Whatever was going on, she realized, it was all escalating. Stafford was clearly on a roll and enjoying the sensation. Kirsten found herself wondering if he was doing drugs of some kind, or merely in a manic state that was normal, for him. His eyes were bright with the excitement and his speech, chocolate fudge voice notwithstanding, also reflected his mood.
And as Stafford’s moods escalated, so did Kirsten’s panic. No matter how hard she fought to control it, no matter how many deep breathing exercises, no matter how much useless plotting and scheming she did in a vain bid to find some hope of escape, it was all overshadowed by the presence of this evil man she’d thought was dead . . . who should be dead.
She listened as he and Ian Boyd argued, wishing she could learn from the words she couldn’t quite hear, wishing they’d move further from the shack to have their discussion, wishing it could somehow give her a chance to free herself.
And do what? Run? Get a grip, Kirsten. You don’t know where you are or how far it is from anywhere. You don’t even know where to run. Or how to outrun a bullet. That bastard would shoot you as soon as look at you.
Then, the argument apparently over, Ian Boyd shambled over to where his battered truck was parked, clambered inside and departed in a cloud of oily fumes. Kirsten had learned nothing – except that Boyd didn’t take his rifle with him.
Ralph Stafford didn’t make a big show of having the rifle when he returned inside. He didn’t have to; merely propping the weapon conspicuously just inside the door was sufficient. Nor did he mention it. Instead, he started in immediately on a subject obviously closer to his heart – Kendall’s book.
Not a good subject for Kirsten. She’d never read the book, didn’t need to, didn’t want to. She knew she was in it, knew her words were there, even her thoughts, but even Teague Kendall’s skill with words couldn’t approach the reality of the nightmares that had plagued her both sleeping and awake.
And even they couldn’t quite match the reality of here, now, being bound and chained and forced to discuss with this madman the details of his previous attempt to capture her, kill her, eat her. As he’d eaten her only sister.
But Stafford had read the book. Many times, judging from how he seemed able to quote from it almost at random. Chapter and verse, just as some learned scholars could recite from the Bible or the Koran – and equally capable of twisting, skewing meanings and interpretations to suit his own agenda.
He continued the conversation – if it could be dignified by description as such – throughout what remained of the afternoon, hardly paused for breath as he prepared a tasty evening meal. (Credit where it’s due, the man’s a dab hand in the kitchen. He’d have made somebody a wonderful wife if she didn’t wake up some morning to find herself being served for breakfast. My God – did I actually think that?) Delicately sliced cold ham, tiny roast potatoes, ears of corn wrapped in tinfoil and baked in the open fireplace.
Kirsten ate. She hated to, in some ways, but common sense said she must.
Even if he’s fattening me up for the slaughter, I’m no use to myself so damned hungry I can’t even think. Have to rest . . . have to keep my strength up . . . have to THINK, damn it! There must be something I can do. If not now, then maybe when that slut shows up with Kendall. There has to be!
And Stafford was an experienced, skilled interrogator. He used his rich voice to probe and explore with questions, ideas, suggestions, all with the skill of a fly fisherman casting delicate lures into the rills and runnels of her imagination, her memory. He would begin with an innocuous query, flicking it out to lie floating, an enticement that could be resisted but never quite ignored. Then he would twitch it, just a little bit, and somewhere, somehow, a part of her mind would respond, couldn’t help but respond despite her best intentions.
Kirsten’s husband had been a violent man. Not at first, obviously, but as their brief marriage progressed it deteriorated in direct proportion to his need to control her, dominate her. First the control freak part, then the cocaine use and an escalation to physical abuse. By the time he died as a result of arguing the right-of-way with a moose on the Banff - Jasper Highway, the widow he left behind was an emotional wreck whose self-confidence was too low to be measured.
Time had worked to resolve much of that issue, but she was still hand-shy, still easily spooked by sudden movements of any man’s hands. It had complicated her early involvement with Teague, but even worse – with hindsight – was the fact she had actually discussed these problems with the self-same psychologist who now took such delight in keeping her captive.
Captive? No question. But for what purpose? Kirsten could only assume he still harbored dreams of tasting her flesh. He’d alluded to it while pursuing her through the cave on Vancouver Island, seeming then to think she should feel privileged that he meant to compare the flavor of her flesh with that of her sister Emma, whom he’d already killed some time earlier.
“Did you have some part of Emma stashed away in a freezer or something? Were you planning to compare us bite by bite, or something?”
That earlier Kirsten would never have dared to ask, never have dared to even think it. But Kirsten had survived this man once, and it had made her stronger . . . far stronger than she wanted him to know. Stronger than she herself knew, Kirsten sometimes suspected. When she bothered to think of it at all, which wasn’t often. The awed curiosity of her Mole Creek caving group had made her think of it, though. Now Stafford’s subtle trolling did so, too.
