a surprisingly roomy ranch-style property on a densely wooded plot with a view over Presumpscot Falls, and even with the inclusion of his surprise visitor – Pinky – he still had plenty of spare rooms. When Tess had previously stayed over they’d shared the master bedroom, but for her convenience – and appearances’ sake – he’d offered her a spare room from where she could work, and store the clothes she’d brought from her house after they left Bar-Lesque in order to regroup.
‘Only through association with Cal Hopewell,’ said Tess. ‘But in one way it also strengthens their opinion that Jasmine has deliber
ately gone missing, to avoid the mad man. They’re looking for Hopewell, finding Jasmine is still down to us.’
‘You tell them your theory that Jasmine could’ve been taken like those other girls you mentioned?’ Po stood with his scarred and tattooed forearms folded over his chest, butt against the kitchen counter, ankles crossed.
‘No, I only told Alex that Chris Mitchell identified Max’s attacker from the photo I showed him. It isn’t the way a formal identification is normally made, but Alex was arranging for Chris to go to the precinct and look through some mugshots. In the meantime he’s put out a BOLO for Hopewell: there’s enough to treat him as a suspect for now. I’ll also have to do a formal identification at some point, for when he attacked me, but that can wait. Hopefully for when he’s in custody and in a line-up.’
‘So they’re not looking for the other girls either?’
‘It’s only a personal theory at this time,’ Tess explained, ‘and possibly a wild one. I did tell Emma about it, and she asked me to find something more conclusive that she could take to the FBI.’
‘Unlucky,’ said Po.
Tess handed him the coffee she was preparing, waiting for him to continue. He didn’t.
‘I’m not getting you,’ Tess said. ‘Who’s unlucky? Me?’
‘Jasmine.’ He sipped his coffee. It was black and hot, the way he enjoyed it. Tess had made hers with milk.
‘I’m still lost.’
‘If she ran away from one monster only to fall into the hands of another.’ Po’s eyebrows rose and fell. ‘Kind of supreme irony, huh?’
‘Stranger things have happened.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘You think I’m wrong about there being a predator taking girls?’
‘I don’t doubt you for a second, Tess.’
Not so long ago they’d both entertained distrust of each other, but that was no longer an issue. She’d no reason to think he was being anything but sincere now.
‘So …?’ he asked.
Tess shook her head, wondering why he didn’t just come out with what was on his mind rather than all these open-ended prompts. Then again, it was simply his way, and she guessed he was hoping it would get her thinking on the problem at hand.
