by Terry Odell
“I swear, there’s nothing in the food,” he said.
As reluctant as she was to comply with any of Chris’ fantasies, she knew he was right about eating. She’d already passed out once. If she was going to figure a way out of here, she’d need all of her faculties intact.
“Why am I here?” she asked. “And where’s here, anyway?” Every instinct told her to run like hell, but something told her to keep him talking, keep things normal, keep her tone nonchalant. Drugs in the food or not, she decided to take her chances and eat something.
Chris took a seat on a padded trunk under the window. He crossed one leg over the other knee, revealing lightweight hiking boots on his feet. “We’re at my uncle’s summer cabin. He won’t be using it for a while. And you’ll see why we’re here soon enough. Now eat.”
Sarah reached for the toast, spooned some jam onto a slice and began nibbling at it, trying not to gag. The first bites were cardboard, but as the sugary jam worked its way into her bloodstream, she managed to choke down the rest. Watching Chris all the while, she took the bowl of cereal and poured some of the milk over the flakes. He sat there, a pleased expression on his face. Almost devotion. She suppressed a shiver and handed him the cup. “Here. You drink the rest.”
“Of course,” he said and gulped the milk, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when he finished. “I told you, I drugged you to get you here. We’re together now, and I’ll never hurt you again.”
Sarah spooned up some cereal. Trying her hardest to stay calm, she spoke to Chris between bites, studying his expression for any reaction. “You didn’t answer my question. Where exactly is this cabin?” She struggled to remember. Had she walked into the house, or had she been carried? Was it day or night when they arrived? They could be anywhere. Would Randy be able to find her? She had no recollection of anything other than waking up briefly in the back of a car. A big car. More like an SUV.
He smiled and sat on the edge of the bed, just beyond her reach. “I can’t tell you that yet. But, I can tell you there’s not another cabin around for more than a mile in any direction, and we’re at least five miles from the main highway. My uncle likes his solitude.”
“What about my clothes? I can’t exactly wear this all the time.” She tugged at her jersey.
“The dresser is full of clothes for you to wear. You finish eating. I’ll run you another bath. And before you try to get out again, the front door’s locked.” Chris stood and went into the bathroom.
She heard the water running in the tub, and Chris came back into the bedroom. He began rummaging through the dresser. “I’ll lay your clothes out. You can come out to the front room when you’re done. It’s warmer.”
“I’m not doing anything of the sort.”
She pushed the covers away and swung her legs over the bed. The dizziness had passed. She stood. Chris turned and took her arm. “Your bath is ready.”
Sarah pulled away. “I don’t want to take a bath.” Heartened by her returning strength, she struggled against his tightening grip and swung her free palm at his face. He clasped her wrist before the blow landed. His eyes narrowed. His lips compressed into a thin, white line.
“It will be different with us, Sarah. Not like the bad girls. We won’t have any hitting. We’ll have true love.”
She tried to kick out, but Chris dodged.
“I said we wouldn’t have hitting,” he growled. He twirled her and shoved her against the wall, arms above her head, holding both her wrists. “I don’t like it when there has to be hitting.”
“Stop, Chris. You’re hurting me!” He didn’t seem to hear—his eyes were slits.
He forced his body against hers and she felt his rising erection, his pelvis thrusting. She tried to bring her knee up to his groin, but he jerked his hips out of reach, took half a step backward. Keeping her wrists pinned to the wall with one hand, he brought the other up as if to strike her. “Don’t. Make. Me. Hit,” he said, each word a small explosion.
“Chris! Wait. Please. You’re right. No hitting.” She went limp against the wall and he released his hold. She dropped to her knees, covering her head with her hands. When Chris said nothing, Sarah peeked up at him. Her brain spun, trying to make sense of what he was saying. “Tell me what you want. I’m not a bad girl. You know that.”
He gazed down at her. She watched his face relax and a blank smile return.
