The elevator pitched forward with one final shutter and Darrow pulled open the brass door, pushing her forward simultaneously. The hallway was dark.
“Don’t you believe in lights?”
“Sweetheart there will be plenty of lights where we’re going.”
She followed him down the hallway, unaware that she was heading to certain demise. Inside the embalming chamber she did a double take, trying to make sure she believed what she was seeing.
“What in the hell is this?”
“Don’t concern yourself with that darling. This place used to be a funeral home, but it’s nothing more than a house now.”
He motioned her to the west wall where his bedroom laid waiting. She tried to do her best not to show her fear but it was growing on her like a cancer, forming inside the pit of her stomach one cell at a time. His room was sparse, mops and brooms adorned the south wall, making her feel like she was in a janitorial closet. His spring mattress bed sat against the far wall, stained and reeking of his sweat. The sight made her want to vomit; she shuddered as she thought about the acts she would perform upon it.
“Why don’t you go have a seat darling?”
He pointed his right hand at the bed. A small bit of bile formed in the back of
Sheila’s throat. She sat down on the bed and removed her shirt, letting her breasts bounce free before they were supported by her satin bra.
“Purple, I like that.”
His demeanor made her more self-conscious. She covered her breasts with her hands, concealing the purple bra beneath them.
“Now don’t be shy darling, I’m paying good money to see all of you. Make off with the pants.”
Sheila kicked off her shoes and unbuttoned the snaps on her jeans. She leaned back on her elbows and raised her hips, sliding the jeans off seductively. Her socks followed until she sat in nothing but her bra and panties.
“Blue toenail polish, I like that.”
Darrow grabbed her right ankle and brought her foot to his mouth, sucking on her toes one by one. The act made her shudder. She did her best to remain complacent, but Darrow was making her sick to her stomach.
“Lie back and take off your panties.”
It was a command, not a request. She leaned back on the bed, listening to the springs creak under her weight. She slipped her panties off over her ankles and waited for the inevitable. Darrow reached behind her and undid the snap on her bra. It popped free and exposed her breasts. They bounced one time before settling back to their normal shape, perky despite their large size.
“I like what I see darling.”
He sat down on the bed and cupped her left breast, the he leaned forward to kiss her. His breath reeked of cigarettes and cheap booze. Sheila pulled back instinctively.
“No kissing.”
“Why not?”
“Too personal, this is a fast fuck, not a relationship.”
Her reaction gave him pause. “Okay, I see how it’s going to be.” He rose from the bed and grabbed a large push broom from the south wall. His hands gripped around the wood handle, feeling the grain in his hands. He set the bristled end on the ground and snapped it off with his boot, stomping down on it and sending a loud crack throughout the room.
“What the hell are you doing?” Her pulse began to raced. She was in trouble now and she knew it.
“Making sure you behave like a good girl.”
He struck her across the face, inciting a blinding white light that flashed before her eyes. Before Sheila could even react she felt the blow across her left cheekbone. She struggled to remain conscious but he struck her again, catching her on the neck and sending waves of pain throughout her body. Another blow followed, striking her directly on the top of her head. She fell back on the bed, and then his hands closed about her neck. She heard the clank of the broom handle as it hit the floor and that was the last thing she remembered before Darrow choked her into unconsciousness.
“It started about two years ago. The pain was so great. I guess I just needed an escape. I couldn’t believe that he left me. I mean, after all we’d been through together it just didn’t seem plausible. I started taking the Zoloft, and it made me feel better, but not great, you know what I mean?”
He nodded.
“So I went back, and the doctor said there was nothing else he could do for me, except refer me to his shrink. So I went. And this shrink says to me that it’s not depression but anxiety, and he prescribes this Paxil. I start taking the stuff but it doesn’t work. I’m feeling more anxious than before, so I talk to one of my girlfriends and she says that she’s been taking these Valium pills to cope with her own stress and she asks me if I’d like to try one. So I did and it was great. It helped me take my mind off things. I couldn’t wait for more, so I went to several doctors before I found one that was willing to prescribe me what I wanted, and after that it just sort of spiraled out of control. I mean, I knew what I was doing, but I just couldn’t help myself. I needed the release, to feel a sense of relief, if only for a moment. And then I just couldn’t stop. I went to several doctors and faked a whole bunch of illnesses until I got the medication I wanted. It made me feel good. I’m so sorry.” She sat on the bed, her eyes peering at her feet, scared about what he must think of her. “Do you still love me?”
“Of course I do. What kind of question is that?”
Randall looked down at his fiancée. She looked so scared and vulnerable that it stirred his protective feelings, making him wish that he could wave a magic wand and remove all of her anxiety, but he knew he couldn’t. He sat down beside her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. The warmth of his embrace lightened her spirits.
“We’ll get through this together.”
His words were reassuring but it would be an upward battle. She was well addicted now, and any sudden withdrawals that she made would undoubtedly cause her much pain. It was pain that she was willing to go through, to ensure that she could build a life with Randall, and ensure that Aiden would have the father that he deserved.
“Okay Randall, I trust you, but it’s not going to be easy. I’m going to need a lot of help.”
