by B. B. Hamel
“Wait,” she says.
I turn back to her, head cocked.
“I, uh. . . “ She looks down at her feet. “I couldn’t sleep. Please, can I have another blanket?”
“Okay,” I say. “You’ve been good today. My pet.”
She glares at me, but she doesn’t say a word.
I laugh as I step onto the elevator and disappear back upstairs.
She’s on my mind a few hours later as I walk down Walnut Street toward Old City. Asking for that small comfort likely took a lot out of her, and she was probably already regretting it. But I’d give her some small comforts for already taking that step. I have a mattress she can use plus a pillow and more blankets.
I’m not a monster. Well, not that kind of monster. I don’t enjoy torturing her, not at all. I want her to be comfortable, to feel safe and secure, but I can’t indulge her too much. Not yet, at least. Not until she proves herself to me.
The problem of what to do with her on the day that she does prove herself trustworthy keeps nagging at me as I spot the man I’m in the city to meet. He’s tall, though you wouldn’t know it since he’s slumped on the ground next to a building. His skin is dark and smooth, and I’m pretty sure he’s from somewhere in Senegal based on his accent. He goes by “Ryan,” though I know that isn’t his real name. I don’t really care.
Ryan is one of my best informants. He’s well loved on the streets, a magnanimous and kind guy who shares everything he finds. He has bipolar disorder, and normally he’d be unmedicated on the streets, but I provide him with Lithium and cash in exchange for information. He became homeless a few years ago when he gambled away his money and his life during a manic episode, and he’s been trying to get himself back together ever since.
The Lithium evens him out. But he’s still an uneducated homeless black man living in a country that hates all of those things. He doesn’t have much of a chance. I’m hoping he saves the money I give him, but I don’t ask.
“Ryan,” I say as I approach. He looks up and a smile breaks out across his face.
“My favorite man,” he says. “How are you today, Mr. James?”
I use fake names, too. Can’t be too careful. “I’m well. And yourself?”
“Good, good.”
I crouch down next to him and pull a pill bottle from my jacket. I hand it to him and he nods gratefully. “How have you been feeling?” I ask softly.
“Good, good. The Lithium, it does the trick. I’ll be back to myself soon, very soon.”
“Good man.” I sit down next to him and we watch people walk past for a few minutes. It’s part of our ritual. I’m not sure why, but I think Ryan likes the company.
“I saw him yesterday,” he says finally. “I followed him for a few hours.”
“Anything?”
“Nothing. He went into a drug store. He sat in the park. He read a book.” Ryan cocks his head at me. “Are you sure about this one?”
“I wish I weren’t. But I am.”
“Okay. Yes. I’ll keep watching.”
“Get some others on him. The usual offer.”
“Okay then.”
“Thanks, Ryan.” I slip him some money. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Always a pleasure.”
I stand, nod at him, and then walk off back the way I came.
The man Ryan was following is named Mark Sheer, a sixty-year-old railroad conductor. He lives alone in south Philly and doesn’t seem to have any family or friends. He keeps to himself, a nice quiet white guy living in a nice neighborhood, and nobody looks at him twice.
He also rapes little kids. There have been rumors about him for a long time, but I haven’t been able to find proof of it until recently. One of my informants caught him luring a kid away from a rail station one night and taking him into the anthill-like back hallways where he touched the boy and did unspeakable things to him.
I hate rapists and killers and thieves. I hate those men with a passion. But there’s a special disgust for pedophiles, and if I ever hear of one, I always make sure to take care of them as fast as I can.
I need more proof of Mr. Sheer’s crimes first, though. I broke into his house two weeks ago and found some child pornography stashed away in a hidden panel in is closet, but that doesn’t prove he’s a child rapist as well. I need him to make one tiny move and then he’s mine.
But I don’t want to wait. I know I should, but I hate the thought of waiting for this guy to fuck up some poor kid’s life. The porn and the rumors are a lot, though it’s not enough by my standards. Still, sitting back and letting him destroy children is unacceptable.
As I walk back to my car, I know that I’m going to move on him sooner than I should. I’ll give Ryan some more time to find something, but if he doesn’t, I can’t hold back.
The screaming need inside of me is already starting to hunger again, so soon after killing Amelia’s father. I should be worried, but I’m not.
I just want to take the sick bastard out.
6
Amelia
It’s hard to keep track of time in a room with no windows or clocks. It’s always daytime in my room, so the only way I know to keep track is based on my sleeping.
But I’m not really sleeping. When I do, I dream about Noah coming to me. I dream about him touching my body, gently and slowly as my back arches and I moan. I dream about him wrapping his hands around my throat and squeezing, but instead of screaming, I beg him for more.
I wake up, sweating, scared, and strangely aroused.
I feel better after I eat. The hangover feeling is gone and I can think straight. I can make it into the bathroom, too, which is a huge relief. I feel more human as I sit there, back against the wall, wrapped in the thin scratchy blanket.
I want to plot my escape, but so far it seems impossible. I’m not strong enough to break my chains and he was careful when he set this room up. Even if I did remove the chain, I have no way of getting on the elevator. Just from watching him I figured out that it only works based on his thumbprint.