“I wish I had,” he replied. A quick reply, one he hadn’t had to formulate. “But of course I didn’t know when Emma and I were . . . together, that you could become . . . available, much less that I would have such a fortuitous opportunity to meet you.” And now Stafford paused for a moment, his eyes flicking downward to the copy of Kendall’s book he’d been thumbing through as they spoke. And when he spoke again, there was a different quality to his voice, somehow.
“By the time you and I had our little adventure in your accursed cave, Emma was, unfortunately, merely a delicious memory. I think. My goodness, Kirsten – I truly can’t remember. Except the delicious part, of course.” And he licked his lips, not suggestively but more as some unconscious gesture not aimed at Kirsten but a genuine residue of a fond memory.
“Would it have made any difference? No, I suppose not.” He asked the question, answered it himself, not even bothering to look up from the book. “What I had in mind at the time, if memory serves, was sampling you and Kendall for comparison, actually. Of course, I didn’t realize then that you two hadn’t been . . . intimate, yet. So it really wouldn’t have worked very well as an experiment, would it, Kirsten?”
Stafford clearly expected a reply. Kirsten couldn’t think of one that would satisfy either her captor or anything even approaching logic and common sense. She half expected some show of anger, perhaps disappointment. But not . . .
“And you still haven’t been intimate, have you? Why is that, I wonder?”
No . . . no . . . no! Do NOT let yourself be dragged into this one. NOT!
Outside in the darkened wilderness, not all that far away, either, or so it seemed, a Tassie devil screamed, the challenge echoed by another devil screeching in reply, their guttural, squabbling cries piercing the night.
And Stafford, a cunning, more sophisticated, more truly evil devil than any of those outside, abruptly changed the subject. In the blink of an eye, he moved the conversation halfway around the world and into a totally different realm of food discussion.
“Did you know that the Tasmanian devil is considered an absolute world-class scavenger?” he asked. “World class! Right up there with the hyena and the vultures. A devil can consume nearly half his own body weight in less than half an hour, and once a mob of devils get onto a carcass they eat it all . . . hide, hooves, fur or feathers, the bones – everything! Nature’s vacuum cleaners.”
He sighed. “Absolutely amazing creatures. So totally efficient, so perfectly adapted to their role in nature.
And they were hunted like vermin for more than a hundred years before somebody finally realized how much good they were doing, especially for the very sheep farmers who were trying to obliterate them. Without the devils to keep the carrion down, it’s estimated early graziers would have lost incredible numbers of their flocks to fly-strike, for instance.
“But they are ugly, of course. And so eerily, beautifully noisy at what they do. Two devils feeding together sound like a dozen; a dozen sound like hell itself must.”
“So is that your plan for me – to feed me to the devils?” The words were out even as she thought them, and once said could not be retracted. So she plunged on, reckless with an anger that stirred in her belly, souring the taste of that excellent dinner. “Too bad we didn’t have them on Vancouver Island,” she said with a sneer. “They might have done a better job on you than the cougar did.”
Kirsten closed her eyes briefly, fearing for an instant that she’d gone too far, but Stafford only laughed.
“Goodness, Kirsten. I didn’t realize you were quite so fierce. Now please, settle down . . . relax. I have no such plans for you. Nor for your boyfriend Kendall, who should be arriving fairly soon, by the way.”
And you lie in your teeth, you bastard!
Again he switched tack, back to the Tassie devils he so admired, leaving her to wonder whether she was being lied to for some specific reason or merely . . . accommodated, pacified. Not that it mattered.
“The early settlers in Tasmania actually used to eat the beasts,” Stafford mused. “Hard to imagine, but I suppose times were . . . quite different back then. Some reports compared them to veal, although I’ve never thought so. I must remember to ask Ian Boyd when he returns what he thinks of that. He’ll know, I suspect. Although . . . maybe not. A wombat or platypus is one thing, but even Ian might draw the line at eating a devil.”
The implication was too obvious. Stafford was losing his subtlety, positively smacking her in the face with the fact that he had eaten a Tassie devil at some time or another. And liked it.
Kirsten wanted to scream. Would have screamed, had she thought it would do her any good. She was strung tighter than a guitar string, close to snapping if she wasn’t careful, and she knew that too. The problem was, so did Stafford, damn him!
“I could open some wine,” he suggested. “It bothers me to see you so tense, Kirsten. Not good for you . . . not at all.”
“You could let me go. That would resolve my tension problems.”
