by Lisa Gardner
I found myself running fingers down his back. I could feel the tension in his muscles, the raggedness of his breath. A man in pain. I stroked his back again, gently, until eventually, he sighed heavily. His shoulders came down. He slept.
Later, when he woke up, and declared once again that a man had needs, I didn’t shy away. I kept my eyes open, staring at him, wondering who Lindy was and what she’d done that gave her such power over him.
And what I could learn from her.
More days. More nights.
Till one afternoon, he pulled into a truck stop. Went inside to grab coffee and, without thinking about it, left me sitting there. Hands bound, left ankle shackled to yet another metal ring on the floor, but still, sitting in plain sight.
A state police cruiser pulled in, parked beside me. Door swung open. A tall man in uniform stepped out. He spotted me, nodded once, fingers on the brim of his cap, and I . . .
I sat with my hands fisted on my lap. I said nothing. I did nothing.
While my heart accelerated madly in my chest and for a moment . . .
I had a memory. Like a tickle in the back of my throat. My mom. I could picture her perfectly. Her arms outstretched, waiting for me. She was saying a name. Molly. Except that wasn’t quite right. Was it?
I wanted to raise my bound hands. I wanted to bang on the window, show my tied wrists. I wanted to yell, my name is . . . My name is . . .
I wanted to beg, please just take me home.
The state trooper staring right at me. Myself, hands on my lap, staring right back.
And then, in the next instant, I could see what he saw. A skinny, white trash girl with cheap clothes, lifeless eyes, and hacked-off blond hair. I saw Molly. Sitting in a big rig. Waiting for her wife-beating man to return to her.
And I didn’t feel like a bird about to burst out of its cage. I didn’t feel like a girl about to go home.
I felt ashamed. Like the shit-brown carpet, so many shades of nasty.
I wiped my mother’s image from my mind. I replaced her face with a bluebird sky. And I focused my gaze dead ahead.
The state trooper walked away.
Fake Everett returned. He spotted the cruiser. Jerked open the cab door, already appearing panicked. Then he saw me, just sitting there, eyes locked forward.
He got in, buckled up, drove away.
Neither of us said a word.
That night, when he was done, he didn’t put me back in the box. He let me stay out. Night after night. Day after day. No more coffin-size box.
Because Flora didn’t exist anymore, and we both knew it.
I wrote another postcard to my mom.
Dear Mom, I wrote. Having the best time, touring the country with the man of my dreams.
Chapter 24
UPON WAKING, I reach immediately for the water bottle, discovering it still tucked in the curve of my body. Good.
Lights remain out, the room its usual soul-sucking black. It doesn’t frighten me as much as it makes me impatient. Sooner or later, he’s going to flash on the lights. Not even monsters want to spend all their time in the dark.
For now, I orient myself, concentrating on the thin plastic of the water bottle, the lacy edge of my ridiculous nightie, and the welted edge of my mattress. And moisture, I realize belatedly. On my cheeks. Along with the taste of salt.
I’ve been crying in my sleep.
I dreamed of Jacob.
I lift my bound hands and quickly wipe the tears from my face. I don’t think about it; I don’t dwell on it. Survivors should never second-guess. If I hadn’t done what I did, I’d never be here today.
Once again kidnapped, dealing with cheap pine coffins.
I make a barking noise that might be laughter. Hard to tell. My throat’s dry. I decide to risk a small sip of water. It’s an important resource. A person can survive weeks without food, but only days without water. I know these things now. I deliberately researched them.
Which makes me angry at the impenetrable dark again. I didn’t study and train all these years just to be locked away like a pair of old shoes. Where the hell is my captor anyway? Doesn’t he want to gloat? Punish me? Assert his sexual superiority? What kind of freak goes to all this trouble, then never shows his face?
I sit up, swing my legs over the edge of the thin mattress.
