by Ashley Smith
On top of the small dresser next to Brian Nichols was my big, brown wicker basket of important books. I could see him going through the books now. He would look through the blinds at the street, then go back to the books, then look through the blinds again. I hoped he was paying attention to those books and learning a little bit about who I was. My Bible was in there—the big, black leather study Bible that my grandpa gave to me for my first Christmas. My name was in gold lettering on the front: Elizabeth Ashley Copeland. I needed this guy to look at that Bible and think of me as someone who went to church like he did.
Then there was my Alcoholics Anonymous book, which I had used in my three-month recovery program the year before; I had put silver sticker letters across the top of the navy, hardback cover to read “1 day at a time.” Paige’s Bible was in the basket too, along with my journals and quote books and a book called Why a Daughter Needs a Dad. Just let him keep thinking about Paige. Let him remember what I said—he can’t leave her without a mommy too.
I was remembering what Mack said to me in the car that day I picked him up from work and told him I was pregnant with Paige. I told him I had good news and bad news. The good news was that I had just gotten a new job. The bad news—I called it bad news because I knew it would be bad to him—was that I was seven weeks pregnant. Mack and I weren’t married then. I was twenty and he was twenty-one, and we were living with his parents in their trailer out in the country. He figured out the “bad” news without my having to say it and just flew off the handle sitting there in my car. “You can have an abortion or you can leave!” he yelled. “Have an abortion or get out of my house!”
I knew Mack’s anger, his moodiness, but I also knew where I stood. And I was not going to budge on having my baby. Looking into his eyes, I answered calmly. “Okay then. Bye. See ya. I don’t believe in abortion and I’ll never do that. God gave me this baby and I’m having it. I can raise it on my own if I have to. I don’t need you, and I sure don’t need your help.”
In the bathroom mirror now I could see Brian Nichols still going through my books and looking through the blinds. I knew he had to have picked up my copy of The Purpose Driven Life sitting right there on top with my Bible. I was almost done with that book. I was doing my chapter-a-day every morning—I was giving God his time like I promised, even if it meant I was late for work. If nothing else happened, I was going to hear God speak something to me every day. That’s what I told Aunt Kim. I was trying to show her, my mom, my grandparents, and everybody that I was doing better now. I was going to be Paige’s mom. I could raise her on my own just like I told Mack. I was going to make it—I really was this time.
I could still picture myself sitting in Aunt Kim’s church in Augusta the day I got my Purpose Driven Life book just a month earlier. Aunt Kim and Paige were sitting in the very front of the school auditorium where the church met; I was visiting Paige that weekend and came into the service late. As I took a seat in the back, the pastor started talking about how the church was going to start The Purpose Driven Life study. If anybody wanted the book, he said, we could just grab one on the way out—even if you didn’t have money, you could take one. All I had in my pocketbook was a dollar bill that I had rolled up and used to snort some ice. I sat there in my seat and I said to myself, “You know what, I’m going to give this dollar bill in the offering—this is going to be my drugs going in the offering plate for that book. That’s what I’m going to do. I’m turning it over to God.”
In the bathroom mirror, I watched Brian Nichols turn away from the basket of books finally and walk over to my tall dresser, which was up against the right-hand wall and opposite the bed. Sitting on that dresser were a mirror, my jewelry box, and a picture of Paige in a silver frame outlined with pink stones. That was a recent picture—Paige was sitting on a rock in a photographer’s studio, wearing white Capri pants. Everywhere Brian Nichols went in this apartment he was going to see my little girl. Lord, let it click in his mind—this is a child who needs me. Let him see her. Let him really see her.
He stood there for a minute, opening and closing the drawers—all I kept in that dresser were clothes—and then he walked out of the room, taking a left into the living room, his down jacket swishing as he walked.
“Ashley, are you okay in there?” he called out as he walked by the bathroom.
How weird. Is he actually checking on me, or just making sure I’m not trying to pull something in here? “Uh-huh, yes,” I said.
