Messina sat at one of the shared desks the techs were assigned when not out on calls, staring at his keyboard, a bundle of nerves that hadn’t settled down since the meeting with the cop earlier in the day. He looked at the iced cappuccino he had switched to after a dropped stapler caused him to jump, spilling hot coffee all over his hand. It remained full, beads of condensation inched their way down the Styrofoam, mimicking the sweat trickling down his spine. His eyes glazed over, the single droplet he had focused on as it zigzagged its way toward the desk surface, lost in a blur as his head slowly dropped to his chest. His watch beeped, snapping the bead of condensation back into focus as it merged into the small puddle of water now encircling the cup. He glanced at his watch. Six o’clock. He raced to the elevators, his heart thudding in his chest as adrenaline rushed through his veins, once again bringing the events of today to the forefront. What the hell has that bastard got me into? From the safety of his van he placed a call to the person he had trusted to cover for him that night, and who had almost cost him his job, and possibly his freedom.
Eldridge sat in his car watching the parking garage exit at the NerdTech building. His ass ached, his bladder demanded attention, and doubt crept into his mind. Had he gambled wrong on whether Messina was driving a NerdTech vehicle or walking to the subway? He shifted in his seat, trying to provide at least one ass cheek with relief, when he saw a van with the NerdTech mascot on the roof pull up to the gate, this only the latest of dozens that had exited since he began his vigil. He leaned forward in anticipation, hoping this might at last be the one. The driver waved a pass in front of a sensor and pulled out onto the street. Eldridge had a clear view as the driver turned to do a shoulder check before merging into traffic. Messina! He smiled, the discomforts plaguing him moments before forgotten, the thrill of the chase taking over. Pulling in behind him, he watched Messina yelling at someone on the phone through the van's side view mirror. You don't talk to a client that way. That's either his wife or whoever he's covering for. Eldridge noticed the van's window had been rolled down and decided to take a chance. As the van pulled up to a light, he rolled down his passenger side window and pulled alongside.
“—the hell did you get me into! The cops were here asking questions about Tuesday night! Were you at St. Luke's? You were supposed to cover for me! What the hell were you doing?” A truck pulled in behind Eldridge, drowning out the conversation. He leaned toward the window. “—when you get this message, you call me right away!” Messina tossed the cell phone and looked out the window, a desperate look on his face. Eldridge jerked his head back and settled in behind the van as the light changed.
As they drove, he watched Messina repeatedly look in his side-view mirror. I’ve been made. He turned at the next intersection, there being no point in following him anymore, and let Messina continue on his way. The gamble of listening in on the conversation had paid off. He now had no doubt he was on the right track, all he needed now was a subpoena for the cell phone records to see who Messina had called, but first, he had to keep a promise he had made earlier.
Messina's heart pounded in his chest, unsure of what he had seen. Was it the detective? Had he overheard the phone call? He replayed what he had said in his head, trying to remember how he said it and if it could incriminate him. My God, what has he got me into? He looked in his side mirrors and searched each car for the detective, soon finding him a couple of cars back. His heart leapt into his throat. What am I going to do? He knew trying to lose him would just make him look guilty. He had to keep his cool. He knew he had done nothing wrong from a legal standpoint, but he couldn’t afford to lose his job either. The cell phone rang on the passenger seat and he jumped, grabbing it, the call display showing it was the son-of-a-bitch that had gotten him into this mess. Hitting the Ignore button, he looked in his mirror again and cursed, punching the steering wheel as he fought to keep himself from breaking down in tears, the desperation of his situation almost proving too much. What did I do to deserve this?
Elise Coverdale approached the door, expecting yet another neighbor, friend, or worse yet, reporter, expressing their condolences or asking questions. Why don't they just leave us alone? She didn't recognize the man through the window, and, after her daughter's murder, had become almost paranoid of strangers, especially strange men. “What do you want?” she called through the closed door.
“Mrs. Coverdale? My name is Detective Eldridge, I'm investigating your daughter's case,” the man called out. She jerked back, grabbing her chest, as she heard something tap the window. It was his badge. “May I come in and ask you a few questions?”
