Do Not Disturb

by A. R. Torre

  The men Marcus shared cells with were animals. He hated them, despised their dirty skin, the way they spit when they spoke, the naked look of their bodies in the showers. But he learned from them. Listened to their conquests, their failures, their mistakes.

  Lenny Blackwell. In cell H8. Term: thirty-two years. He raped and killed four women that the law was aware of, nineteen that they weren’t. He taught Marcus that bodies were the weak link; if you can destroy the body, you can destroy the evidence. He also expanded Marcus’s lock-picking skills and explained how long it took to strangle a woman properly.

  Bruce Hornt. In a shower stall. Term: forty-two months. He tortured a next-door neighbor for six hours till the man admitted to fucking his wife. He taught Marcus what worked with torture, what didn’t. What had finally caused the man to break.

  Mikel Stevens. In the yard. Term: seven years. Six counts of kidnapping. He taught him that you don’t have to kill the victims if you have one of their loved ones handy. Taught him that a fighting victim will become putty if they believe someone else is in danger.

  Marcus was locked up because the judge thought he was dangerous. He left that prison a smarter, better predator. God bless our justice system.

  He changes lanes and risks a ticket, increasing his speed. Excited to get to his prize.

  CHAPTER 76

  MY FRUSTRATION REDUCES a little bit at lunch, when I check my bank balance and see the Cams.com deposit. Twelve grand. I got twelve grand and they got twelve grand just for a fucking wire. Bullshit. I feel my heart rate increase again, just from the ridiculous fee. I take a deep breath and call my hosting company. Tell them to rerun my debit card, wait on hold for a ridiculous twelve minutes, then crack a smile when they inform me that my site is back up. Finally. One short-term problem solved. I have cash.

  And I still have the Cayman money. My nest egg. I can build back my US funds. It’ll take a year, maybe two, but I’ll build it back. I push the missing millions out of my mind and focus on Mike. I need a new hacker. Someone to dig for information on Mike. Find out his address and full name. Then pack up FtypeBaby and RUN right to his door. Then, depending on what I find, I can either hug the man to death or chop him into pieces. I feel something on my cheek, and brush at it, surprised when my finger comes back wet. Wet. My eye teared up. I stare at it in surprise. Blink rapidly and dare my body to produce more weakness.

  I eat a roasted turkey breast and mashed potatoes boxed dinner. Drink water and check e-mail, hoping against reason for something from Mike. I don’t know what I’m expecting. A heartfelt apology with a treasure map to my fortune? Another clue, this one leading me to discover the big bad monster that I am to run from? I’d take either but get nothing. Nothing except twenty-two client e-mails, covering everything from fawnfests to marriage proposals. I distract myself from growing anxiety and return them all, most with template letters I keep saved on my desktop. Thirty minutes. Twenty-two letters. I’m still jittery when I finish.

  I use the restroom, brush my teeth, and floss. Redesign my toilet paper pyramid.

  I am useless, an emotional ball of confused. Camming has always worked to distract me, but I can’t imagine getting online right now. Smiling for strangers when I only want to know what has happened to Mike.

  I hate him.

  I’m scared for him.

  The seesaw between the two will drive me mad.

  CHAPTER 77

  UNLESS MIKE IS completely insane, it’s now been two days, making today Thursday. Two days that Mike’s sat here, his head against the iron frame of his bed, his wrists handcuffed out like he’s Jesus. Two days without food or water. If only that fucker had come on a Wednesday, successfully avoiding Jamie while giving him only a day to hang. Thank God he hadn’t come on Monday. He might not have made it—two days are about all his weak mind and body can take. He’s already going crazy. Last night, he couldn’t sleep. Could have sworn whispers from the corner of the room were singing along with holiday hell. The chorus is chanting through, his damn fingers tapping along, every spare thought in his head drowning in its words. Jamie’s bang brings him back, wakes his conscious up from the slippery slope of death. His mind swims upward and he blinks, eyelashes stuck together, crude grit in the edges of his eyes. Trying to swallow, to call out, there is no spare saliva, and she wouldn’t hear him through the duct tape anyway. He feels drained, like he has sat under a heat lamp until every pore in his body is dried into a dead leaf that will crumble under a firm touch.

