by Blake Pierce
These were postcards, supposedly sent from some distant vacation spot. There was no reason to have return addresses. Even if they were real, the senders would have likely left their vacation spots by the time the postcard arrived. But they all had had them. And each return address was for somewhere in the Western states.
There were about forty in total. Two were from Utah; four were from Oregon. Three addresses were in Washington; a half dozen in Nevada; about the same from Arizona. The other half were California addresses. A few were from the northern and central parts of the state. But at least ten were from the greater Los Angeles area.
And the addresses themselves were odd, with strange notations and numbers that didn’t seem traditional. They were clearly written in some kind of code. She settled in, preparing to study them for any connection she could make. As she pored over the first one, her cell phone rang. It was Ray.
She was tempted to let it go to voicemail. But something made her pick up.
“Hey, Ray. Any news on Sarah Caldwell?” As she asked she felt guilty. She hadn’t thought about anything other than the Collector or Evie in the last hour, not even the other missing girl she was supposed to be searching for.
“I’ll get to that in a minute,” he said. “But first, I need to ask you, why is there an APB out on you?”
“What?”
“Downtown Division just put out an all-points bulletin for you. You’re wanted for questioning in the death of a man found on a parking ramp at L.A. Live. What the hell is going on, Keri?”
“It’s a long story, Ray.”
“Well, you better explain it later because they’re looking for you. A unit is headed to your apartment. And others are about to pull up at the dead man’s place. So if you’re at either of those locations and you don’t want to spend the next few hours in a holding cell, I recommend you leave right now.”
As he said it, Keri heard the sound of a siren in the distance, getting louder.
“Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll fill you in later,” she told him as she stood up and collected all the postcards.
“Okay, I’m going to text you an address. Meet me there ASAP.”
“Will do. Where is it?”
“An abandoned motel in Inglewood. Edgerton traced the brown van there. It hasn’t moved in a couple of hours.”
Keri felt a new surge of adrenaline, one she didn’t think was even possible after how much her body had produced in the last hour.
“I’ll see you there,” she said and hung up. She gathered up the postcards and hurried out of the apartment. With her swollen knees screaming at her, she limped down the stairs, leaving the building through a back entrance that led to the alley where she’d parked her car in case she needed just this kind of quick getaway.
She tossed the postcards in the glove compartment and pulled out of her spot with her lights off. As she drove quickly up the alleyway away from the apartment building, she saw multiple sets of flashing lights pull off Sunset and stop in front of the place. She could hear the shouts of several officers, including one who ordered a unit to drive around to the back alley.
But by the time they got there, she had left the alley and merged with traffic on Sunset, indistinguishable from all the other cars out late on a Friday night.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sarah had stopped trying to push Mr. Smith off her. He was so heavy that even with all her strength, she couldn’t budge his massive bulk.
When he first climbed on top of her, she’d been too frozen with terror to move. But as he squirmed on top of her, fussing with his belt, trying clumsily to undress, her fear had turned to anger.
She had tried to use it to her advantage and shove him off, but he was just too big. Eventually her arms gave out and she lay there, pretending to be somewhere else, letting the last few tears she could muster roll down her cheeks onto the pillow below.
He kept fumbling, and she kept praying that he wouldn’t figure it out.
She focused on her right sneaker, which she could see despite the man’s rotund, pasty flesh blocking out almost everything else. She remembered how she’d run to catch the bus in these shoes, how she’d worn them playing basketball in the driveway with her dad. How she and her mom had gone for ice cream after they bought them six months earlier, seemingly at eternity ago.
And then, like a flash of lightning, she remembered something else about that day. Fixing her eyes on the shoe, she tried to focus, despite the movement above her. And sure enough, she had the insight she was looking for.
With a renewed sense of purpose, she looked behind her at the wooden headboard. It was worn and splintered. She reached her hand back and found that it wasn’t even really wood but some sort of cheap composite, one that could be easily scratched.
And that’s exactly what she did. As the grotesque man on top of her finally undid his belt and struggled to lower his pants, oblivious to anything above her neck, she furiously scratched into the headboard with her fingernail, going over the same spots again and again until they created grooves in the composite that were clearly visible and hopefully legible.
It took her a moment to realize that his movement had stopped. She glanced back at Mr. Smith, terrified that he had seen what she’d been doing. But he hadn’t. Instead, he was lying on top of her like an exhausted, beached whale, an embarrassed expression on his face. As he quickly pulled up his boxers, she realized: he’d been unable to get an erection.
For a moment she felt relief. Her prayers had come true. Despite her awful ordeal, she had yet to be sexually assaulted.
He was trying to gather the strength to roll off her. After much effort he finally succeeded, crushing her ribs as he did. Without a word, he got up and trudged to the bathroom. He left the door open as he sat on the toilet and relieved himself.
Sarah used the private moment to look at her handiwork. It was clear to her what it meant. But she wasn’t sure it would make sense to the police if they found this place later. She considered scratching more but worried that if Mr. Holiday returned and saw it, he’d realize it was more than just random letters. She’d have to hope that they could figure it out.