She examined the badge. How can I tell it’s real? She wasn’t sure what to do. But what if he is a cop? She unbolted the door, opened it slowly, and peered out at the man. He presented his badge again so she could see it more clearly.
“I’m with the NYPD, ma’am, Detective Eldridge,” he repeated.
His voice was gentle, almost calming, something she could use more of after the events of the past several days. “I'm sorry about that. I'm finding since my daughter's death I'm a little paranoid.”
The man smiled at her as she opened the door. “No need to apologize ma'am, it's better to be overly cautious than careless.”
His voice remained quiet, respectful, as if he truly understood the pain she was going through. She returned the smile, immediately taking a liking to him. “Can I get you anything, coffee, tea?”
“No, ma'am, I'm fine, thank you. I just have a few questions and then I'll be on my way.”
“Of course.” She directed him to a chair in the living room and sat across from him, folding her hands on her lap as she tried to regain her composure, her heart still racing a bit from the shock of seeing a strange man on her doorstep.
“I understand from your husband that you and your daughter were very close,” he began.
“Oh yes, we’re very close,” she agreed. “We tell—.” She stopped, her voice cracking. “Told each other everything.” She looked at the fireplace mantle, her eyes filled with tears, a picture of her and her daughter at her college graduation flooded her with fond memories, and the realization those precious memories were all that remained. No, no more tears! She bit down on her cheek and blinked the tears away.
“Was there anything unusual happening in your daughter's life, any new friends, any unusual phone calls, anything that might help us?”
Elise shook her head. “No, nothing she told me. The only thing unusual is she was going to testify at the trial of those two cretins who killed that poor girl on the subway last year.”
“Yes, I understand she was on the subway when it happened.”
Elise nodded. “She felt terrible about it, about not doing anything, you know? But she told me she was terrified. Apparently someone had tried to help and one of the men had yelled he would shoot him if he got any closer.”
“So one of them had a gun?”
Elise shrugged her shoulders. “Tammera said she never saw one, but it was enough to make people back off. Are you sure I can't get you anything?”
The detective rose and smiled. “No, ma'am, we're all done here.” Retrieving a card from his pocket, he jotted a number on the back and handed it to her. “If you think of anything else, please call me right away,” he said, and then, lowering his voice, he looked her straight in her eyes and said gently, “And ma'am, if you ever need to talk to someone, I've written the crisis hotline number on the back. There are people who can help you get through this.”
Elise knew what he was talking about. Her suicide attempt had failed, her husband arriving as she poured the pills in her mouth. It had brought her back to reality, and realizing what she was doing, she had spat them out into the sink, but wasn’t able to remove all the evidence before her husband walked in. When he saw what she had tried to do, he at last opened up, and they cried together on the bathroom floor, holding each other for hours. “Don't worry about me, Detective. There will be no more episodes like the other night. We'll get t
hrough this on our own, but I thank you.” Elise led him to the door. “Detective, when can I expect my husband home?”
He frowned and spread his hands out in front of him. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but that is out of my control. It depends if Miss Kai presses charges. You have my word he won’t spend a moment longer in jail than he has to.”
Elise nodded, the response more or less what she expected. “Ok, thank you for your honesty, Detective.” Elise locked the door behind him and leaned against it, her shoulders shaking as she tried to stifle her sobs.
Eldridge stood on the porch a moment, his mind racing. If there was a gun, or at least the threat of a gun, it explained why no one had helped. Why this piece of information wasn’t generally known was curious, and perhaps why the DA hadn't pursued charges against the bystanders, despite the intense public pressure; if their lives were threatened as well, there was no requirement on their part to act. His faith in humanity restored, if only slightly, he stepped off the porch. His phone vibrated with a message. He flipped it open and found another photo. Tammera Coverdale. Now with three of four passengers identified dead, he needed to find the other passenger’s identity soon, and place him into protective custody.
Before Trace had a chance to interview the coworkers of her missing persons case, she was called in on something far more interesting. A murder. She surveyed the scene in front of her, the upper-middle income home appeared quite well decorated, though she knew little of these things, knowing only what she liked. And she liked what she saw. Spoiling the near perfect setting, the victim, a woman identified as Abigail Teague, forty years old, recent divorcée. The woman lay on her side, tied to a dining room chair, hands bound together behind the chair-back, feet taped to the ornate legs, a piece of duct tape had at one point covered her mouth but was somehow loosened, either by her, or her assailant. It appeared a single bullet to her forehead had finished her off.
