She wiped away unbidden tears with her sleeve cuff and tried to thread a needle for the mending project in her lap when her dog suddenly jumped to his feet and looked toward the woods.
“What is it, Lucky? What’s the matter, boy?”
The dog whimpered, moving restlessly across the porch and staring through its railing at something in the distance. Returning to his mistress, he rested his muzzle in her lap and she patted his head, but this didn’t soothe him. He bounded down the porch steps toward the woods, barking an alert. Putting her sewing aside, Sally eased out of the rocker to follow when she noticed Matthew’s abandoned baseball bat propped at one end of the porch where he’d left it the day he fell ill. Picking it up, she realized his small hands touched the bat last and caressed the grip with her fingers, feeling an invisible connection with the son she mourned. Sighing again, she picked up the bat and carried it along—just in case!
Following her dog across the yard, she stepped past the outer edge of the mowed lawn and waded into the thick woodland ferns, brushing brambles aside and dodging branches until at last the animal stopped ahead and barked. Catching up, she stared at the ground beneath a bush.
“What’s this? Why, it looks like a little tyke and… oh no, he’s hurt!” She dropped the bat and eased the unconscious boy onto his back, aghast at his wounds and bruises. “Oh my god, he’s hurt real bad.”
After her nimble fingers ruled out neck or back injuries requiring immobilization, she gently lifted Mathis’ limp body into her arms. “Good boy, Lucky,” she praised the dog, who followed her, tail wagging, as she carried the boy back to her house.
When Mathis awoke, despite the soft bed and tantalizing smell of food on a tray next to him, he shrank in fear at the sight of a stranger right beside him. Although the stranger hadn’t yet made a move to grab or bite him, his eyes desperately scanned the room for quick escape.
The stranger smiled and said gently, “Hello there. What happened to you? Why were you out in the woods?”
The boy stared at her, terrified.
“Would you like something to eat?” She handed him a cookie. “Are you hungry?”
The boy eyed the cookie and, although his bruised jaw and split lips ached, he felt drugged by the treat ’s irresistible smell. He inhaled the aroma deeply and nibbled tentatively at the cookie’s edge before wolfing the treat down so fast he choked.
“Here, drink this warm cocoa,” the stranger offered and while he gulped the unimaginably delicious drink, she asked in a whisper, “So what happened to you? How did you get all these bruises and cuts?”
Anxious, his eyes followed her finger as she pointed to cuts and black-and-blue marks.
“Who did this to you?” she asked in a soft voice. The boy looked away, but she tried again. “Was it someone you know?”
Maybe if he answered the stranger’s questions he wouldn’t be eaten. He didn’t know what else to do. With effort, his eyes turned to hers and he nodded slightly.
“Was it a grown-up?” she asked softly. He nodded “yes” again.
“Was it your father?” He hesitated and nodded once more.
“Was he the only one who hurt you?” The boy shook his head.
“Your mother hurt you also?” she asked. Tears welled in the boy’s eyes and spilled in rivulets down his filthy, gaunt cheeks as he nodded.
“What happened here?” She pointed to the missing finger on his small, dirty hand. The boy gasped back a sob and made a chopping motion with his other hand.
“Someone did that to you? Someone chopped off your finger?” He nodded, and looked hungrily at the cookies. She handed him another, which he devoured greedily. “Did your father cut off your finger?” The boy shook his head. “Did your mother do it?” The boy nodded.
Sally’s mind raced. Social Services would put a child like this into their system, where he might bounce from one institution to another or through a string of foster homes. She knew they worked hard at their daunting job, even when underfunded and poorly staffed, but their cases outnumbered them. Once he was removed from his abusive parents, an institution-governed future lay ahead to compound this boy’s already tragic start in life. Seeming an unthinkable mistake, a child could even be returned to his abusive parents. The newspaper reported this happening recently, resulting in that child’s subsequent death.
After his life-long indoctrination to fear dreaded strangers, Mathis expected blows to begin at any moment and steeled himself for the punch or bite surely coming next. And yet, no one had ever talked so kindly with him or given him such sweet-tasting food or the amazing warm drink. Were strangers different from what he’d been told?
“What’s your name?” she asked, wondering if he could speak since so far he communicated with head movements. She held her breath, awaiting his response.
In a weak voice through his cut lips, the child murmured, “Mathis.” But what Sally heard was “Matthew.”
“Matthew? Matthew! Have you come back to us, just as a different little boy?” An expression of radiant happiness lit her face, such as Mathis had never before witnessed on anyone he knew. So contagious was her joy that the child didn’t flinch when she touched his cheek with affection.
Beaming gratefully, her heart full of love, Sally whispered, “I’m going to be your new mommy.”
CHAPTER 29
Sleeping fitfully on the hard wooden bench inside the small dark room, Jennifer dreamed she ran for her life through dense woods while behind her panted a large black dog, the chain collar and tags around its neck jingling as it pounded after her.