“Not with David,” he said. “It was a mistake to marry him instead of me, but you were married. It’s that overgrown cop. You spent the night with him. You need to cleanse yourself. Otherwise you’ll be like those others, and I might have to hit you. Please don’t make me.”
He guided her into the bathroom. “You need a bath,” he said again. “You need to be cleansed. Take your bath, get dressed and come out to the living room where I have a fire.”
“I’m not taking a bath with you in here.”
“Of course not. I’ll be waiting in the living room.” Chris’ voice returned to its matter-of-fact tone, as if he’d asked her what she wanted for dinner.
“I want your solemn promise you won’t come back in here until I’m done.”
“I promise. You’ll have all the privacy you want until afterwards.”
“After what?” A chill ran down her spine.
“Why, after we’re married, silly.”
She gaped at him. He left the room, the click of the lock piling despair on top of the chill.
* * * * *
Randy sat at his desk and stared at the LUDs Victoria had faxed over. No outgoing calls from that number. So, Mr. Consolidated hadn’t plugged his own phone into the jack. No real surprise. Seven numbers had called in. Tony Mazzaro and Rose Tanaka were two of them. Likewise Sarah’s Gertie. Three pay phones and one nameless number from Oregon Trust. His pulse quickened. He jotted down the number and grabbed his windbreaker. Enough driving for one day. The exercise would do him good.
The wind had picked up. He zipped his jacket and hastened his pace on the four-block walk to Oregon Trust. The receptionist checked the phone number Randy gave her and informed him that Bob was the man he needed, but he wasn’t due back from lunch for another twenty minutes. Randy turned down her offer of coffee and was halfway through a National Geographic article about walruses when she informed him that Bob was back.
Bob, thin and bony, with a receding hairline, sat at his desk in a cubicle, almost identical to every other cubicle Randy had ever visited. Only the pictures on the desks varied. Randy touched a framed photo of a beaming adolescent wearing Pine Hills High School graduation attire. “Your daughter?” Randy asked.
“Yes. She’s a freshman at Rutgers now. What can I do for you, Officer?”
“It’s Detective, and you can tell me why you called this number last January.” Randy dropped a slip of paper in front of the man.
Bob looked at the paper. “January? How should I remember? Who was I supposed to have called?”
“Let’s say it’s someone at Consolidated. Maybe about an electrical fire at a gift boutique? That Special Something? Ring any bells?”
Bob’s smile faded. He rooted through his Rolodex and compared the number on the slip to a card in his files. He slumped down in his chair. “Are you going to tell my boss? They promised me that nothing would happen. I did everything exactly like they asked.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“He, actually. Name’s Mr. Meierbridge or something like that.” Bob stood up, shrugged and sat down again. “He said that if I’d slow down the payments on an insurance claim, he’d pull some strings at Rutgers and my daughter would be admitted on a scholarship. All I had to do was say the paperwork needed more information, or there was a computer glitch. Heck, those things happen all the time.”
Randy leaned in, taking satisfaction from the way Bob inched away. “I assume you investigated the possibility of arson?”
“Of course—it’s an old building. She overloaded the system with a coffeepot, hotplate and a space heater in the back office
. Fire department agreed—I can show you the reports.”
Bob’s story matched what he’d seen in Sarah’s files. “I believe you. Have you ever met Mr. Meierbridge?”
“No. Everything was done by phone. Consolidated is a big client. I need this job, and he said if I didn’t cooperate, he’d pull the account.”
“I’m going to need that in writing,” Randy said.
Bob picked up the picture of his daughter. “I’m not sure I should do that.”
“We could do it at the station.” Randy started to rise. “Or I could report it to the Insurance Commission.”
“No, no need for that, Detective.” Bob sat up straight and put his fingers to his keyboard. “I can type it up now if you’d like.”
“Why don’t you. I’ll sit right here while you work.” Randy pushed his chair back so he could extend his legs in front of him, sat down and crossed his arms across his chest.
Fifteen minutes later, Bob had produced a signed statement, which he placed in an Oregon Trust envelope and handed to Randy. “I hope this will be enough.”