  She bangs again, a firm pound on the front door, and he can picture her, a hip cocked, hands weighed down with groceries, a frustrated breath blowing a curl of red hair out of her eyes.

  She doesn’t have a key, a past decision he now curses. But his sexual needs are frequent. Should she decide to pop by unannounced, he didn’t want her walking into a fuckfest. Plus, he’s not an invalid. And she’s not a nurse. She’s a friend—one that is paid. One who saves him from having to battle the inconveniences of the outside world. Those inconveniences, the hassle of getting a chair in a vehicle, over a curb, through a crowded restaurant—those are why he just stays here. And… fuck. The stares. The looks of pity. He left all that behind. Online, no one knows that shit. Online, he is a god. Online, he is the man he was always meant to be. The man that adorable, cocky little kid should have grown into.

  He can hear her. She calls his name, frustration turning into something else. Worry. Worry is good. He strains to hear more, but there is nothing. Then he hears the incredible sound of the bedroom window lifting, and the curtains parting to reveal one frizzy head. She looks the wrong way first, toward his computer, then turns her head back, toward the bed, and freezes. Their eyes lock, and if there was a way to smile without ripping half the skin off his lips, he would.

  “Shit.” The word a hiss. She shoves herself forward, through the low window, and lands in an uncoordinated heap of legs, arms, and red hair, a foot swinging out, and he hears the crack of glass as there is an awkward collision. It is one of the most beautiful things ever seen.

  She flings herself to her feet, rushes to him, and pulls, with trembling fingers, at the edge of the tape. There is no notice of pain, only the feel of her soft touch, the concern in her eyes, the warmth of possibility that he will live. As soon as his mouth is free, there is the dart of a dry tongue as he licks his lips and speaks. “Water.” She reaches for the water bottle on the bedside table. The one that he’s stared at for days, just far enough from reach to literally drive him insane.

  She twists off the cap and holds it to his mouth, watching, her eyes wide, as Mike greedily chugs the water. The enormous relief of having liquid, of rescue, the release of every horrific nightmare held at bay, rushes him. A breakdown is coming, he can feel a snap somewhere inside as the magnitude of what has been survived hits him. He struggles to meet her eyes, struggles to find words as the black cloud of oblivion moves closer, threatening him with its sweet insanity. “Call Deanna,” he manages, the words more watery than he would have expected.

  She meets his eyes, confusion in her own. He fights, his lips moving, a moment passing before sound comes out. “Don’t tell her… about me. About…” there is a struggle to explain, nodding to his legs, and her eyes soften, a gentle hand placed on his chest.

  “I won’t. But Mike, where are the keys? The keys to the handcuffs?”

  “No cops,” he whispers. Then blackness washes over, and he speaks the words that have chanted through his mind for days.

  “Jingle all the way. Oh what…”

  CHAPTER 78

  CALL DEANNA. JAMIE stands in Mike’s bedroom and tries to make sense of his words. Who is Deanna? And why—with his body chained to a bed, a knife jutting out of him, blood over half of his torso, is he asking for her? She should call the police. An ambulance at least. Mike’s jaw is chattering, words humming through his mouth in an insane chorus, out of rhythm with the chimes that are echoing through the house. She snags a chair, drags it to the kitchen, and stands
on it, running her hands along the top of the fridge till she reaches the box, the ridiculous Tiffany box that is blaring holiday cheer in the middle of freaking February. She gropes for its power cord, yanking the hell out of it until the music ceases and her mind can think.

  Call Deanna. She walks over to Mike’s desk, looks for a phone. Nothing. Walks over to his chair, pushed into the corner of the room, far from the bed. A pain grips her heart as she imagines him chained to the bed, away from anything that could help him. How long was he tied up? Who did this? The TVs, computer, everything is still here. She leans down, digs through the pocket sewn into the side of his chair, and her hands close around the hard metal of a phone. She pulls it out, presses a button, and the screen floods with light. Fourteen missed calls. She dismisses the alert, a red battery indicating that there is 2 percent left of life. Swearing, she hurries to the bed, grabs the charger, and plugs it in, breathing a sigh of relief when the charge indicator displays. Then she scrolls through the contents till she sees the name. Deanna. Six letters, no description, no picture attached to the contact. Nothing to tell her anything. She presses the “Call” button and waits, the phone to her ear, unsure of what she will say.