An old pro by now, I sniff the air first, trying to detect any new scents that might indicate another meal delivery, even the smell of soap, shampoo, body odor, to signal someone else’s presence in the room.
I get nothing.
Next up, as long as I’m playing blindman’s bluff: sound. More carefully modulated breathing? Or the distant hum of traffic beyond the blacked-out windows, muffled thumps or thuds from other rooms in the house?
Once again, nothing.
I start crawling. Bump against the plastic bucket, veer right. I continue through the room to where there should be the remnants of the pine coffin. Except this time, when I find nothing, it actually means something.
He’s removed the shards. Realized they could be utilized as weapons and quickly carted them away? Which, of course, makes me immediately wonder about the ones I stashed inside the seam of my mattress. But I don’t dare double back to check, not when he could be watching.
Instead, I sit back on my heels, considering.
How is he doing this? Entering and exiting the room so quietly? It’s one thing for him to observe through the viewing window, then make his move once he thinks I’m asleep. Except I’m an extremely light sleeper. The odds of him dragging entire coffin-shaped boxes in and out without me ever stirring . . .
He must be drugging me. Sneaking in and placing more chloroform over my mouth? Except, contrary to popular belief, it’s not that easy to instantly knock someone out with a chloroform-soaked rag. Meaning I should’ve woken up fighting or, even now, detected remnants of the odor in the air.
On the other hand, addicts, sniffers, and the like have perfected mixing chloroform with other drugs to produce a much more powerful cocktail. If my abductor has access to the Internet or spends any amount of time in a nightclub, God only knows what he could’ve learned.
Which leads me to an even more basic question: How is he getting in? So far, I’ve found evidence of two single windows on what I believe is the exterior wall, plus the larger pane of glass, the one-way mirror, on the opposite wall.
But there has to be a door, of course. Every room has a door.
I focus my eyes in the gloom. Trying to identify a thin seam of lighter dark framing a doorway.
But no matter how much I squint and strain, I see nothing. Evil Kidnapper’s blackout capabilities are very good.
Fine, the Helen Keller method it is.
I crawl toward the wall with the viewing window first. If the two single windows are on an exterior wall, then basic architecture makes this the longest interior wall, which, in my mind, makes it the most likely to have a door. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced this wall must abut a hallway, hence the viewing window. He stands in the hall, staring in.
I stand up gingerly once I hit drywall. It feels strange to stand, and it occurs to me I’ve spent most of my time on my hands and knees, crawling around in the dark. Falling back into bad behaviors, I realize, making myself small. But there’s no reason in this space I can’t stand and walk. For that matter, some yoga and light calisthenics would be a good idea. I’m fed. I’m hydrated. I should also work on remaining strong.
I find the black-painted trim of the viewing window easily enough. It’s nearly as long as the full stretch of my open arms. But, upon further inspection, it’s not mounted in the middle of the wall, as you might expect. No, it’s off to one side, leaving plenty of wall space to the left for a door.
I shuffle sideways, fingers skimming over the drywall. I wonder if he’s s
tanding on the other side of the viewing window right now. Intrigued by my efforts? Nervous?
There are so many kinds of predators in the world. Those who require submissive victims.
And those who like it when you fight back.
The obvious sign of a door would be a doorknob. Definitely no such luck. So I sway side to side, slipping my fingers across the wall in broad horizontal strokes, determined to feel the slight hiccup that would indicate the edge of a door. But nothing, nothing, nothing.
I pause, consider the room design again. I’d pictured the two single windows as being part of an external wall. Say, the front of a house. Which would mean this room is positioned as a long rectangle in the home.
But what if the two single windows are actually on the side of the house? Meaning the room isn’t a horizontal dash, but a tall I. That would put the viewing window on a wall most likely adjacent to another room—a viewing room to go with the viewing window?—while one of the narrower walls would be most likely to open to a corridor.
I shift counterclockwise, moving from the long wall to the skinnier one. Again, my fingers span from side to side, looking for a protruding doorknob, a narrow ridge. And then . . .