“One more thing.”
Bob peered at him. “Yes?”
“I need the file for the Tucker car accident—happened a year ago. Suicide.”
“I’ll get it.” He stood and Randy saw his eyes widen and his mouth drop. “Tucker. We’re talking about the same woman here, aren’t we? I don’t handle life insurance, so I never connected the two cases.” He crossed behind Randy. “I’ll be right back.”
Bob returned, a sickly expression on his face. “We don’t seem to have a hard copy of the file. Must have gotten lost in the mix-up after the break-in.”
“Or deliberately stolen,” Randy said.
“Hey, you can’t think I had anything to do with that.”
“What I think is immaterial. Can I get a printout of the computer version?”
Bob stepped around his desk and got busy with his computer. He perused the pages as they came off the printer.
“Anything strike you as unusual?” Randy asked.
“No—police did their report. Our investigator agreed. But you know as well as I do that the police report takes precedence over our investigation no matter which way it turns out.” He handed the pages to Randy. “She got the value of the car, plus a five grand death benefit from the car insurance policy. But we couldn’t pay off on the life insurance—not on a suicide with a policy under two years old.”
“I understand,” Randy said. “I’ll be in touch if I need more. And if Mr. Meierbridge calls you again, I want to know about it.” He handed Bob his business card.
Randy half jogged back to the station. Maybe he had enough to get a warrant for phone records for all the numbers that had called the machine. Somewhere, there had to be one number that had called all of them back. And give him his first concrete lead to Mr. Consolidated.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Fighting to control the surge of fear, Sarah tried to think. What had Chris meant about bad girls? He’d been calm enough until she tried to fight him. And when she did, he became aroused. Could the fighting excite him? He was talking about sex. He needed the struggle for sex. Oh God. The realization pierced her like a sword. Her breakfast threatened to come up. She forced herself to breathe deep, even breaths. Leaning against the wall, panting, trying to send her fear somewhere deep inside where she could function around it, she knew she’d have to remain submissive, no matter what.
She examined the clothes Chris had laid on the bed. A long plaid wool skirt and a black turtleneck. Hers? No, they were too new. Black lace bra and panties. She picked up the bra and checked the tag. Her size. Everything was her size. Her mouth grew dry. Maybe her intruder had looked at more than her computer and bank statements.
Sarah took a quick bath, straining to hear signs that Chris was coming back into the room. She dressed as he requested.
Play along. Keep him calm.
She sat on the bed, waiting, trying to be rational. True to his word, Chris was leaving her alone. Her head was clear. She studied the room, looking for a means of escape, or something to use as a weapon. No lamps in the room—the sole light source was a ceiling fixture. The lock on the door appeared to be a standard interior door lock, but reversed so the locking mechanism was on the outside. That meant that when Chris was in the room, the door would be unlocked. She filed that piece of information away. Until she knew what was on the other side, she would play Chris’ game. She sucked in a breath and tapped on the locked door.
“Chris? Can I come out, please? It’s cold in here.” She backed away and sat on the bed, twisting her hands in her lap. Within seconds, she heard approaching footsteps and two knocks on the door.
“Are you dressed, my darling?” Chris opened the door and peeked in.
“Yes, but my feet are freezing. Where are my shoes and socks?”
“I’m sorry about that. I have a fire going. You can warm your feet there.”
A fire. Visions of sturdy pokers and tongs brought a glimmer of hope. She followed Chris into a spacious living area. The furniture was old but sturdy. A wood framed sofa looked out onto a deep wooden front porch, and two plaid chairs sat at right angles to a fireplace on the adjoining wall. A small padded footstool nestled between the chairs. Security bars on all the windows.
“What’s your choice?” Chris asked. “The couch will give you a view of the sunset, but it’s warmer by the fireplace.”
Sarah pushed one of the chairs closer to the fire and adjusted the footstool so that it was almost in the hearth. She sat in the chair and raised her feet, letting the heat from the fire begin to overcome some of the iciness. Despite the crackling wood fire, she saw no fireplace tools. Not even a basket of logs. Chris must have hidden them. Her heart sank.
