A fourth time she pushed the fork closer to him, clicking her sound. He did not leave his post but stared at the meat, shifted his position slightly closer and extended his head toward the meat. Edging nearer, she lifted the hamburger until it was directly between them, reinforcing the animal’s connection with her, the sound she made and the anticipated food. Nudging it to within inches of his mouth, she held her breath as the dog pushed his muzzle forward, moistened his lips and jerked the meat from the fork. “Good dog,” she crooned.
Whew! She leaned against the washer for support. This could so easily have gone the other way. Had the dog barked, sealing her fate, at this very moment the man would be standing over her to kill her. She sighed in relief. So far so good!
Not knowledgeable about dog training, she did know something about children, having raised five of her own. Some parenting hinged upon encouragement and positive reinforcement. Other methods stressed strictness and punishment. If animal training were similar, she could guess which this scarred dog had experienced.
Facing her task once more, she realized wryly that cleaning a kitchen is second nature to one who’s tackled that task thousands of times. In between the scouring, wiping, drying, scrubbing, polishing, sweeping and laundry, she managed to feed the dog, using her same technique, four more times. The smaller mound of ground beef in the refrigerator presented another risk, but with luck he wouldn’t notice.
Putting the first laundry load into the dryer, she added the remaining clothes to a second washer load. After tackling the onerous oven cleaning job, she folded the dry garments atop the laundry machines.
Jennifer saw no telephone in the kitchen. Did this mean he had no phones or few phones or cell phones? A hard wired phone for her 9-1-1 call was too much to ask! The kitchen clock read 2:30 p.m. If accurate, and if her calculations were correct, she’d been captive about twenty-two hours.
Glancing around the kitchen one last time, she pressed the buzzer. The door opened quickly and the man whisked past her to inspect the kitchen. Then he collected the hangers with his clean shirts and trousers from the laundry room.
“Bring that,” he indicated the stack of folded laundry, “and follow me.”
Obediently, she did; toward what, she knew not...
CHAPTER 40
They moved quickly down a hallway, along which she counted five closed doors. He opened all three doors on the left side of the hall and said, “The vacuum cleaner is here,” he pointed to the linen closet behind the first door. “Put the laundry in there,” he indicated the bedroom through the third door. “And then clean the bedroom after you finish the bathroom,” he gestured toward the middle open door.
The man’s sharp whistle startled her, foretelling the immediate appearance of the dog, who watched her intently. She fought the urge to recoil as the large animal moved nearer. “Guard,” he commanded the animal. To Jennifer, “Don’t close the doors while you’re working. The dog will keep you in sight at all times. Press the buzzer when you’re through.”
“I am also an experienced cook,” she volunteered, eyes submissively downcast.
Staring at the floor, she couldn’t read his expression but thought he hesitated a moment before walking to the end of the hall, entering a room on the hallway’s right side and closing its door after him.
A dead-end at one end of the hall prevented escape and the animal, only a few feet away, blocked the other. The old fear gripped her at close proximity to any unpredictable dog, never mind one with specific instructions to guard—or maybe—kill her. The dog returned her stare, as if daring her to try a wrong move. She must face it; she hadn’t won him over at all!
Struggling for positive focus, she turned to her work. Maybe she’d find clues about the man in the bathroom medicine cabinet like a prescription revealing his name. But first she closed the door enough to elicit a warning growl from the dog. Gratefully she used the toilet. So much better than the bucket in the basement.
Besides the toilet, the bathroom had a claw-foot tub next to a large sink set into a dresser-size cabinet with storage drawers and doors. At the end of the room, a fixed window with a high-transom above it framed two rectangles of daylight. The small, high opening wasn’t a way out, but the pole that operated the transom looked like a potential weapon.
Brown towels hung neatly on the racks, a brown shower mat draped over the side of the tub and several matching brown rugs lay across the floor. Brown, she thought, was about as understated as you can get. A brush and a comb lay atop the toilet tank.