“I know baby, I know.”
He squeezed her tight, and at that moment she knew she loved him above all else.
She was light. He was able to move her easily. Darrow placed her on the steel embalming table and wrapped the chains about her body. He secured her by snapping the handcuffs over her right wrist and fastening the other end to the table leg, locking her in place. He wanted to cut her up right then. It would be so easy. She lay motionless and helpless before him. He could take the scalpel and slice her from gullet to neck, like he was gutting a fish, but his master had instructed him otherwise. He would have to bide his time.
Sheila came awake instantly. Her head lurched forward but her body was constrained by the chains encircling her abdomen. She screamed at the top of her lungs, a long pitiful wail. Her voice bounded off the cement walls and returned to her ears in a mocking reverberation. She was trapped. Her heart threatened to explode from her chest. She peered at her captor, pleading with her eyes for mercy, to let her be, but his face was empty, devoid of emotion. It was then that Sheila Bradley knew that she was going to die.
The demon materialized before her, taking shape in the still air. His skin weaved together in sinews, forming over his muscles like mold under a high-speed camera, criss-crossing back and forth before forming into a solid black mass. Her terror became too much for her and she lost consciousness once again.
Excellent Jack, you have done well.
“Thank you master.”
TWENTY-THREE
It felt like a prison. The walls were painted a soothing yellow –at least it was supposed to be soothing- but it reminded Ellie of a canary, a caged canary, and that’s exactly how she felt.
“Please Randall, can’t I try to kick this at home? I don’t like it here.” She pleaded at him with her eyes but he seemed immune to her charm.
“I’m sorry baby, but this is for the best. You need serious help. You heard what the doctor said. I can’t give you that kind of care at home.”
He hugged her tight. Her tears rolled down her face and stained his Polo shirt on the shoulder, leaving small wet circles just below the collar. They sat in the small room that was to be her home for at least the next ten weeks. She had a twin bed and a nightstand, a small television set affixed to a wall-mounted stand in the southwest corner, and she had a partial view of the garden outside. At least she had that, a window to shed some light on her dark situation.
The doctor had been cautiously optimistic about her chances for a complete recovery. She had loved ones, who were willing to support her and that was the most important thing. It gave her the motivation she needed to kick her addiction. Those without this support were more likely to relapse after treatment.
The antidepressants would be easy to kick, at least according to the doctor. They would continue to give her that medication in smaller and smaller doses until her body was willing to adapt to the lack of brain altering chemicals pouring through her system. The opiates were of greater concern. Valium, Vicodin, and Percocet, those would be her greatest challenge. Her body was now physically addicted and her withdrawal symptoms would be severe. She was stunned when the doctor told her how difficult it would be. There would be shakes, vomiting, profuse sweating, and pain – lots of pain. She hadn’t expected that and it filled her with fear and anxiety, the exact reasons she had started taking the medication in the first place.
Randall could feel her shake in his arms. He pulled back slightly from her and stared directly through her.
“Now you listen to me. It’s not going to be an easy road, but I’m here for you, and I’ll try and visit every night.”
She nodded.
“And don’t you worry about Aiden, I’ll take good care of him, and when I can’t Cletus will be there, okay?” Another nod. “I love you Ellie.”
“I love you too.” They embraced again, for several long moments before Randall pulled back. “I think there’s someone who wants to say hello to you.”
He opened the door and Aiden walked in, clutching Buster his teddy bear to his chest. The sight of him broke Ellie’s heart, but she refused to shed tears in front of him. He wore a pair of Osh Kosh overalls and his Nike sneakers that Randall had purchased for him. His soft blue eyes looked up at his mother, trying desperately to understand the situation. Though Ellie had done her best to explain to him the night before that she had to go away for a while, it was clear that confusion still circled within his mind. Cletus followed behind him looking somber.
“Mommy I don’t want you to stay!” He nearly screamed it. A cascade of tears flowed as though someone had turned on a faucet.
I won’t cry. I won’t cry. I won’t.
Ellie knelt beside her son and clutched him to her chest. Buster hung just behind her left shoulder, still clutched in his tiny hand.
“Don’t cry sweetheart, everything is going to be okay. Daddy and grandpa are going to take care of you for a while.”
“Why do you have to stay?”
“I told you honey, mommy’s sick, but the doctors are going to make her all better, and before you know it I’ll be back home with you. So I need you to be strong and be a big boy for mommy. Can you do that?”
He nodded silently. Ellie kissed him on the forehead and then on his cheek, wishing to God that she had done things differently, but she hadn’t and now her whole family had to pay the price. Cletus stood silently behind his granddaughter. Ellie sensed him behind her and ruffled Aiden’s hair before standing up and turning to face the man who had raised her.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be Ellie girl. We all make mistakes and your family is here to support you, don’t you ever forget that.”
Another passionate hug followed. Ellie felt the warmth and love of her family and realized just how lucky she was.
“Okay time to go. We have to let mommy get better.” Randall said.
A few more hugs followed and then Randall led them from the room. Ellie sat down on her bed and cried. How the hell had she let things get so bad? It was an answer that would only come with years of soul searching.