  “Hi, fuckface.”

  The voice sounds pissed. Beyond pissed. The tone of the girl drags a long, sharp razor across Jamie’s skin. This voice doesn’t belong to the image she had in mind, that of a frilly bimbo, one of Mike’s hundred-dollar whores. This voice lives far outside Jamie’s life of pasta ziti and Real Housewives of Miami. She swallows. “Hi.”

  CHAPTER 79

  “HI.” THE MYSTERIOUS bitch, calling from Mike’s phone, says hi. Like we are sleepover buddies painting our fucking nails.

  I had been on camera when the phone rang, a range of emotions flooding through me at Mike’s name on the display. Relief, then a sudden flare of anger. He is alive. He is fine. Has been fucking me around for two days just for the apparent hell of it. At the female’s greeting I set the phone down, pasting a smile on my face, and blow a kiss into the cam, exiting out of nude chat, a chorus of good-bye messages suddenly flooding the chat room screen. I end the chat and yank the black cock from between my legs. “Who the fuck is this?” I stand, naked, the cool air from my AC refreshing against my hot skin. I close my eyes, let out one long breath, and relish the cold breeze. Try to figure out the emotions that are full-out battling in the tight confines of my chest. I let out a long breath, struggling to release the anger that is growing with every stuttered word from MysteryBarbie’s mouth. It isn’t working. I want to rip someone apart, make a throat scream so loud that I come from just the sound of it, my orgasm spreading as the agony lengthens.

  “My name is Jamie. I’m…” She pauses for a moment, like she doesn’t know what the fuck she is. I am furious, every emotion I’ve felt for the last forty-eight hours, every shred of hate and love I have for Mike flooding through my veins. I hold back words and wait for her to finish her pathetic sentence. “… I’m a friend of Mike’s.”

  “Can you rip his head off for me? Start pushing at his forehead until it snaps the fuck off? Yank in and rip out tendril after tendril of veins and organs until he is a hot dripping mess of blood?” I breathe hard, unsure of where this raw aggression is coming from, but it mixes with the hot tears burning from my eyes and feels good. He was partying with my money and a slut. I lost sleep over him. I worried over him. I mourned for him. I clench my hands into fists, my cunt growing wetter with each violent word from my mouth. Yes. I need him dead before me, his eyes unmoving, his blood covering my skin, warming my surfaces, pleasing my heart.

  There is a sound, something like a stutter, a skittering of words across an unclean surface. Great, MysteryBarbie probably doesn’t want to bloody her manicured hands. “He just told me to call you. Something’s happened. I just—” A gasp sounds through the phone, then something wet, like a sob.

  I roll my eyes. Is she crying? “Stop blubbering and put Mike on. I’ll hash this bullshit out with him.”

  “I can’t!” Somewhere, MysteryBarbie finds her backbone and the balls to actually scream at me. “You won’t let me explain! I just got here, and he is tied up and stabbed and almost dead!”

  My feet stop. They have been moving, a pacing motion that keeps me in place but works off some of my nervous energy. They stop and I pause the action of breathing for a quick moment. She has my attention.

  “How long has he been tied up?”

  “I don’t know,” she sobs. “I was here on Sunday. I come on Sundays and Thursdays. His cell phone is at two percent, so… a day? Two—three? I don’t know how long a battery lasts. And he was thirsty, he looks—horrible.”

  I can’t find my heartbeat. I think my guilt may have eaten it. I grip the phone tighter and wish I could take back every curse I just uttered. “He isn’t speaking?”

  “Yeah, but it’s gibberish. He’s just singing ‘Jingle Bells.’ Over and over. He asked me to call you, then started in. I think he’s in shock.”

  “What did he say exactly?”

  She pauses. “ ‘Call Deanna.’ Well—first he asked for water.”

  “ ‘Call Deanna.’ That was it?” I hated him for nothing. Almost dead. Stabbed. Shock.

  “Yeah. That was it.” There is something in her tone, something that makes me think she is lying, but she’s not in front of me, and interrogation isn’t nearly as effective if torture devices aren’t involved.

  “Did you call the cops?”