“You’re so quiet,” Chris said. “I do love your voice. I would call your answering machine to hear it.”
Sarah felt like she’d fallen off a cliff. She’d had to be so darned stubborn, insisting Chris was harmless. How blind could she have been? Randy must think she was an idiot. “What do you want, Chris? Why am I here?” She kept her voice low so he couldn’t hear it quaver.
“You. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. You were supposed to wait for me.”
“You mean after graduation? But you went away, and I thought you had all those other girls.”
“Those were bad girls, Sarah. Not like you. They didn’t count. You and I had something different. You said you wanted to wait until you got married. And then you married someone else. That wasn’t right.”
“Chris, I don’t know what to say. We were kids. It was high school. We changed.”
“I never changed. After my father died, I knew you were my destiny. Soon, we’ll be married, and everything will be the way it should be. I’ve taken care of it all.”
Sarah shivered despite the fire. “There’s some daylight left. Why don’t you show me around outside? Give me my shoes and a coat I can use.”
“Not yet. You need more time to adjust to your new life. If I gave you your shoes back, I’m afraid you might try to run away.”
He was darn right about that. Surely she’d be able to find some other cabin, one with a telephone. Five miles to the highway, if she knew which way to run. She needed to get an idea of where she was, without upsetting Chris. She hurried to change the subject. “Can I get a glass of water? I’m thirsty. Must still be dehydrated.”
“I’ll get you some water. Today, you rest. Oh, Sarah, won’t it be wonderful? I have a week’s vacation left, and we can be alone together here. When we go back, I’ll go to work and you’ll be waiting every night when I get home. We’ll have a drink while you cook dinner, and it’ll be just the two of us.”
Sarah choked back the gorge rising in her throat. A week. Chris planned to keep her here for a week. How could she put him off for a week? Randy would have to find her before then. Before Chris thought they were married. Before he moved into her bed. She spun her head around, searching for a second be
droom. She examined the couch. Not a sleeper, but Chris would fit. He’d have to.
“Do I get the grand tour of the cabin at least?” she asked. She stood and strolled across the room, heading toward what seemed to be the kitchen. Chris took her hand and she couldn’t control the shudder.
“Are you still cold?” he asked. “Why don’t you go back to the fire? I’ll bring you water and a blanket.”
“No, I’m warm now. I’d like to see where we’ll be living for the next week.” She continued around the corner of the room and through a doorway. The kitchen was about half the size of the living room, much of its area consumed by a large wooden table.
Chris released her hand as she opened cabinets. She discovered dishes and plastic microwave cookware, along with some cereal and bread. She pulled a Styrofoam cup from the shelf and crossed to the refrigerator. Inside she found a container of milk, one of juice, as well as a dozen eggs, cheese and some lunch meats. She saw fresh fruits and vegetables in a crisper drawer. The door held an array of condiments, all in plastic squeeze bottles.
“Are we going to be living on cereal and bologna sandwiches?”
“Oh, no. We have a wide selection.” He pulled open the door to the freezer compartment. “You name it, I’m sure we have it.”
Sarah looked at the stacks of frozen meals. Everything from Chinese to Indian. “Nice,” she muttered, seeing the microwave on the counter. She went to the sink and filled the cup with water.
Chris had planned this all too carefully. She opened a drawer. The few eating utensils were flimsy plastic. She opened another. Not a knife to be found. Cereal, sandwiches, and nuke food. Nothing requiring any preparation. She pulled open more cabinets and drawers. Not even a frying pan. Shouldn’t mountain cabins have heavy cast-iron frying pans?
Chris had been planning this for a long time. She was split in two. One Sarah was terrified, wanting to fight her way out of the cabin. The other understood that safety would come from waiting, from remaining calm until the right moment presented itself. She forced the calm Sarah to the forefront. She would be whoever Chris wanted her to be.