Reaching toward the medicine cabinet, she gasped suddenly, confronted by the shock in the mirror above the sink! A woman’s haggard face—ringed by a tangle of disheveled, dirty hair—stared back at her. She nodded to be certain the awful mirrored face moved when hers did. Could this be her actual reflection? Far worse than any early-morning, no make-up visage she’d faced at home. The purplish circles under her eyes, their haunted look, the drawn mouth, cheeks smudged with dirt and that mop of dull, clumped hair surrounding her face…she looked like a war refugee.
Hypnotized, she gazed in disbelief at this pathetic stranger. Her hand grabbed the comb atop the toilet tank and she watched in the mirror as the comb rose in her fingers and attempted to work through a few strands of her matted hair. Rinsing her cleaning rag, she dabbed at the sticky bump on the back of her head. The cloth’s resulting rust-colored smear confirmed dried blood. She stared dumbly at her reflected apparition as both her hands lifted to force the comb through the snarls.
Her eyes wandered from the mirror down to her clothes, the same ones she’d worn two days, slept in last night and cleaned house in today. What could she expect but the dirty, rumpled slacks and stained shirt that encased her body? Leaning forward over the sink, she finished combing her hair and splashed cold water on her face to jar her back to reality. Rinsing the rag, she washed her face with warm water and soap. Never had this simple act felt so redeeming, as if she were cleaning away a foreign mask to uncover the real Jennifer hidden beneath.
But now the “real Jennifer” must move forward. Hurrying, she cleaned the bathroom, removed strands of her hair from his comb, washed it and placed it back beside the brush.
With a last brave look in the mirror, she opened the medicine cabinet to reveal an electric razor and small hotel-size shampoo bottles. In the under-sink cabinet were more towels, toilet paper and bar soap. Had he sanitized this room on purpose or did he live like a monk? Except for her own frightening reflection in the mirror, she’d learned nothing new.
Returning to the hall, where the dog jumped to attention, she grabbed the vacuum cleaner and pushed it ahead of her into the bedroom. The animal moved quickly into the room’s open doorway while she glanced around for a phone or hidden camera. If this were his bedroom, perhaps she’d discover something about her captor here.
Immediately recognizing her lamp on the bedside table, she felt surprise. Her daughters said he bought it at their garage sale but seeing it here, something of hers in his house, struck her as incongruous and disheartening.
Making up the queen-size bed with the sheets she’d laundered, she covered them with the rumpled comforter lying on the floor. Moving to the two windows, she lifted each shade and peered out. Like the kitchen, one faced the back of the house, but from here she could see the other side of the barn, where pieces of long-abandoned farm equipment rusted in the sunshine. She also had a better view of the long field with a wood of tall trees at the opposite end, the field itself overgrown with saplings and bushes. The second window looked out on the yard at the end of the house, where a sprawling thicket blanketed the area from the house to a dense stand of trees thirty feet away. In which direction should she head if ever she could get away?
Moving around the Spartan room, she quietly slid open every drawer and examined the contents as she dusted and vacuumed. She’d use the putting-away-your-laundry excuse if he caught her doing so. She felt around the neatly stacked but sparse clothing, socks, handkerc
hiefs, belts, pajamas and underwear in the dresser drawers, finding no new clues. On top of the dresser sat a magnifying glass and an electric clock-radio, the alarm hand set for 6:00, presumably his morning wake-up call. Good for her to know.
In the closet hung a dress shirt, casual shirts, trousers, work clothes and one suit. She checked all pockets, discovering only a wadded Kleenex, a pocket comb and some coins. The room had no wall decorations, framed photos, books, magazines or jewelry. Not even a jar of pennies or something under the bed, where one could usually count on a stray sock.
Looking around to see if she’d missed anything, she realized she’d forgotten the second night stand. While dusting the lamp and shade, she inched the drawer open. Inside lay a framed photograph of two little boys, a different background and grainier, but unquestionably the same serious-faced boys pictured in the hatbox downstairs. He must be one of the two, but which? She recalled before-and-after photos of missing children on milk cartons where artists projected their appearance today. Would adding years to one of these little faces equal the man across the hall?