No longer able to see him in the mirror, I just listened. I could hear him going through drawers in my kitchen, which was on the far side of the apartment and separated from the living-dining area by the thin bar that was about chest-high and lined with framed photographs of Paige and my family. The kitchen was totally unpacked now. I had only been moving for two days, but I had been working at it for most of that time. I had taken off the last few nights from school—I was studying to be a medical assistant so I could get out of waiting tables and make a stable income for Paige and me. And I had snorted a little bit of ice when I was moving stuff out of my other apartment so I would be able to stay up for long hours. Just last night I had stayed up working on this place until dawn.
What’s he looking for? I kept hearing drawers open and close, cabinets open and close, utensils bang together. He already had a gun—did he want a knife? Please, not a knife. Right then I remembered the coroner’s call after Mack died: “Your husband was stabbed to death with a knife.” “A knife?” I asked, totally in shock. “He was stabbed to death? I never saw a knife.”
Brian Nichols was still making noise, obviously looking for something specific. I had put everything in its place, so it couldn’t be that hard for him to find what he wanted. I hated not being able to find things. If I went to look for something and it wasn’t where it was supposed to be, it just made me crazy. Mack was the same way. He was deep into keeping things in order—and keeping the house in order was my job. If he came home from a long day at work and was looking for something, and it wasn’t there, I would hear, “Honey, where’s it at? It’s supposed to be here.” Then the slamming of drawers or cabinets or closet doors.
“Do you have a cell phone?” Brian Nichols was calling out to me from the kitchen now.
“Yes,” I answered. I just had a cell phone, no landline.
“Where is it?”
“In my pocketbook.” I had no idea where he would find my pocketbook—a fake Louis Vuitton bag Aunt Kim had just given to me for Christmas. I dropped it somewhere coming in. Wait. Now I remembered. “It might be outside on the sidewalk,” I said.
I was still trying to be as helpful and cooperative as possible. He said he wanted to relax. He said he didn’t want to hurt me. But he said he would hurt me if he had to. If I could just do what he asked and stay relaxed myself, then maybe he would feel that he could finally chill out. Somehow I had to make him feel at ease. I had to find a way to gain his trust. I looked across the bathroom now at the picture of Paige and me on the counter, and I could feel the tears come up. My angel child. My baby. She needs me, God! I’ve just got to make it out of here to see her in the morning.
Hearing him walk toward the hallway, I sat up to look in the mirror over the sink again. I could see him coming—he had taken off the red jacket—and as he entered the bathroom, I turned my head away from the mirror so I could watch him walk through the door. Now I saw he was wearing a black blazer that matched his black dress pants. He glanced over at me, then went straight to the counter to put down what he had brought with him: the gun—no knife, thankfully; my cigarettes (I guess he found my pocketbook); a small, glass ashtray from off the coffee table; some masking tape he must have gotten from my kitchen drawer near the stove (is that going over my mouth?); and a two-liter bottle of raspberry soda I had just bought at the grocery store. “Well,” I thought, “make yourself at home, dude—whatever you need to do.”
Then he walked over to the toilet to my right, closed the lid, and set down one of my brown
extension cords (he’s been in the laundry room) and a long, cream-colored panel of fabric from my living room curtain set. I didn’t like the looks of that cord at all. Is he going to strangle me with that? I could almost feel my throat tighten, feel the plastic against my neck. I had no idea what the curtain could be for, but I didn’t like it. For some reason I didn’t like those two things sitting off to the side by themselves.
When he turned around and faced me, I saw he was bare-chested underneath his blazer. His pecs were rippling in between the black lapels; and seeing where the jacket seams hit his shoulders, I could tell just how broad those shoulders really were. I know I’m in good shape, but man, if this guy comes at me, I’ll never have a chance trying to fight him off. Just don’t let it come down to that, God. This guy could really, really hurt me.