No matter how she swerved, the animal crashed close behind her through the fallen leaves as she dodged tree trunks and fallen branches. She prayed her legs could miraculously keep up with her body as she sped forward headlong. Abruptly, she tripped and smashed down into a leaf-filled crevice, while the chasing animal overshot her. She lay paralyzed with fear and partially covered by dry leaves. Silence! Had she lost him? Then, the jingling tags and heavy breathing returned as the animal doubled back through the leaves, searching for her. As she saw his hairy muzzle appear above the trench and felt his hot, smelly breath on her face, a scream caught in her throat as she stared in helpless horror at the dog’s huge spreading jaws and glinting teeth...
Then a sharp click, at which her eyes popped wide open!
Though her dream evaporated at the sudden sound, the panic it created did not. Ripped from her nightmare, she sat upright but disoriented. Was this still the dream or did the room’s door move?
As the door opening widened, in the eerie glow of artificial light outside the box, a figure faced her. Wrestler sat on a backward turned chair just outside her room, appraising her coldly.
The grisly nightmare from which she just wakened paled compared to the real one beginning now.
Fear clutched her heart.
This was it, the dreaded moment! She had no knowledge of what he planned next and no tools, real or psychological, to protect herself. Only ominous dread... If she could just think of something startling to do or say, something disarming, something to jolt his predictable pattern—a pattern of which, she knew, Tina was already a casualty. And now... she was next!
Their stares locked because she dared not look away. Perhaps he used no words, just silence and then a quick, chilling lunge toward her.
“The light.” In an even voice, he spoke this as a statement, not a question.
She heard herself say, “Yes, I found the light and I’d like to apply for a job.” Where did that come from?
He leaned forward, watching her face intently. “A job?”
Her mind raced! A tumbled recollection of her schooling, training, experience, credentials, jobs and talents cascaded through her mind. What might be useful to him?
“As a servant,” at these words she tried not to look as surprised as she felt. What possessed her to mention this hateful task? Would this idiocy seal her fate at the very moment she needed to defend it?
Was i
t the poor light or wishful thinking or had a nearly imperceptible flicker of interest crossed his face? If so, how could she capitalize quickly on whatever might have triggered this response?
Who was this man? What did he need? Someone weak? Someone strong? Her very survival depended on what she said next.
He shifted confidently in his chair and smirked, keenly aware of her total vulnerability and his complete control. She knew from the garage sale months ago, when they vied for the painting, how single-mindedly he focused and that his muscle could press home any point he chose. The missing McLean women! Tina’s earring! Everything pointed to this man! She swallowed hard and held the stare of the specter who sat before her.
“Servant?” he repeated. Was that curiosity or amusement in his eyes?
It was now or never. She felt a sudden burst of energy overtake her. “Look,” she found herself saying, “you have many routine chores every day. Because you are very capable, you can do them yourself, but they are dreary, routine, repetitive, time-consuming tasks. Doing them takes time away from... ” she groped, uncertain of the pivotal words, “…your important work.”
Neither his smirk nor his stare changed appreciably, yet she felt he studied her differently now.
“I have practical skills backed by experience,” she went on, “like cleaning, cooking, sewing, ironing and gardening. I work hard and take directions well.” She searched his face, hoping for some detectable reaction from him, but he neither moved nor spoke.
Had she already gone too far or was this the moment to lay all her cards on the table? She drew a deep breath and plunged ahead.
“If you have an office, I can use a computer, type, file, pay bills, do payroll and double entry bookkeeping.” She waited for any response. His smirk was gone, replaced by that cold-fish expression.
At least this conversation temporarily delayed his attack. “Look, I’m here and my future is whatever it is. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain by using my skills in the interim. For you it’s win-win!”
For the first time, he moved, turning his head to look toward the left at something she couldn’t see. Was he about to grab a weapon to impale her? Her skin prickled with anxiety.
Looking directly at her again, he wordlessly closed the door and her heart sank as the lock clicked shut.
In a roller coaster of emotions, she breathed deeply to calm herself, grateful to stay alive even minutes longer but fighting despair at her helpless situation. Sitting on the bench, she buried her face in her hands and cried in frustration.
Ten minutes later, another click and the door swung open, revealing Wrestler again astride the chair. He looked at her silently, as if making a decision, before reaching for something outside her field of vision. He pushed an open-topped cardboard box into her enclosure and again shut and secured the door.
Alone in her dim prison, she pushed the container over to the night light and bent forward.
Inside the box lay a rectangular paper sleeve of saltine crackers and a plastic bottle of water.
CHAPTER 30
Jennifer’s hand reached gratefully toward the food, but then jerked back. Was it drugged or poisoned; if not the crackers, at least the water? Was this how he incapacitated or dispatched his victims? No, she decided, because his great size and obvious strength could effortlessly overpower a small woman. And didn’t killers actually crave their victims’ agonized reactions?
With her watch missing, she tried to calculate how long she’d occupied this small room. She drove into his driveway about 4:30 p.m., plus however long she lay unconscious and later slept, plus an hour to map the room and find the light. So maybe this was about 7:00. Dinner time?
Thinking of dinner, she felt visions of her family wash over her, especially mealtimes when they talked together about their days’ events. Would she ever share another with them?