Her time was running out! She scrutinized the faded photograph again, grabbed the magnifying glass from the dresser, turned on the night table lamp and studied the picture under the light.
The photo captured two unhappy boys sitting on a high-backed wooden bench, their hands in their laps except for the older boy’s left arm placed protectively around the younger one’s shoulder. Unhappy or frightened, stunned or resigned, strain showed in their eyes. Jennifer searched for any obvious identifier—a birth mark, a scar, a deformity— to compare against her captor. And do it fast, for if he appeared at the door and found her like this, she was toast!
Her eyes moved to their hands. Closing in with the magnifying glass brought two surprising discoveries. The fingers hung loose on the bigger boy’s left hand draped over the smaller boy’s shoulder, but she saw only three fingers and a thumb. Was his little finger folded up behind his hand? She tried folding her own little finger back, but her adjacent finger curled also. Unlike her simulation, the boy’s fingers lay relaxed. He had no little finger! Next, she looked at the smaller boy’s hands, spread open on his knees. On his left hand she saw a dark line several inches long. A scar, the scab of a burn from a metal rod or a birth mark? Each boy’s left hand! So if she glimpsed her captor’s left hand, she’d know!
Something else about the photo stirred in the back of her mind. Pushing the magnifying glass closer, she searched for background details, seeking something familiar. But what? Then she saw it and focused the magnifying glass. Behind the boys was a v-shaped nick in the bench’s top board. These boys huddled on the bench in the confinement box, the very same box where the boys’ mother had been imprisoned, according to the hatbox letter! And Tina. And Jennifer herself.
And who knew how many others?
No sooner did she stuff the photo back into the drawer and turn off the lamp than the man abruptly appeared at the door. Holding her breath, she covered the magnifying glass with her cleaning rag and continued laboriously dusting the lamp and table top. Turning, she appeared to dust the dresser, slipping the magnifying glass subtly from the cloth back onto the dresser as she moved past.
“Finished, Sir!” she said, looking not at his face but carefully at his hands, both thrust deep into his trouser pockets.
Her mind reeled. What if this ended her tasks? Should she stall for time? Had she idiotically misread the situation by thinking swift efficiency would earn more work when cleaning fast actually lessened the time he’d need a servant? Moreover, given the remote chance he allowed her to clean the whole house, if not already dispensable, she would be then!
He glanced around the room then jerked his head, “Follow me!” The man snapped his fingers, causing the dog to follow them so closely that she felt its hot animal breath against the back of her slacks as they moved along the hallway.
Jennifer tried to prepare herself for any eventuality: to clean another room, to desperately run for her life, to grab any object and aggressively defend herself? She simply had no idea what to expect next…
CHAPTER 41
He led the way to the living room, which she remembered uneasily from her arrival the day before. Here she’d recognized the painting above the fireplace, realized the farmer was the dreaded Wrestler, grasped her peril when he blocked her escape and crashed to the floor when the dog attacked her.
Had she ever really been that other Jennifer Shannon, living a happy life with her family, innocently attending weekend sales, harming no one, oblivious to the remotest possibility of abduction by a madman? One minute the clear identity of her full, rich, trouble-free life, and the next at the mercy of a tormentor intending to kill her. She swallowed hard.
Now more than ever, she needed her wits about her! These large windows faced the front yard and, beyond that, the road. However fleeting the chance, she needed to focus on this scene, because this could be where she’d run headlong if...
His expressionless voice interrupted her train of thought. “Clean this room. The dog guards you constantly. When you finish, press the buzzer.” He placed the familiar electronic pad on the coffee table and, turning on his heel, disappeared down the hall.
Plugging in the vacuum cleaner, she shoved and yanked it while studying the view out the window. A long, rectangular yard between the house and the road looked football-field size and overgrown with waist-high brush. Kudzu vines draped many trees. She wondered if the grass were tall enough to hide in, but what was she thinking? She couldn’t crouch there undetected with the dog in pursuit.