I find it. No doorknob, but definitely a seam in the wall. Which I can trace up to the top of my fingertips, then down to the floor. And across. Yes, a door. Fit flush into the black-painted walls with no protruding knob or metal locking mechanism to make it stand out.
How does he open it then? A knob on his side? But surely he’d want it secured as well? Maybe he has bolts mounted on the outside of the door that he can manually work, then pull the door open and walk through.
I know in the next moment what I’m going to do.
I return to my mattress. Turn it so it faces not the viewing room but the door. I take a seat, and with my body as a shield to block my motions, I feel gingerly for the ripped edge of the mattress, my stash of wooden shards. I pull out two, feeling instant relief, which I refuse to show on my face. He’s not the only one who can keep someone in the dark.
I position my makeshift weapons along the length of my thigh. Then I reach down for the hem of my ridiculously stupid satin nightie and begin to tear. One long strip. Not easy to do, as the satin is happy to rip up but not across. Through sheer stubbornness I eventually win.
Then I have it. Two soft pine wooden stakes as weapons.
A strip of cloth tied around my mouth and nose to block (maybe, doubtfully) any kind of nefarious sleeping gas.
And a plan.
I take a seat, butt on mattress, shards tucked beneath my leg, out of sight, and water bottle on my lap.
I stare directly in the direction of where I know the door has to be.
And, fingers wrapped around my weapon, I wait.
* * *
I THINK I DOZED OFF AGAIN. The effect of total darkness? Disorientation from the kidnapping? Drugs in my water?
But this time, I catch the telltale rasp of a metal bolt sliding back. I told my subconscious what to listen for, setting it like an alarm, and it didn’t let me down. I force myself to remain still, not lifting my head, not giving any sign of consciousness. It’s possible there’s more than one predator. I’ve read several cases of kidnappers who work in pairs. Now is not the time to be stupid.
My bound hands press the two long, skinny pine shards into one larger, heavier unit. While my homemade satin mask wicks the moisture from my mouth and delivers the scent of musty cloth.
Slowly, the door eases open. Shades of black, I realize. No brightly lit corridor to suddenly flood my room with slashing rays of light and rouse me from slumber. No, this is a stealth job, all the way. As the shadowy figure moves from the darkened hallway to the even more impenetrable gloom of my space.
My fingers tighten on the pieces of wood.
Not terribly tall. Or maybe he is hunched?
Moving carefully, very carefully, as if not to wake me.
I remind myself not to move. I remind myself to stay very still. Wait till the figure steps all the way into the room.
Except, halfway through the door, the figure stops. A hand comes up . . .
To spray a drug? To render me unconscious?
I can’t take it anymore.
I spring. With the sound of rattling chains, I leap to my feet and dart forward, pulling heavily on my tether.
No thinking. Just moving. Bound hands clasped tightly around the pine shards.
The man realizes too late what’s about to happen. He turns defensively, raises an arm to block.
But I have trained harder. I have trained better. I drop beneath his forearm and drive my pine stakes into his ribs.
He screams. High, shrill, distinctly feminine.
He drops to the ground, while behind him, the door slams shut.
Myself, standing wide-eyed in the dark. Clutching my bloody weapon. Wanting to wave it triumphantly over my fallen target.
Except . . .
Something is not right here. The scream. Distinctly feminine. The fallen figure whimpering and cowering at my feet.
Slowly, I sink to my knees. Slowly, I set my wooden shards on the floor. And slowly, ever so slowly, I reach for the huddled form beside me.
I encounter fistfuls of thick, shoulder-length hair. It tells me everything I don’t want to know.
“Stacey Summers?” I whisper.
She cries harder, and I find myself nodding in the dark.
I’ve finally found who I’ve spent weeks looking for.
And I just stabbed her.