Trying to plan my escape only distracts me for so long. Between the moments where I’m plotting, I sometimes can see my father’s body slumped in the tub, slowly draining of blood.
It should disturb me, but it doesn’t. Not anymore, at least. At first it terrified and upset me, but now it just makes me feel excited. I was angry at first, but now I’m happy that Noah killed my father. He deserved it and Noah did the world a favor by taking my father from it.
I just wish he hadn’t thrown me into this prison.
As I lean back against the wall, the elevator suddenly dings. I can’t help but feel excited as the doors open and Noah steps into the room wearing dark jeans, a dark t-shirt, and carrying another tray.
“Dinner time,” he says, placing the tray down in front of me. It’s soup again, this time something thick and creamy, plus a cup of water.
Greedily, I grab the water and down it. He smiles and fills me another cup from the bathroom tap as I start in on the soup.
“Good,” he says. “Eat. I’ll be back.”
I’m too busy eating to say anything. He disappears, but I barely notice. I finish the soup like an animal, not caring about manners or taking my time, just trying to get some nourishment. A few minutes later, the elevator dings again and slide open.
Noah steps into the room dragging a mattress behind him. I watch as he drags it and places it against the far wall near the bathroom. He goes back into the elevator and returns with a pillow and several more blankets, piling them onto the twin mattress.
I sit there unmoving, watching him, surprised. I didn’t expect him to bring me a mattress. I thought I might be overstepping when I asked for a blanket, but apparently he does care about my comfort.
“I have a change of clothes for you, too,” he says, standing over me. “So strip.”
I stare at him, surprised. “Strip?”
“Yes. I need to wash what you have on.”
I look away, blushing. Why is my heart
beating so fast? This man is a murderer, a killer, and the man that’s keeping me locked away. I shouldn’t blush when he asks me to take off my clothes. I should feel angry.
Instead, I feel excitement coursing through my veins. It’s a completely unfamiliar to me, since I’d been practically locked away by my father for so long, and it’s almost overwhelming. I have to look away from him and control my breathing.
When I look back, he’s smirking at me and crouching down within arm’s reach.
“Go ahead, my pet,” he says softly. “Strip.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“If I do, will you undress for me?”
I open my mouth, close it, and then nod.
“Okay then. What should I call you?”
“Amelia.”
“That’s no fun.”
“None of this is fun for me.”
His smile slowly fades. “I’ll make it fun for you, sugar. All you have to do is let me.”
I glare at him, my excitement slowly replaced with anger. He doesn’t own me and I won’t give in to him. Those gorgeous eyes stare at me, practically undressing me, and I know what he wants. Maybe part of me wants it too, but that doesn’t matter.
“Turn around,” I say.
He stands and walks a few feet away before facing me and crossing his arms. “No.”
I stand up. “Asshole.”
“Undress, sugar.”
Slowly, I pull off my shirt. He watches me the whole time. I toss it aside and remove my bra. My nipples harden instantly as they hit the cold basement air. His eyes never leave my body and a hungry, intense smirk chases across his lips.
I cover my breasts with one arm and finish pulling off my sweatpants and panties. I kick them aside and stand there, completely naked, trying to be defiant but failing.
“Good girl,” he says. He walks over to my bedding, grabs me a blanket, and brings it over. I wrap it around my body gratefully as he picks up my discarded clothing.
“I’ll be back,” he says, and disappears back upstairs.
I stand there, wrapped in the blanket, heart beating fast.
There’s a large part of me that loved having his eyes on my body. I liked that he commanded me to undress, as messed up as that might sound. I turn my back to the elevator, trying to keep myself under control.
I’m so pathetic. I’m sick. There must be something broken inside of me if I’m enjoying part of this. I’m so starved for attention that I’m melting over this attractive bastard.
I have to get myself under control. If I want to get away and stay alive, I can’t just turn into a pathetic wet mess every time he speaks to me. He may be handsome and intense, but I have to ignore that.
He returns in a few minutes with a change of clothes for me. There’s a pair of tapered sweatpants and a comfortable-looking sweatshirt. I pull it all on gratefully, and he watches me get dressed.
“Is that all you’re going to do now?” I ask him. “Watch me dress and undress?”
“Maybe,” he says. “If you weren’t enjoying it, I’d stop.”
“I’m not enjoying it,” I say.
“Liar.” There’s that filthy smirk again. I want to wipe it off his face. “I’ll be back soon, sugar.”
“Don’t call me that, either,” I call after him lamely as he goes back into the elevator and returns upstairs.
I stare at the closed doors for a minute then curse myself. I’m so pathetic I can barely stand it.
I walk over to my mattress and curl up on it, piling the blankets on top of me. For the first time since coming to this place, I feel safe and comfortable, even though it’s just an illusion.
Noah is a bastard, but a beautiful one. It’s hard to despise him like I should. He killed my father and freed me from that prison, but he threw me into this new one. He’s trying to make me more comfortable, and there is a part of me that understands his dilemma. But I can’t give in to that. I can’t let him break me.