This outdoor view reminded her of the long driveway down the side of the rectangle from the house to the road. If only she’d jogged daily! Now, even if she reached the outside, how fast could she move and for how long? Had she enough stamina to run down that driveway and then along the road to find help? Even so, she could never outrun the dog.
Parking the sweeper in front of the window, she went to the entryway alcove to look for a front door alarm system. No keypad, but one might be inside the front hall closet. Her approach elicited a warning growl from the dog standing in the foyer, head alert and eyeing her closely.
From a pocket she retrieved the last piece of plastic-wrapped meat for the dog and, making the clicking sound, fed him the bite. “Good dog,” she praised, pretending to dust the foyer. The dog watched her closely but didn’t move as she satisfied herself no alarm system existed inside the closet. “Such a good dog,” she encouraged the animal, who licked his lips anticipating another treat.
Would the living room tell anything personal about her captor? She knew the furniture’s origin. Maybe the man didn’t live here, but only “camped” here. Did he lead a double life? What best fit the few facts she understood?
Under the lamp on a corner end table sat a small travel clock, the kind that folded up flat into a case the size of a cracker. Its second hand moved rhythmically and the time shown mirrored a wall clock. Without a clock or window to gauge outside light, in the cellar time stopped.
Ostensibly dusting the little clock, she folded it shut and slipped it into her pocket, but in doing so felt a small lump already there. Investigating this brought a smile: Tina’s tiny frog. These must be the same slacks she wore on her birthday when she tucked away the special gift. Wishing the Chinese good-luck legend to apply now, when only magic could help her through this insane situation, she slipped the clock into her other pants’ pocket.
She was running out of options. She’d already cleaned much of the house while discovering few clues except in the nightstand drawer and the basement’s three hat boxes, clues which might be important or not. Outside of escape or rescue—and she had ruled out rescue in her untraceable location—if Wrestler locked her back in the basement, she probably wouldn’t emerge alive.
She finished the living room but did not press the buzzer. Buying time made sense now. She fluttered the dust cloth, creating make-work. “Good dog,” she said several time
s and each time the animal let her move quite close to him before his warning growl. Was she becoming less fearful of dogs? After enduring a fifty-five year phobia, this subtle change amazed her.
What would unfold next? She’d earlier planted the seed about cooking. Buying this much time seemed incredible, but once she finished cleaning the house and, if allowed, cooked a meal, her usefulness ended. Tonight was the night! One way or another! If her attempt failed, she was out of options.
She pressed the buzzer.
CHAPTER 42
When he strode into the living room to survey her work, she willed him not to notice the missing clock. His eyes scanned the room and lingered near the table where it belonged, but after a few agonizing seconds, passed by.
“Follow me,” he ordered again.
Awash with relief, she trailed him back down the hallway, where he opened a door across the hall from the bedroom she earlier cleaned. “Clean this room,” he said, again directing the dog to guard the open doorway before he returned to the same room as before and closed the door.
Jennifer gaped in surprise at a home work-out room! But of course! This tracked with his body-builder physique, earning him the name “Wrestler.” No gym-enthusiast herself, she still recognized most machines: treadmill, stationary bike, rowing machine, stair-stepper and weight bench. These machines cramming the room insured variety for a serious cross-trainer.
Putting down the cleaning equipment, Jennifer wandered to the window, lifted the shade and studied the overgrown front yard. Somewhere beyond lay the county road and freedom. Was this her last glimpse of this tantalizing view? She sighed wistfully before turning to her job.
She vacuumed the wood floor, mopped, then wiped down the machines. Her daughters said Wrestler bought her rowing machine at their sale, a machine she herself bought used two years earlier to start a fledgling exercise program. Such machines looked alike but she could identify hers by a white paint spatter unintentionally flicked across a corner of the machine during a decorating project at home. Crouching down, she spotted the familiar mark. To think one of her own belongings improved the daily health and strength of a man scheming to kill her felt eerily unjust. This bitter irony nauseated her. She swallowed hard until the urge to vomit passed.
Garage Sale Stalker (Garage Sale Mysteries) Page 19