“Here’s the deal,” he said. For the first time he had put the gun down; it was lying on the counter next to the masking tape. “I want to relax.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
Then he picked up the bottle of raspberry soda and pointed it at me the way he had been pointing the gun. “Want something to drink?”
“No,” I said. He’s pointing a bottle at me now and offering refreshments. Is this a good sign?
“Do you want something to eat?”
“No.” I tried to read his face. Is he calming down? “No,” I said again, eyeing my cigarettes on the counter, “but I would like a cigarette.”
A cigarette sounded really great to me right now. How long had it been since I smoked? Had I smoked one coming back from the QuikTrip? I couldn’t even remember. Probably so, because I had really needed a cigarette when I left the house. Looking at the pack in his hand, I saw that it was open, so, yes, I had smoked a cigarette sometime after 2:00 a.m. I still had no idea what time it was now.
Setting the bottle of soda on the counter, he took out a cigarette, stepped toward the tub, and handed it to me. Then he pulled out a lighter I didn’t recognize. I only used Bic lighters; they were fat with colored shells. This was one of those slim, transparent lighters—you could see the fluid inside—and the shell was pink. I wasn’t sure where it came from. Maybe he found it in one of my end-table drawers in the living room. Maybe it was his.
As I put the cigarette to my mouth, he bent down over me and held out the lighter. I moved the cigarette to the flame and inhaled deeply, looking at his large hand in front of my face and wondering if I was going to see blood on it. I don’t think I can handle the sight of blood right now, God. Focusing on the inhale, I closed my eyes and sat back against the side of the tub, then let the smoke out slowly through my mouth.
He stood up, took out another cigarette, and lit it for himself. Then he set the ashtray down on the side of the tub.
For a few seconds he said nothing. He took a couple of drags. He reached for the soda bottle and cracked it open. I could hear the fizz. He took a swig or two.
“Look,” he said then, blowing smoke out of his mouth. “I don’t trust you. I want to relax for a minute, and I can’t relax with you like that, so I’m going to have to tie you up.”
I put out my cigarette in the ashtray and sat up straight. This was not good at all. He could tie me up and rape me. He could tie me up and kill me. God, this is really bad—you’ve got to do something to help me. I couldn’t let him tie me up, no questions asked. Not with the stakes this high. I had to at least say something.
Putting my hands on my knees, I looked up at him like he had just hurt my feelings. I was being so helpful, so cooperative. I had just been sitting here enjoying a cigarette for a minute. I wasn’t trying to fight him or make his night miserable. I was all for him relaxing. My house was his house. Can’t you see I’m trying to be your friend, dude?
Then, with all of that feeling in my eyes—squinting and lowering my brow like the most confused person in the world—I asked him, “Why?”
6
tied up
Just stand up,” he said.
No explanation. Just stand up? Okay, I guess I’ll stand up then.
I stood up in the bathtub and shook the cramps out of my legs. He put out his cigarette, moved the ashtray to the counter, and picked up the roll of masking tape. Then he stepped toward me.
“Please,” I said looking up at him, “just—just don’t hurt me, okay? I can’t leave my little girl. Please.”
I decided I was going to keep mentioning Paige until I was blue in the face. I didn’t care how sick and tired he got of hearing about her. She was my focus. She was all I cared about. He was just going to have to hear about her until I got it through his head that I could not—that I would not—leave my little girl alone without a mommy or a daddy.
“Turn around,” he said.
I sure didn’t want to turn around. I did what he said, but I did it slowly—and I kept my face turned to the side so I could watch him out of the corner of my eye. Standing there in the tub facing the wall, I started to fear he was going to throw the extension cord over my head and strangle me. I turned my head around even further toward the toilet where that cord was lying. My thought was, “If that thing’s going around my neck, then at least I want to see it coming.”
“Put your hands behind your back.”
I followed instructions. I put my hands behind my back and crossed them at the wrists, palms up, over my tailbone.