I’ll fight him to the bitter end. Even if it feels so much better not to.
7
Noah
She’s sleeping when I bring her down her breakfast. I’m surprised that the ding of the elevator doesn’t wake her right away. She stirs slightly as I walk slowly into the room.
I crouch down next to her and am surprised at how vulnerable she is. In her sleep, she looks like the twenty-two-year-old girl that she is. When she’s awake, she looks older, more world-weary, although I know that isn’t the case.
I did my homework on her. It took a while, since there’s not much out there about her, but I figured out that she’s twenty-two, doesn’t have a high school education, and has always lived at home. Beyond that, there’s not much information.
She’s a puzzle that I want to solve. She’s a gift that I want to unwrap.
I place the tray next to her mattress and stand. As I turn to leave, I hear her sit up.
“Noah,” she says.
I turn back to her. “Sleeping beauty.”
“What time is it?”
I smile. “It’s morning. I brought you something to eat.”
“Oh.” She looks at the tray. “Thanks.”
That’s the first time she’s thanked me.
“You’re welcome. I don’t want this to be more uncomfortable than it has to be.”
She picks up the cup of water and drinks it greedily. When she finishes, I get her more from the bathroom. She drinks another cup but waves me away when I go to fill it up again.
“Stay with me,” she says as I turn to leave.
I pause and turn back, surprised. “You want me to stay while you eat?”
She nods, looking shy. “I sit alone in here all day. I guess I want some company.”
I nod and sit down on the floor across from her. “Okay. I’ll stay.”
“Good.” She picks up her toast and takes a bite. I watch as she chews and swallows. “You don’t have to stare at me.”
I grin at her. “Sorry, sugar. Can’t help it.”
“Are you always like this?” she asks, sounding annoyed.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Charming. Annoying.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. “Probably,” I say.
“Well, tell me about yourself.”
“That seems like a bad idea.”
She sighs. “Look, I’m locked in your basement. I don’t plan on spilling the beans when you let me out of here. But we might as well talk to each other while I’m stuck, right?”
I nod, but I know what she’s doing. She’s probing for weaknesses. It’s impressive, actually, that she’s not too afraid to push me like this. I haven’t touched her and won’t, but she doesn’t actually know that.
“I was born in this area,” I say to her. “Grew up around here.”
“What were your parents like?”
“Nothing like yours.”
“Good for you.” She frowns at her tray.
“They died when I was very young.”
She looks up at me. “How?” she asks, cocking her head to one side.
“They were murdered.”
She’s silent but doesn’t look surprised. I take a deep breath and look away from her, feeling strange in the heavy silence between us. I haven’t told anyone that in a very long time. Frankly, I haven’t even mentioned my parents, let alone their murder.
“How did it happen?” she asks softly.
“I was six,” I say slowly. “They put me to bed. My mother read me a story. My father tucked me in.” I pause as the memories come flooding back and then I begin to speak faster, shocked at how good it feels to tell the story.
“I heard something strange downstairs. I couldn’t sleep because I was afraid of the dark. My mother told me that I had to try to sleep before I came and got them, and I always did try. That night, I was trying extra hard, but still couldn’t sleep.
“I don’t remember what I thought the noise was. Maybe the television or something. But I knew some
thing was weird. So I climbed out of bed, deciding that I’d tried to sleep long enough, and went to find my mother. She usually came into the room, turned the lights on, checked for monsters, and then kissed me. That usually helped.” I pause, trying to find the words.
“What happened?” she asks softly.
“I found my father first. His throat was cut, like a second smiling face. There was a lot of blood. I didn’t really know what I was looking at. I don’t really remember what I did, but eventually I left him and tried to find my mother.
“She was left gutted on the kitchen table. She was still alive, but barely. She said something to me, but it was too quiet. I couldn’t understand her. She passed out from blood loss after that.” I go quiet, my story finished.
Amelia watches me for a minute and I can’t read her expression. I don’t expect pity from her, considering what I did to her father, but I do expect some sort of reaction.
“So that’s why you’re so fucked up.” She says finally.
I stare at her for a second. She stares back. I burst out laughing and she smiles along with me.
It feels good to laugh. I haven’t felt any lightness about my parents’ murder in a very long time, maybe ever. Amelia is one of the few people in the world that understands how I feel, at least to some extent.
Finally my laughter calms down and she finishes her piece of toast. “You’re probably right,” I say. “I can’t really deny it. I’m definitely fucked up.”
“We all are.” She grins at me. “Did they ever catch the guy?”
I nod. “Yeah, they did. It was some rich guy that got off on murdering couples, apparently. My father had a lawyer friend that sued the guy’s family for a ton of money and we ended up winning.”
“I guess that’s how you afford all this,” she says.
“That’s right.”
“Let me get this straight. You’re a rich guy with a dark past killing bad guys. Is that right?”
“Something like that.”
“So now you kill people? Like a serial killer?”
I nod, staring directly into her eyes. “That’s right. But only bad people. Only people that deserve it, like your father.”