Then she noticed something else. The receiver to the phone on the bedside table had fallen out of its cradle. In all the banging, Mr. Smith must have slammed the mattress into the table and knocked the receiver loose. It had been too far for her to reach earlier. But now she stretched and was able to get her fingertips on it and then grasp it in her hand.
She picked it up, listening, hopeful she could dial.
But to her dismay, it was dead.
Sarah heard the toilet flush and used the noise to mask the sound of her pulling the base of the phone closer to the bed. She returned the receiver to its proper place and put her arm back by her side just as Mr. Smith reentered the room. She noticed, without surprise, that he hadn’t washed his hands.
He sneered at her, clearly humiliated.
“It’s going to take me a while to be ready,” he said. “But I brought a few tools that will be good substitutes until I’m ready.”
He rifled through his duffel bag and pulled out some kind of large sex toy. Sarah stifled her gasp of panic and forced herself to respond in a level voice.
“Mr. Holiday said he doesn’t want me damaged. I’m brand new. You don’t want to make him angry.”
Mr. Smith laughed heartily at her comment, his guffaws turning into short-breathed wheezes.
“Good try, girlie. But we negotiated this ahead of time. He knows my preferences. Besides, I’m good at breaking in the newbies. Most girls don’t talk back after I’m done with them. You’ll understand better in a few minutes.”
He climbed back on top of her and smacked his lips as he held the toy up close to his face, admiring it. Then he looked down at her lower body and she knew he was about to use it.
She waited until the last possible second, until she was absolutely sure his attention wasn’t on her hands. Then as he lowered his hand to violate he
r, she grasped the base of the phone and yanked hard, smashing it into the side of his head.
Mr. Smith looked up, more stunned than anything, trying to figure out what had just happened to him. Blood ran down his left temple. Before he knew what was going on, she hit him with the phone again, this time square in the face. A gush of blood spurted from somewhere in the middle of it.
He squealed in pain, reaching up to protect himself. But the sudden movement sent him careening sideways. He lost his balance and his massive weight sent him toppling off the bed. He landed with a thud.
Sarah shimmied to her left to see what had happened. Mr. Smith was on his knees and elbows, clearly dazed, shaking his head repeatedly as if he was being annoyed by a pesky fly near his face.
She tried to hit him again but the cord attaching the phone to the wall prevented it. She pulled hard and it popped loose. Turning her attention back to the man on the ground, she saw that he had moved from his elbows to his hands and was starting to push himself up.
That gave her a better angle as she slammed the base of the phone down on the top of his skull. His arms gave out and he slumped to the floor. He was still conscious but clearly stunned. He moaned softly as his fingers balled up into fists, clutching at the worn carpeting like a newborn baby ripping an adult’s finger.
Sarah knew she didn’t have long. Someone might have heard his moans and be on their way to the room right now. Even if they hadn’t, she needed to find a way out of here fast. Mr. Smith would regain his senses soon. And unless she was willing to beat him to death, she had to be gone before that happened.
She looked at the bar of the headboard the handcuff on her wrist was attached to.
If the composite was fragile enough for me to scratch a message into it, maybe it’s weak enough to crack if I give it a good whack.
She gathered what strength she had left in her arm and slammed the base of the phone at a spot just above the handcuff. Sure enough, the material cracked loose. She disentangled the cuff and, finally able to move, tried to stand up.
Her legs buckled and she slumped back down. She realized that she had spent most of the last few hours either crouching or lying down, being sexually assaulted. No wonder her body wasn’t jumping into action.
Too bad. You don’t have a choice. If you want to live through the night, make your body move!
She did just that, grabbing the headboard for support as she pulled herself back to a standing position. Gingerly, she made her way past the still moaning pile of corpulence and grabbed his sport coat off the back of the chair where he’d left it. She buttoned it up, fully aware that other than that and her sneakers, she was naked.
Mr. Smith seemed to be regaining his senses so Sarah grabbed the phone and gave him one more good whack on the back of his head. He collapsed again. This time he wasn’t moaning, only rasping through his puckered, bloody lips.
It took everything Sarah had not to try to beat the brains out of his skull. Part of it was that she didn’t want to let them turn her into a person capable of something like that. Another part of her had a much more practical reservation.
It would take too long.
She dropped the phone on the bed and hurried to the bathroom, where she saw a small window above the shower. She was able to open it but it was too high to pull herself up and climb out.
She returned to the main room, looked at the door, and briefly considered leaving that way. But she was sure she’d be spotted within seconds. The window was the only real option so she grabbed the chair and set it up in the shower directly below the window. Stepping up, she peered out.
She was on the second floor, about fifteen feet up. She couldn’t drop straight down. But about six feet to the left was a closed dumpster just below the window of the room next door. She figured that if she dangled out the window facing the motel wall and got up enough momentum, she could swing over and land on top of the dumpster. That would only be a drop of about eight feet—far more manageable.