“No,” he said, “not like that—in a praying position.”
Okay, God. He wants my hands in a praying position, so I’m praying right now. Please—please protect me, Jesus. Only you know where this is going and what I need to do. I’m not ready to go home yet. If you want to take me, I trust you, but I’m not ready. Oh, Lord, I’m just not ready.
I couldn’t put my palms together behind my back unless I bent my arms and positioned my hands at my lower back—or really forced my arms down and pushed my chest up, and that posture strained my shoulders. I went with the bent arms, and as soon as my palms were touching, I heard the strip of masking tape buzzing off the roll.
I felt him start the tape on my wrists—holding the end in place with his hand—and then bring the roll under my hands so that it touched my lower back, and back over; under and over, working the tape down my hands toward my fingers. Then I felt something give and heard the roll of tape hit the side of the tub and finally the floor.
“What kind of tape is this, anyway?” he asked, groaning and bending down to pick up the roll. I guessed the tape had broken while he was wrapping. What do you mean, “what kind of tape is it”? Obviously it’s masking tape, dude.
“Masking tape,” I said. I was trying to remain calm, do what he asked, and answer all of his questions. He pulled the end of the tape off the roll again and started wrapping until my hands were taped up tight, forcing my shoulders forward a little.
“All right,” he said, stepping to the toilet to grab the curtain and the extension cord. Not that extension cord. Please don’t let him use that on me. “Now come in here.”
I turned around and stepped out of the bathtub. I saw he was walking across the hall toward the bedroom. Then I thought of his girlfriend. This could not be good. God, if he rapes me in there, what can I do? I can’t put up anything close to a real fight taped up like this.
I remembered something I heard once: “There’s one thing worse than being raped, and that’s being killed.”
Okay, if he rapes me, I can deal with it later. I can survive it. I know I can. But just don’t let him kill me. Let me make it out of here alive. Seeing Paige—that’s the bottom line.
Walking toward the bathroom door, I noticed his red baseball hat sitting on the counter near the gold lamp. It was a nice-looking, brand-new Georgia Bulldogs hat. I loved the Bulldogs; all through high school I had watched Georgia Bulldogs football with my step-dad.
“Nice hat you got there,” I said now, trying to be as friendly and casual as I could. He was standing directly across the hallway in my bedroom, between my tall dresser and the foot of my bed. If I can just m
ake some kind of connection, something real and human, then maybe I can convince him not to do whatever he’s got planned.
But he didn’t answer. He just stood there looking really big in that black suit with his chest showing. In the light from my closet, his face looked blank; I couldn’t read any emotion in his eyes. The curtain and that extension cord lay at his feet, and he was still holding the roll of masking tape.
I walked toward him, seeing his red jacket thrown on a small bench I had set against the wall in the hallway. And as I crossed into the bedroom, I went back to my old line: “Please don’t hurt me,” I pleaded.
“Sit on the bed,” he told me. He motioned toward the foot of the bed. All right, God, here we go. I’m in your hands here. My big, white down comforter made the mattress look like a cloud.
I sat down right on the edge, and suddenly, facing him with my arms behind my back, I became extremely conscious of what I was wearing. Without my sweater, I was not well covered at all. Not even close to well covered. My jeans, bought when I was a little heavier—I called them my “fat jeans”—were hanging low on my hips, and my white thong underwear was showing. My white tank top—there really was very little to it; it was more like a camisole with a built-in bra—was not even long enough to cover my waist. Originally I had been wearing these clothes in the privacy of my home to unpack boxes. But now I was afraid. What is he thinking, looking at me like this? Am I getting this guy worked up?
“Stick out your legs,” he said. Okay, I’m doing it. He left that gun in there on the counter. I know my legs are strong and I could kick the crap out of him if I had to. I remembered all those days of weight training for basketball season in the Lakeside High School gym in Augusta with my Uncle David. Leg strength was critical to my game, he told me, and I spent all kinds of time on that squat machine.