“So what do you think, Detective?”
Trace glanced at Vinny then resumed her survey. “No signs of forced entry, so she either knew her assailant or they had a key. According to the neighbors she's recently divorced, apparently quite the bitter one from what they said. She won this house in the settlement.” Trace pursed her lips. “My money's on the ex-husband.”
Vinny nodded thoughtfully. “Could be. But …”
Here it comes! She already knew what Vinny was going to say and was a little disappointed he had picked up on it so quickly. “What?”
“Well, this looks an awful lot like the Cell Phone Killer's M.O.”
“Is that what they're calling him?”
“As of last night's newscast,” confirmed Vinny. “Bound, gagged, single shot to the head. I'm willing to bet that newscaster is getting a video as we speak.”
Trace knew he was right. Dammit! “I'll let Eldridge know.” She walked toward the door then added, “If he sends a video.” She was determined to get a little bit of investigating in on this before handing over her third straight case to Eldridge. She had over ten years logged in the detective squad, Eldridge was definitely her junior, and part of her resented giving up interesting cases to him, but she had to admit the kid had skills. I'll probably be reporting to him someday. Though she called him kid, he was only a few years younger than her. She had started on the force straight out of high school, but she had heard through the grapevine Eldridge hadn't joined until almost twenty-five, after a stint in the army. An image of him popped in her head, standing in front of her in combat boots. And nothing else. She chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” asked Vinny.
“Oh, nothing.”
Jesse and Martha Rochester were hard working parents that had failed. They admitted it to themselves privately, then they had to admit it to the nation publicly, after their son, Logan, had videotaped the murder on the subway. Jesse had kicked Logan out the same day he found out about the video. They had tried their best, but Logan had fallen in with the wrong crowd and was out of control. In a last desperate attempt to save their son they planned on moving from the city, hoping against hope removing him from this destructive environment might turn him around.
Then the subway incident happened. And Jesse had had enough. Martha at first protested but even she came around to supporting his decision after seeing the reaction to their son's heartless act. They had almost separated but eventually pulled through for the sake of their other child, thirteen year old Hope. Hit hard by the scandal as well, she now seemed to be coping. Jesse and Martha both prayed every night Hope wouldn't lose her way like Logan had.
The upcoming trial had brought the events of a year ago back into the forefront, but this time they weren't granting any interviews. As far as they were concerned, this was behind them. But then the news of their son’s murder nearly tore them apart again. Having sworn off watching the news on television, they hadn't seen the murder of their son televised as if it were entertainment, instead, a police officer on their doorstep broke the news. Martha had collapsed in the doorway, screaming, Jesse, who had long ago thought he had buried his feelings for his son, fought hard to keep from breaking down, but it was of no use. He still loved his son, no matter how much he had disappointed him. And now he was dead because he had kicked him out.
But apparently that wasn’t true. If this Detective Eldridge was right, Logan was targeted and there was nothing he could have done to prevent his son's death. It was of little comfort now, his son still gone, but perhaps someday, it may prove more.
“I'm sure your son received many threats after the incident,” Eldridge said. “Did any in particular stick in your mind?”
“There were so many, it was overwhelming,” remembered Martha. “There were phone calls, letters, things left at our doorstep.” She shuddered at the memories. “It was terrifying.”
“And it lasted for months,” continued Jesse.
“Has there been anything recent?”
Jesse nodded and pointed to several file boxes stacked in the hallway. “A few. When you called I brought these up from the basement. They’re all the threats we got. You can take them, we don't want them in the house anymore.”
Eldridge rose and opened the top-most box, revealing letters, printouts of emails and more. He picked up a piece of paper from the top and unfolded it. In large capital letters was typed, “The day of judgment is coming!”
“That pretty much sets the tone,” said Jesse, looking at the paper Eldridge was holding. “Take it and do what you want with it, we just want to be left alone.”