Providing adequate surveillance on the house was near impossible. Wooding couldn’t get his patrol car near the manor because of its secluded location within Darrow’s private property. The only thing he could do was park his patrol car on the road just outside of the private drive. The situation was causing Peterson fits. He radioed damn near every five minutes. The radio crackled again, causing him to slam his Starbuck’s coffee cup into the drink holder of the Chevrolet Caprice.
“What’s the status?”
Wooding grabbed his radio and depressed the button. “Same as ten minutes ago. Nothing’s changed. I’ll radio if I see anything.” He released the button, fuming as he did so. He knew Peterson was obsessive but this was getting ridiculous.
“Roger.”
He wanted to punch the radio, but knew that it wouldn’t do any good. He took a sip of coffee and drummed his fingers on the dashboard. It was going to be a long evening. The department was understaffed and it was not uncommon for a stakeout to exceed twenty-four hours. It was times like these that he wished he had a desk job. For Christ’s sake he didn’t even know if he was staking out the right guy or not, but Peterson was certain that Darrow had something to do with the hooker’s disappearance.
Just then Darrow’s van appeared from the drive and sped down the gravel road leaving a plume of dust in its wake. Wooding let a few seconds pass before pulling out behind him. The car was unmarked, but thugs like Darrow always had a sixth sense about when they were being tailed and he didn’t want to tip him off. He hit the radio, knowing that Peterson would be elated with some action.
“We got action. Suspect on route to highway four.”
“Stay on him like stink on shit. I want to know what he’s up to.”
“Roger that. I’m on him.”
The rope’s not long enough.
No, no it was. She had convinced herself. She had estimated the rope to be about eighty feet long, pulling segments of it between her outstretched arms and counting the number of times the rope was able to breach this gap. Her arms outstretched were nearly five feet long from fingertip to fingertip, the rope spanned this distance sixteen times, it was eighty feet long.
Abby sat in her chair and peered down at the grand staircase. It was a test run, but she couldn’t help but quake within her own anxiety. She was headed to the first floor, the place where the demon had tread. What if she were unable to get back up? What if Jack found her? What if it did? The thoughts paraded through her mind.
You’re not strong enough.
Jack had mentioned to her this morning that he was going to be gone all day. He was usually pretty truthful about this, but if she couldn’t get back up the stairs she was sure to be beaten. The demon on the other hand kept no such timetable, and he harbored no compassion.
The stairs in themselves posed as another adversary. They grinned up at her like the teeth of a great white shark. Come on Abby we dare you. Enter the mouth of the beast, if you dare. She counted them with her eyes, twenty-seven in all. Each comprised of solid oak that gleamed at her beneath the overhead lights.
You’re God damn crazy. You’ll never be able to make it back up.
She did her best to vanquish the taunting thoughts from her head. She had been strengthening her arms for weeks. She was ready. Let’s do this before I loose my nerve. Abby had retrieved the nylon rope from Porter’s study just ten minutes before. It was to be her lifeline, a way out of this hellhole. She looped the middle of the rope over the banister, wrapping it around once so that it formed a makeshift pulley with both ends able to slide back and forth. She tested it out, placing one hand on each end and leaning backwards in her chair. She released the tension from her left hand, then her right, the rope slide easily back and forth along th
e polished banister.
From her pocket she withdrew a felt-tip marker she had collected from Porter’s study and drew a black mark across the midway point of the rope. If it wasn’t long enough she would know, before she descended the stairs. She tied one end around the left handle of the wheelchair, grasping the other end in her hands. Here goes nothing. She leaned forward and tumbled to the ground, catching herself with her hands, but the force still slammed her abdomen into the hardwood, knocking the breath from her chest. She lay on the floor for several minutes, trying to regain the air in her lungs. At last, when her breathing became easier she pushed the wheelchair over the first step leaning back and grasping the free end of the rope with both her hands. The chair bounced on its wheels one time before coming to rest on the second step. She let out a bit more slack and the chair repeated the process to the third step, bouncing once again before coming to rest. Hand over hand she released the rope until the chair had come to rest at the bottom of the foyer. She glanced at the rope in hands. She still had about three feet before the halfway mark. The rope was more than long enough. She breathed a sigh of relief.
Now came the hard part. She would have to descend the stairs herself. She fastened the other end of the rope to her belt loop and made sure it was secure. When she was satisfied she held her breath and looked again at the steps. They were polished and slick, if she started tumbling there would be no stopping until she reached bottom and Abby concluded that she would probably not be alive upon her arrival.
Her first instinct was to go down on her belly, feet first. She could grab onto the support beams of the handrail and lower herself one at a time until she reached the bottom, but as soon as she tried to turn around she knew this was an impossibility. Her entire lower body was dead, numb to all sensation. It would be like trying to steer a car in reverse without using your mirrors or looking over your shoulder, a sure accident waiting to happen. She would have to go headfirst. She pulled herself along her belly to the first step, gripping the edge with her fingers hard enough to make her knuckles glow white. God please don’t let me fall, please don’t let me fall. She pleaded in her own head, confronting the memory of a previous spill she had taken down a different flight of stairs.
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