Chapter 25
AFTER THE INTERVIEW with Colin Summers, D.D. returned to HQ as promised. No doubt her in-box was already overflowing with reports to edit, warrants to review, and interrogations to read. She felt antsy, keyed up in a way she didn’t like. Nervous about seeing Phil? Or simply overadrenalized by a series of crimes that didn’t make sense?
First the Devon Goulding scene, where the victim had turned out to be the perpetrator, and his attacker also their prime suspect. Florence Dane had annoyed D.D. then, and not just with her unwillingness to answer routine questions, but because Flora didn’t fit.
Plain and simple, policing was about playing the odds. Find a wife murdered in her home, arrest the husband. Beaten child, handcuff the parents. Poisoned executive, haul in his hot business partner and former lover. Knowing who did it was rarely rocket science. Proving it was where D.D. and her squad mates earned their keep.
Then, you got cases such as Florence Dane. Where you were looking at an animal with hooves and stripes, and yet it definitely wasn’t a zebra.
D.D. still didn’t know what Flora was. Who she was.
Having finally made it safely home, why would the woman keep seeking out danger time and again? Because D.D. had no doubts: Flora had met with Colin Summers. And she’d made finding Stacey Summers her own personal mission. The question was, did Flora really want to save a young college student? Or did she simply want a fresh target to kill?
In D.D.’s mind, that was a fifty-fifty proposition. Which didn’t make her less keen to locate Flora, but rather gave her a certain urgency on the subject. One way or another, whatever had happened to Flora and Stacey, whoever had happened, it was going to end badly.
Because that’s how Flora needed it to end, D.D. thought. Something had happened five years ago, between her and her first kidnapper. After four hundred and seventy-two days of captivity, something had gone down that left Jacob Ness dead and Flora very much alive. Except Flora had never gotten over it. And, even now, seemed to be seeking out the same sequence of events over and over again.
Entering HQ, D.D. spotted Phil walking across the cavernous glass-and-chrome lobby with a steaming cup of coffee. Never one to shy away from conflict, D.D. headed straight to him.
“Any chance that’s for me?”
Phil clutched his
coffee close. “Back off. I’ve spent the past two hours with a crier. Trust me when I say I need this more than you.”
D.D. had to think about it. “Kristy Kilker’s mom?” she asked while sniffing at the wafting scent of dark-roasted bliss.
“Doesn’t know a thing. Honestly thought her daughter was studying abroad in Italy. Totally fell apart when I informed her Kristy had never signed up for any such program. Oh hell, take it. I’ll grab another.”
Phil thrust out his coffee. D.D. didn’t argue. Peace offering, she decided, then gamely followed Phil into the lobby cafeteria where he could grab a second cup.
“She hasn’t heard from her daughter in months. Was less than thrilled, but figured Kristy was busy with her studies. Not to mention the two of them had a bit of a brouhaha right before Kristy supposedly left town. So maybe Kristy’s nursing her wounds. Needless to say, to discover her daughter had been lying all along and was never in Italy—”
“She close to her daughter?” D.D. asked, though the “brouhaha” combined with the fact Kristy had deceived her mother about her trip seemed to say enough.
“Used to be. According to the mom, Kristy changed when she went off to college. Became less communicative, more secretive. Nancy—Kristy’s mom—worried her daughter had fallen in with the wrong crowd, that sort of thing. It was her idea for Kristy to sign up for the international program. Figured it would be good for her to have a change of pace. She funded it too, which wasn’t easy on her secretary’s salary. So to find out Kristy lied about the program as well as pocketed the funds . . . Nancy’s not having a good day.”
“She able to give you the names of some of Kristy’s college friends?”
“Yeah, and I sent some uniforms over to start on-campus interviews, with the dean of admissions, current professors, that sort of thing. But I don’t think that’s where the magic is.”
Phil paid for his second coffee. They walked together to the desk sergeant, flashing ID, getting waved through. D.D. headed for the stairwell, if only to torture her one-time squad mate further.