Eldridge closed the box and reached into his pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper. “I think there's something you need to see.” He handed the paper to Jesse.
“What's this?” Jesse unfolded the page. Martha leaned over to read it with him, her hand immediately darting to her mouth to stifle a cry as they read the beginning of a letter from their son asking to come home.
Eldridge picked up the three boxes and left without saying anything, not wanting to interrupt the couple as they held each other, sobbing. As he loaded the boxes into the trunk of his car, another photo from the lab arrived, showing a woman he didn't recognize. Yet.
Chelsie explored her dungeon systematically, tapping every cinder block, kicking every square inch of the dirt walls, searching for a weakness. So far her efforts had yielded sore knuckles and toes, along with the taste of vomit in her mouth from when she found the scratches in the dirt walls. She turned her attention to the floor to make sure there was nothing she might use embedded in it, when she heard the chain rattle overhead, signaling the lowering of the platform she now stood directly under. She looked up and froze. There’s something written there! It was hard to make out, the writing only slightly darker than the wood it was written on. She stretched as far as her toes would take her, straining her neck to read the words, but the light flickered out, frustrating her attempt. The platform inched lower, shafts of light from above cut through the black ink surrounding her, the bottom of the descending platform, bathe
d in total darkness, concealed its secret, its rectangular shape like the forbidden page of some great text, forever hidden, silhouetted against the intense light from above.
She returned to her corner and waited for the platform to reach the floor, her customary offering, a bottle of water and sandwich, sat in the center. She removed them from the tray and scurried back, careful to not look up, too terrified of what she might see. The chain rattled and the platform began its slow rise toward the ceiling, soon leaving her once again in her pitch black dungeon. The light remained off for several minutes and she decided to eat, her ravenous hunger demanding attention. The light blazed back on as she chewed the last of her sandwich. She took a swig of her water and returned to look at the platform, still unable to read the faint letters. Staring at it, she tried to take it a letter at a time, sounding it out, when what was written suddenly became terrifyingly clear. Food Drugged! She ran to the hole in the floor and vomited.
The retching in her stomach eventually subsided. She wiped her face and used some of the precious water from her bottle to rinse out her mouth. Collapsing onto her mattress, she curled into a ball, processing this new information. She hadn't been the first person here. How many had been here before? He was drugging her. What was he doing to her while she was drugged? How many times had he drugged her? How long was she out when he drugged her? And most importantly, what had happened to the other person?
She got to her feet and looked at the message again. The writing appeared almost dark brown. She was pretty sure it was written in blood, and if it were, it meant whoever had left the message was most likely dead.
And she was determined to survive.
Aynslee sat on her couch, holding an icepack to the back of her head as she watched a TiVo recording of her earlier debut as a co-anchor. Damn I look good! She had already watched it three times and was preparing to watch it a fourth when she found herself wondering if Hayden had seen it. Why am I so obsessed with this guy? Picking up her phone, she dialed his number at the precinct, having decided earlier to not press charges against Tammera Coverdale's father. Prepared to leave a voice mail, she was shocked when he picked up the line.
“Detective Eldridge, Homicide.”
She was at a loss for words. You're an anchorwoman now, you don't get tongue-tied! “Oh, hello, Detective, this is Aynslee, Aynslee Kai.”
“Good evening, Miss Kai, how can I help you?” His voice rumbled through the phone, affecting her at the very core of her being. She tingled.
“I just wanted to let you know that I don't plan on pressing charges against Mr. Coverdale,” she said, impressed with how smoothly she was able to get that out.
“I'll have him released immediately then.”
“Good, ah, very good,” said Aynslee. You're losing it! “Umm …”
“Was there anything else, Miss Kai?”
Yes! I think I have a crush on you! “No, nothing else. Oh, there was one thing. Did you happen to see the newscast tonight?” You idiot! Why did you ask him that?
“No, I did not,” he replied. “Was there anything I need to know?”
Yeah, that I'm fifteen again. “No, just, well, it was my first time co-anchoring the show.”
Aynslee waited, the silence becoming awkward.
“Congratulations, Miss Kai. If there isn't anything else, I have a lot of work to do.”
“No, I was just calling to let you know about Mr. Coverdale,” she paused, desperately searching for something witty to say. Instead, she said, “Have a nice night, Detective.”