  “No. He told me not to.”

  “So he did say something else!” I snap the words, my frustration at a breaking point.

  “Sorry—I forgot that part.”

  “Don’t forget anything else.”

  She puffs into the phone. “Why’d he want me to call you? Are you a nurse? Can you come over?”

  “Shut up, let me think for a minute.” I sit on the bed, my skin already cold, time too precious to waste with the thermostat.

  RUN.

  Call Deanna.

  Why call me? Why the wire memo? Why reach out unless this is about me? I can’t rescue him. I can’t nurse him back to health. This might be my fault. So help me God, if I caused this… I grip the phone so hard I hear the case crack. RUN. “Look around. Tell me what you see.”

  “I came in the window because he didn’t answer the door. He was in the bedroom, tied to the bed. Handcuffed to the bed. His mouth was taped shut.”

  “Any damage to him?”

  “Other than the knife in his shoulder?” There is a beat of silence. Some rustling, and I can suddenly hear the rhythmic sound of a man singing softly, almost whispering the sound.

  I picture her leaning over him, his arms spread-eagle against the bed. The face I have never seen, duct tape hanging from one cheek. “Is he still handcuffed?”

  “Yeah. I don’t have a key. I haven’t seen one anywhere.”

  This bitch is useless.

  “I don’t see anything—God, there’s so much blood everywhere.” A sob breaks from her.

  Blood. Pools of blood. A heaving chest. “The knife is still in him?” I flex my hands. A knife. Jabbed into his shoulder. I wonder if that’s how the man got him onto the bed. Just the threat of it probably would have worked. People freeze when a knife is held against their skin. I fight my excitement reflex. I miss that freeze. I miss that power.

  “Yeah. I’m not gonna touch it. The blood is caked around—” She breaks off, the sudden silence ominous.

  “What?” I demand.

  “Oh my God,” she chokes out. “His finger… it’s almost cut off. I can see bone—” she gags, and I have the sudden image of MysteryBarbie vomiting all over the crime scene.

  “Get away from him. Have you checked the rest of the house?”

  “For what?”

  I growl into the phone. “Blood, dead bodies, a masked man waiting to slash your throat?”

  “Do you think I’m in danger?” Her voice squeaks slightly, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes again. Fuck it. I
roll them.

  “Just check the house.” Shit. I need him. I need him to tell me what the fuck is going on. I need him to tell me if he is the one who took my money, or if he stole it for someone else. I need to find out what he said to them, what he told them about me. I need to know if this was about me, or if my missing money was just a side effect of some other deal he had cooking. I need to know if this is my fault. I need to know if I should prepare for war.

  Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn.

  RUN.

  Four minutes later, I hang up the phone, knowing little more after MysteryBarbie’s pussy-ass tour of the house. I swear to you that my grandmother had bigger balls than this chick. Plus, she was hiding something. Her answers to my questions all seemed carefully designed to hide one gigantic secret. I wanted to know one thing: whether that secret had anything to do with me. Anything else, I didn’t care. Let him smuggle coke, or grow weed in his backyard. Or have a wife and five kids. I wanted my money and my hacker back. And my friend, if I want to get all gushy about it.

  She was an emotional mess, wanting to know how to unhandcuff him, how to pull him out of shock, whether she was in danger of the handcuffing-finger-cutter coming back. I told her to cut off his wrists and let him sing “Jingle Bells” till he starved to death. Her stony silence let me know her level of humor. A part of me wasn’t joking. The knowledge that Mike had suffered through one hell of a forty-eight hours melted my anger, but I wasn’t ready to put the BFF necklace back on until I knew which one of us had fucked up. Chances are, it was me. I swallowed a mountain of guilt and told her in the nicest words I could, to start Googling answers to her questions. I’m not a freaking nurse.

  I let out a sigh, and make a slow, measured spin, looking at my apartment with new eyes. Mike knows a very long list of information, including, in big bright fucking letters, my address. RUN. The message makes a little more sense now, the pieces falling into logical place. Mike is the only person, other than Jeremy, who knows who JessicaReilly19 really is, and where she lives. Mike. Jeremy. And now, a new man: FingerCutter. A man. Probably just one. I can handle a man. RUN. Mike must have given him my information. The man must be on his way here.