She clambered out as quickly as she could without making noise and began to swing. Her arm strength, never much to begin with, was seriously diminished by the time being handcuffed, as well as by her attempts to push Mr. Smith off her and her use of the phone as a bludgeon.
Sarah could feel her forearms fading fast and her fingers starting to lose their grip on the windowsill. Unsure if she had built up enough energy to make it but certain that she couldn’t hold on any longer, she leapt.
She landed safely on the top of the dumpster, tucking into a roll to lessen the impact. But she hadn’t accounted for the momentum of the swing and could do nothing to stop herself from rolling off the dumpster and toppling to the asphalt below.
She felt the gravel dig into her palms, elbows, knees, and thighs. For a moment she just lay there on the ground, trying to catch her breath and assess if any further damage had been done.
It didn’t seem so. Slowly, she got to her feet, brushed the gravel out of her skin, and started to walk. A high chain-link fence ran the length of the rear of the property, making it impossible for her to escape that way.
So she ran along the back of the motel. When she reached the edge of the building, she peeked around the corner. The fence continued all the way to the street, about a hundred yards away. It was clearly a major one as it had at least six lanes and cars were zipping by at a good speed. If she could get to it, there would be lots of vehicles to wave down.
Unfortunately, the space between her location and the street was comprised of a large parking lot. Many of the overhead lights were burned out but there were still enough that she doubted she could cross the distance without being noticed.
“There she is!”
Sarah looked up to see a man’s head poking out of the window she’d jumped through and felt her heart sink even as a jolt of adrenaline shot through her.
“She’s at the corner of the building!” he shouted loud enough for anyone nearby to hear.
I guess I’m making a run for it.
She broke into a jog, testing out her legs. When they didn’t crumble beneath her, she moved into a full-on sprint, ignoring the pain in her body, keeping her focus on the street now only fifty yards away.
Sarah sensed movement out of the corner of her eye and glanced that way. It was Mr. Holiday, tearing toward her, his arms pumping violently at his sides. Despite that, his expression was blank, as if he was patiently waiting in line at the store.
She turned her attention back to the road. She was only twenty-five yards from it now, with just a bit of asphalt, a green belt, and a sidewalk separating her from freedom. She dug in, pounding her feet against the ground, pushing herself as hard as she could.
She had just reached the green belt when Mr. Holiday leapt in the air and slammed into her like a linebacker tackling an undersized halfback. She felt her feet leave the ground as his shoulder slammed into her ribs, ripping the breath from her chest.
She landed hard, his body weight smashing her into the grass below. She lay there face down in the grass, her left side in agony, unable to breathe. Glancing up, she saw that all the cars on this side of the road were still a few hundred yards away, idling at a red light. There was no way any drivers would be able to see her from that distance in the dark.
She barely had time to process that before she felt herself being jerked to her feet by her hair. She would have screamed but she still hadn’t caught her breath.
Mr. Holiday had a chunk of her now-short hair in his fist and was pulling her roughly along, back to the motel. She stumbled a few times but he didn’t seem to care and simply dragged her along, her shins scraping the asphalt until she regained her footing.
He didn’t release his grip until they were all the way back to the building. Sarah was hesitant to look him in the face but decided that at this point, after what she’d done, there was no point in trying to win his favor by pretending to be meek or pliant.
Slowly, since her neck was sore, she looked up to meet his gaze. Amaz
ingly, he still had that same bland expression, as if nothing unusual had just happened. But when he finally spoke, she noticed that his voice was even quieter than before and there was a new edge to it.
“I warned you, Number Four. I told you that this was a test and that if you failed it, things would go far worse for you. You’ve failed the test. You do understand that, don’t you, Number Four?”
Sarah glared at him, refusing to play his game. He seemed unperturbed and continued.
“I was going to keep you at our fancy location. But now I have no choice but to take you to what other girls call ‘the Bad Place.’ I think you’ll find the name is accurate. That’s where you’ll die. But not before every last ounce of you has been used up. And I can assure you that there will be no escape, not even from death, not until I say. You’ll be chained up so that you can’t harm yourself. Only my clients will be allowed to do that. And you won’t even receive the drugs that would otherwise allow you to numb yourself to your situation. I want you to feel everything, every last bit of pain, right up until the end. You shouldn’t have crossed me, Number Four. Do you regret it?”
Sarah forced herself to straighten her back and stand upright. She looked him square in the eye and in a hoarse but defiant voice, answered him.
“Go fuck yourself, Mr. Holiday.”
And with that, she spit in his face.
For a moment, he looked stunned.
He didn’t even bother to wipe her spit as it ran slowly down his cheek.
For the first time since she’d seen him, the man gave a truly genuine smile. It was an ugly one. His lips twisted, almost forming a grimace, but not quite.
“Prep her for departure,” he said to one of his men and turned to return to the motel office. Sarah watched him go and made sure to wait until he had stepped inside and closed the door before she gave in and allowed her body to collapse into a heap on the ground.