“Good night, Miss Kai.”
Then the conversation was over. What a disaster! Aynslee decided she better go to bed before she found another way to make an ass of herself.
Chelsie had to know if the message was written in blood, but with no way to reach the platform while raised, she waited. Her plan was to wet her hand and rub it on the bottom of the platform when it was lowered, to see if the color changed, but she wasn’t sure how to accomplish this. It would mean waiting until the last second, something she had never done. And what if her touching the platform caused it to sway? If he caught her standing under the platform, he may get suspicious and investigate. Whoever had written the message couldn’t have picked a more ingenious place. Each time he lowered the platform to enter the basement, he himself hid the message from view. Only his victims would ever see it, and she couldn’t risk him finding it. If there were to be others after her, it was only fair they benefit from the knowledge someone, most likely now dead, was able to leave behind.
She wasn’t sure why she wanted to know if it was blood. Did it make a difference? If it was blood, dirt or marker for that matter, did it change the content of the message, did it change how she would use that knowledge? No, but her curiosity demanded she find out. She searched for alternatives that wouldn’t risk the message being discovered, and, eying the hole, strode over and bent down, cupping her hands and filling them with water. Carefully walking back toward the platform, she positioned herself under it, and, looking up, tossed the water toward the faint letters above. The water splashed across the platform’s bottom and immediately dripped down. She jumped back as she remembered she wore a white blouse with no means to clean it if stained. Removing the blouse and placing it safely in the opposite corner, she repeated the process, this time standing directly under the platform and letting the drops fall onto her hands and arms. What appeared to be dark brown overhead, turned a pale red on her skin. She rushed to the hole in the floor and scrubbed herself, now convinced it was blood.
Eldridge sat at his desk, sorting through the threats, when Shakespeare wandered in.
“Watcha doin'?” asked Shakespeare as he sat down, peering across the desk at the several piles of papers spread out in front of his partner.
Eldridge looked up, surprised to see him. Where’s the donuts? “Going through the threats Logan Rochester received after posting that video of the subway attack on the Internet.”
Shakespeare nodded and cracked his knuckles as if limbering up for some strenuous activity. “Want some help?”
“Sure.” Eldridge pointed to a box on the floor, hoping his surprise hadn’t been too obvious. “Help yourself.”
“Anything in particular we're looking for?” Shakespeare wheeled his chair closer to the boxes and leaned over to pick one up, his shirt escaping the confines of his too tight pants, revealing the top of an impressive plumber’s butt. He picked up the topmost box and wheeled back behind his desk, dropping it at his feet.
“If the killer sent a threat, I doubt he would have sent just one. These attacks show obsession.”
Shakespeare tucked his shirt back in, snapped on a pair of latex gloves from his desk drawer, and removed the top from the box. “Makes sense. Found anything so far?”
“Look at these.” Eldridge handed him three sheets of paper, all from a computer printer, typed in a large font, in all caps. Shakespeare whistled. “The Rochester's dated each one as they received them,” explained Eldridge. “You can see the dates on the back.”
Shakespeare flipped them over and read them in order. “The day of judgment is coming. Sounds biblical,” commented Shakespeare as he flipped to the second one. “Your blood is on your own head, for your own mouth has testified against you.” Shakespeare compared the first two pages. “Definitely look like they came from the same person.”
Eldridge agreed. “Seems to be the same font used, anyway, and it seems to be unique amongst what I've seen so far, all very selective quotes from the bible.”
Shakespeare held up the third one, dated three months ago. “The Lord examines the righteous, but the wicked and those who love violence his soul hates! Definitely seems like an escalation.” He flipped through the box in front of him, looking for additional matches. The two detectives worked in silence for almost an hour before Shakespeare stopped. “Look at this.” He held up another page and read, “Your hands are stained with blood, your fingers with guilt.”
Eldrid
ge took the page and compared the fonts. Turning it over, he looked at the date. “About a month ago.” The two men dug through their boxes, looking for any more matches when Eldridge smiled in triumph. “Look! Even now the ax of God's judgment is poised, ready to sever your roots.”