She examined the water bottle in the weak glow of the night light. The plastic cap connecters appeared intact, though she remembered a TV show where a narrow hypodermic needle injected chemicals through hard-to-find pinprick holes. What to do? When had she eaten last and how much longer could she hold on? Dashing out mid-morning after gulping coffee and downing a banana for breakfast, she skipped lunch in lieu of attending sales.
Impulsively, she twisted off the water bottle cap, lifted it to her lips and sipped. How wondrously moist and delicious water tasted when you were truly thirsty! Her dry mouth savored the wetness, but she resisted the temptation to down it quickly in case of an adverse reaction. Studying the bottle, she couldn’t think how to use it as a weapon. Still, she wished she had something, anything, to defend herself. Could she rip up a bench slat? That attempt failed. Could she punch a hole in the walls of this room or kick the door out? Those didn’t work either.
Mentally replaying her conversation with that man, she had no idea where her “servant” idea originated. But with the offer in play, she must make it successful if given any chance. Should he go for it, maybe she’d be out of this prison room to find some way to escape.
When Wrestler opened the room’s door earlier, she knew from the light beyond he wasn’t sitting outdoors, so where was this room? She’d heard crime rescue stories of captured women held in secret basement dungeons. The thin brightness behind his chair suggested subterranean lighting. If in such a place, might she leave this small room only to find herself in a bigger room with no escape? Yet if he came in and out of this place, potentially so could she.
What if she gained his confidence so he took her to his house to do chores? She’d have a chance there, except for the dog, which would certainly reappear since she’d stupidly revealed to the man in his driveway that she feared them. She cursed her foolishness and trembled at the prospect of facing that animal again.
Her lifelong wariness of dogs stemmed from childhood, when a nasty-tempered Rottweiler chased, cornered and bit her. Since then, she avoided dogs whenever possible but still knew something about them from pet-owning friends. Could she use that knowledge with this animal? Always hungry, dogs loved food, unless this one was trained to accept it from his master only. But would she have access to food? Observing how the man dealt with the dog might offer clues such as its name or the man’s commands, which she could later repeat to her advantage.
Absent feeding the dog, might she try petting or kindness? Dream on! This animal viciously knocked her down on one command, yet instantly obeyed other commands not to rip her to pieces or eat her alive! That meant a highly-trained dog responding quickly to complex instructions. Any escape strategy surely hinged on neutralizing the dog’s power… unless she could eliminate him entirely. But how?
And what about escape? Even given the opportunity, she had no idea where she was or which way to go. If still at the man’s house, should she run into the fields behind the house or back down the driveway to the street, where a car might happen along? Though the road had little traffic earlier, might morning or evening rush hours change that pattern to her advantage? If he caught her running down an empty road, recapture was a given and recapture insured punishment so dire that she’d probably welcome death.
She could run to the nearest neighbor’s house, but what if that neighbor was away and his doors locked? The man and the dog would overtake her in no time, away from the street where nobody heard her cries.
If allowed into Wrestler’s house, wherever that might be, perhaps she could phone for help. They’d ask for the address. She didn’t know the house number or even the street name since she got here taking unfamiliar shortcuts. Did police investigate 9-1-1 hang-ups? Could they trace the call or would they dismiss it as a prank? What if the man had no hard-wired phone but a cell phone with bills sent to a post office box? Hard to trace that!
Even if he tried her “servant plan,” that was a short commitment. How long until it no longer amused him, or until her work didn’t measure up if he were critical?
This underscored swift action, yet not so fast that she botched her cha
nce to escape. A second chance wouldn’t exist! If only she hadn’t impulsively gone to his house, if only she could leave this prison, if only she found a way out, if only she could live to see Jason and her children again, if only...
Suffering no ill effects from the water, she took another drink, opened the crackers and inhaled their fragrant, salty aroma. Surprised at the urgency of her hunger and how unexpectedly delicious this food tasted, she munched ravenously, washing the saltines down with swigs of water. Despite her depressing circumstances, the food energized her.
She gave a wry laugh. “Well, at least I’m trying to think outside the box!” she said aloud to her rectangular enclosure, aware of the tragic irony in her words.
CHAPTER 31
Dozing but instantly awake when the lock clicked and the door opened, Jennifer sat up quickly. Wrestler stood in the doorway beside the chair.
“Hello, Sir,” she said, hoping this subservience hid the quaver in her voice.
Ignoring her greeting, he dropped a half loaf of bread and something else onto the chair.
“You start the job now! Clean up and organize this cellar. Trash in bags over there, cleaning supplies by the sink. And hurry! When you finish, press that buzzer.” He pointed at something which lay beside the bread. Her cubicle’s door stood open as he disappeared from her view, his retreating footfalls audible on stairs before a distant door slammed and a lock clicked.
Good grief, had the servant idea worked? Or was this a trap, masquerading as a short-term edge? Would she emerge from this room only to be bludgeoned just outside? Yet hadn’t she heard him, or someone, leaving? Maybe he wasn’t the only one…
Cautious, she stepped through the door and out of the room! She saw now that her enclosure was a large, heavy wooden box shoved to one side of the cellar.
Garage Sale Stalker (Garage Sale Mysteries) Page 15