Shakespeare leaned back in his chair. “Definitely sounds like our guy.”
Eldridge took the five sheets of paper and placed them in a large Ziploc bag from his desk. “I'm going to take these to Vinny and see if he can find out anything.”
“Say hi to that whop bastard for me,” said Shakespeare as he bent back down and continued searching the box.
Eldridge smiled. “Yeah, I'll be sure to.” He found Vinny in the autopsy room with the coroner, Miles Jenkins, taking prints off a bloated corpse. “Hey, Vinny, another floater?”
Vinny grunted as he manipulated the corpse's left hand. “Be with you in a second, Detective,” he said. “I just need to finish with our Jane Doe here.”
“Where'd you find her?”
“The Hudson,” replied Jenkins. “Some kids found her yesterday.”
“How long had she been in there?”
“At least a couple of days. I'll know more when I'm done my examination.”
Vinny stretched his back and winced.
“Back acting up again?” asked Eldridge.
Vinny nodded. “Yeah, damned thing'll never be the same.”
“You got shot in the back,” said Jenkins. “You're lucky to be alive so quit your bitchin' and get outta here. I've got work to do.”
“Love you too, Miles,” said Vinny as he blew him a kiss. Eldridge followed him back to the lab. “What can I do for you, Detective?”
“Shakespeare and I found some death threats sent to one of my vics that I need you to take a look at.” Eldridge handed the envelope to Vinny. “Prints, trace, anything that might give me a clue as to where these came from.”
“You and Shakespeare? You're telling me that waste of space did some real, honest to goodness police work today?”
Eldridge chuckled. “And he sends his love.”
“The only love he'll feel is my fist up his—”
“Thanks, Vin,” called Eldridge as he left the lab, “let me know as soon as you have something for me.” Eldridge closed the door, cutting off Vinny's tirade.
Aynslee sat in the editing booth, her back to the door, spinning the control back and forth absentmindedly, the same footage racing forward, then back, with each flick of the dial. She heard a knock then the opening of the door.
Not Reggie again!
“Excuse me, I'm looking for Miss Kai?”
Aynslee smiled and spun around, immediately recognizing Hayden’s voice. “Well hello, Detective.” Was that the start of a smile I saw?
“Ah, sorry, Miss Kai, I didn't recognize you.”
She flipped her hair with her hand. “You like?”
He nodded, any trace of a smile, if there had ever been one, nowhere to be seen. “It looks fine. You have a new video?”
I can't win. “Yup.” She replayed the video and winced when the shot was fired. The fact she wasn’t shocked at all by the latest video left Aynslee feeling ashamed. She had immediately called Hayden and her producer to let them know, then headed to the office to do a morning newscast followed by a couple of morning talk shows, the story now the talk of the nation, speculation running rampant as to what the connection between the victims might be, the fact two of them hadn’t been identified publicly by the police only fueled the frenzy. “He was about to say something there at the end,” said Aynslee. “And who is this she that she's talking about?”
“I have no idea,” he replied. “Do you have a copy ready for me?”
Aynslee nodded and picked a CD up off the desk. Rather than handing it over however, she leaned closer to him, holding the CD between two fingers over her right shoulder. “So you like my hair?” she asked in a playful tone, not believing how bold she felt, but sure she had picked up a vibe from him when he first saw her.
He looked at her then reached out and took the CD. “Thank you, Miss Kai,” he said, smiling from one side of his mouth.
Aynslee, a grin on her face, watched as he walked from the editing room. Oh yeah, he liked it.
Chelsie lay on her mattress, her eyes closed, her breathing steady, as steady as she could manage. She was wide awake, having decided not to eat any more food, a decision that terrified her. She had no idea what he did to her when she slept, though she was pretty sure he hadn't raped her. Yet. In fact, she was convinced he had only used the opportunity to clean the room, install the light and leave the mattress. But if he was going to rape her, did she want to know? The debate had raged in her head for some time, and eventually she decided her only opportunity for escape was to use this new knowledge to her advantage. And so she took the sandwich, stuffed it in the water hole, and lay down on the mattress, pretending to sleep.
It had been about an hour, or so she guessed, before she heard the familiar sounds overhead. Her heart insisted on pounding like a drum as the platform lowered toward her. She tried to control her breathing, to keep up her charade. If he discovered she was awake, what he might do to her terrified her. The rattling of the chains and creaking of the platform stopped. This time was different however. This time she heard something she hadn’t heard yet. Something that had her clenching her teeth to hold back the scream threatening to erupt from within.
Footsteps.
Footsteps on the dirt floor, his shoes softly padding toward her. She could tell he was now standing over her, only inches away. Her heart thumped harder, the sound of terror rushed through her ears, the scream she knew might end her life only moments away from bursting forth. Desperate to take a deep breath, to calm her out of control nerves, she faked a yawn, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, doing her best to fake sleep, something she hadn’t done since she was a child. It hadn’t worked then, her mother always able to tell, but this time was different. He appeared fooled, most likely because he was fully expecting her to be drugged. She continued her deep breathing, regaining control enough to hopefully survive whatever was to come.
She felt him pick up her handcuffed wrist, then a clicking sound was followed by the feeling of the metal cuff being removed, her hand freed for the first time since she had been taken. It felt strange, almost light, as if he didn’t continue to hold it, it might escape on its own. She felt his arms slide under her then pick her up. A few steps and he lay her back down on a hard surface that could only be the platform. The sound of the chain as it was pulled, followed by the feeling of the ground swaying, confirmed her suspicions. After almost a minute the platform stopped moving and he lifted her again, the ease with which he carried her suggesting whoever her captor was, he was strong. A sensation of bobbing up and down, along with heavy footsteps on a wood floor, convinced her they were climbing a set of stairs, followed by a hallway, the closed in sound of his footsteps changing as he made a turn, replaced with the sensation of a larger area, most likely a room, her belief confirmed when he placed her on what must be a bed.
A switch clicked to her left and her eyelids glowed pink from a light now turned on in the room. Creaking floorboards gave away the location of her captor as he walked about, then, to her horror, the bed shook as he climbed on it with her. Oh no! Oh no! He began by unbuttoning her pants then unzipping the fly. Pulling them off, he positioned himself behind her and lifted her back off the mattress. He reached around and pulled her top off over her head, removed her bra and gently laid her back down. He finished with her socks and panties.
She wanted to scream, her heart raced out of control. She knew what was coming. Why didn't I eat the food? Oh please, God, please, don't let this happen. The bed shook again as he climbed off, then his footsteps faded from earshot. Terrified, she didn't dare open her eyes to look. The creak of the stairs confirmed he was definitely gone, but still she couldn’t bring herself to open her eyes. A few minutes later she heard hi
m return. The thunderous beat of her heart filled her ears as he picked her up and carried her to another room. As he lowered her she was shocked by a strange sensation she at first couldn’t place. Water! The warm liquid enveloped her body, helping calm her down slightly. Surely he's not going to rape me in here?
She heard him pick up something, then splashing, the water lapping against her breasts as whatever he did disturbed the surface. Struggling to maintain her unconscious façade, she almost yelped when he took her by the wrist and washed her with what felt like a sponge. Gently he scrubbed her arm, raising it over her head to reach her armpit, then down her side.
He started to hum.
And she tried not to gag.
She had had a sponge bath once before, her first boyfriend after high school had given her one, the experience of having a lover bathe her so erotic, he wasn’t able to finish, her level of arousal demanding she pull him into the tub with her. The excitement of the unique situation, rather than the boy, still gave her goose bumps.
But this was nothing like that.
It was everything she could do not to throw up. She willed herself to take slow, steady breaths as he washed her breasts then moved to her other arm. When he washed her left leg she braced herself for what she knew was about to happen. Biting the inside of her cheek, she almost let out a yelp when he began to wash between her legs. She thanked God he didn't stay there long. He seemed intent on cleaning her; she sensed nothing sexual about this. When he moved onto her other leg she relaxed, realizing the worst was over.
Clanging noises were followed by the sound of running water from a shower attachment as it sprayed in the tub, then on her head and back as he rinsed her hair. After a minute the water turned off and she heard the sound of a shampoo bottle spurting, then his hands softly worked the shampoo into a lather in her hair. She had always enjoyed having her hair washed at the hairdresser's, and for a moment forgot where she was.
Then he started to hum again.
And the moment of pleasure was shoved aside as the stark reality of where she was and who was doing this to her returned. A moment of disgust with herself quickly turned. He's pathetic! Finished lathering her hair, he rinsed it thoroughly then removed her from the tub and carried her to the bed. He toweled her off, starting on her left arm. After finishing with her torso he raised one of her legs in the air and placed it on what she thought might be his shoulder, rubbing her skin dry, the towel inching toward her vagina.
She flinched.
And he stopped.
She held her breath for a second then thought that might tip him off. Slow, steady breaths, slow steady breaths.
But still he did nothing.
Oh, God, he knows! An idea sprung into her head. She flinched again, this time on purpose. She waited. Would he buy it? A fake flinch when he's doing nothing?
The humming resumed and so did the drying. She breathed a sigh of relief. In her head. He towel dried her hair then placed her in a sitting position, her legs dangling over the bedside, his hand firmly in the center of her back. He blow-dried her hair for several minutes and when done, positioned himself behind her, his legs wrapped around her waist, his groin pressed against her as he combed her hair. He hummed again, but this time gyrated his pelvis slowly into her back.
I'm going to be sick.
But that was all he did. After a few minutes, he lay her back down on the bed then left the room, the floor creaking as he made his way down the hallway. Emboldened by the knowledge he would be gone for a few minutes, she opened her eyes a sliver as she waited to hear the stairs creak. The glare from the lamps in the room blinded her for a moment, but she soon confirmed she was in a bedroom, lying on the left side of a four-poster bed, a door to her left, in the far corner, led to the hallway, and to her right, a window, thick with curtains blocking out any light or sounds from the outside. On the nightstand sat a pewter framed photo. She peered at it closer.
A creak from the doorway tore through the silence of the room. He didn't go downstairs! She snapped her eyes shut, thanking God her head faced away from the door. She listened as he approached then climbed on the bed with her. Something slid up her legs, and after a few seconds of uncertainty, she determined it was a pair of panties. He finished dressing her, the swiftness with which he was able to manipulate her limp body suggested he was well practiced. The ritual complete, he carried her downstairs and returned her to her basement prison. He placed her on the mattress and snapped the handcuff over her wrist. It's almost over!
Something warm, soft, and slightly moist pressed against her lips. He's kissing me! Panic set in as she realized she was about to get raped.
“Goodnight, my darling.”
Then he left her.
“Listen you son-of-a-bitch, I don't know what you got me into, but I don't want any part of it!” Messina was in a panic. He hadn't slept all night and when he received another call back, he raced from the dinner table and into the garage. Lowering his voice, he continued, “I need to know, did you have anything to do with what happened at the hospital?”
“I think we should meet to discuss this.”
The calm tone raised the hairs on the back of his neck. “What's there to discuss? Either you did or you didn't!”
“Let's meet for coffee and we can talk about it.”
“The fact that you won't answer me tells me all I need to know,” said Messina in a harsh whisper. “All I wanted was for you to cover a few calls for me while I dealt with my wife! I thought I was doing you a favor and now you've got me mixed up in some murder investigation!” Messina took a deep breath. “I'm calling the cops.”
He hung up the phone and fished the detective’s card from his wallet. He dialed and the call went to voicemail. He tried to calm himself, waiting for the tone. “Detective Eldridge, this is Chris Messina, from NerdTech, we spoke the other day.” Messina trembled. “I need to talk to you about the hospital. I think I may know who did it. Please call me as soon as you get this message.” He took a deep breath, then added, “I'm scared he might do something to me or my family.”
Messina hung up the phone and sat on the step leading to the mudroom. What am I going to do? He took deep breaths, trying to calm himself before returning to the dinner table, not sure how he would explain the situation to his wife. A knock at the garage door startled him, setting his heart racing again. Who could that be? Again the knock, gentle but persistent. Messina rose and pressed the garage door opener on the wall. The door rose, revealing a pair of feet followed by the rest of the body. When he saw the face he nearly fainted.
“Greedo, we need to talk.”
EIGHT
Depraved Difference (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #1) Page 8