He smiled, but Kirsten noticed the smile never reached his eyes. “True,” he said. “But it would cause tension problems for me. So I’m afraid we’ll have to keep that situation as it is, at least until Rose arrives with Kendall. Which should be soon, I’d expect. I just hope she doesn’t get herself lost trying to find this place in the dark. I don’t think Rose is much of an outdoors person, do you?”
“I try not to think of her at all.” Honest answer; it came easily to her lips.
“Because she was married to Kendall? I would have thought you far too mature to let a little thing like that bother you. You’re actually quite a stable individual, Kirsten. Far more so than Rose, who is extremely juvenile in many ways. She is nowhere near as . . . complex an individual as you.”
She’s a fool to trust you . . . I know that much.
But Kirsten didn’t say it. Never had the chance. And Stafford wasn’t listening in any event; his attention, she could see, was now focused outside the shack, into the night where the faint sounds of an approaching vehicle grew slowly but steadily more audible.
“Speak of the devil,” he said. And smirked. “I expect that’ll be Rose now, although I suppose it’s possible Ian might have accomplished his assignment more quickly than I anticipated. Doesn’t matter, really.”
Stafford reached into one of the containers that crowded the folding table he’d set up and brought out a syringe and a small bottle of some clear liquid. His fingers nimble from long practice, he carefully drew off a measured amount of the liquid, put the vial away again, and rose from his seat.
“I’ll just go and welcome our new arrivals, shall I?” And, rifle in one hand and syringe in the other, he was out the door, which he left wide open behind him. He stepped out into the glare of the headlights when the vehicle lurched to a halt outside.
Kirsten watched as, first, Stafford was silhouetted by the headlights, then, once the headlights were extinguished, backlit only by the glow from the light inside the shack. She saw Rose step from the driver’s side, and only realized she was holding her breath when it soughed out of her in a whoosh at the sight of Kendall emerging from the other side of the vehicle.
“Kendall – how lovely to see you again,” she heard Stafford say as he gestured with the rifle and Kendall halted in mid-stride. “You know Rose, of course, and I expect you’ll be happy to know that Kirsten’s here, too.”
She saw the confusion on Kendall’s face, then – frighteningly, horribly – the recognition of the distinctive voice. The disbelief, the dumbstruck, jaw-dropping astonishment, and then the narrowing of her true love’s eyes as he recognized the insane truth and turned his eyes away from Stafford and peered straight at the cabin’s open door, straight at her.
And she saw Rose’s expression, too. One of gloating self-satisfaction that changed only slightly as Stafford gestured her over and handed her the syringe. “If you’d do the honors, please, Rose,” he said, and his protégé practically glowed with her desire to assist.
Rose had years of experience administering sedatives to patients far more difficult to handle than Kendall, who was still in the shock of trying to sort out what was happening. Kirsten could only watch in stunned silence as Rose took the syringe, spun back to her ex-husband, and, with a look Kirsten could only think of as pure, savage joy, plunged the needle into his upper arm before he even knew what she was doing.
Kendall flinched, turned long enough to glare at Rose, then stepped forward, ignoring the threat of Stafford and the rifle. “Kirsten?” he called. Then again, louder. He managed one step, then another, before he began to sag. A few more steps before slumping to his knees. It was only Stafford’s strong grip that saved him from landing face-first in the mud.
Kirsten couldn’t stop her mind flashing back more than a year, when there, in the darkness of her cave, Stafford had done almost the identical thing – stepped forward to assist Kendall . . . and then flung him into the pit of knee-deep, icy water. So quickly that Kendall never had the slightest chance to resist.
To Kirsten, it had been like watching a well-rehearsed routine, and this situation had a similar flavor. Stafford hands off the syringe, Rose spins to administer the sedative, then back to be in position when Stafford hands her the rifle as he catches the victim in mid-fall. Smooth as silk, deadly in its simplicity and unexpectedness.
Do they practice this sort of maneuver in mental hospitals? Hold regular little “stick it to the patient” classes? It wouldn’t surprise me, but then nothing this pair does should surprise me much. Stafford’s crazy and she’s insane. Must be.
So she never even got to speak to Kendall before Stafford lifted him and carried him into the cabin. Tenderly, gently, laid him on the camp cot where Rose had slept the previous night. Whereupon Kirsten was blatantly, almost brusquely ignored as Stafford took the rifle from Rose and propped it back in place, then went outside to his own vehicle, where he fumbled around for a few moments. When he returned, it was with a handful of the same electrical cable ties that held her own wrists and a length of chain just like the one around her waist. Kendall’s hands were bound, the chain closed snugly around his waist and held with a cable tie.
Then Stafford picked up the other end of the chain, fumbled in a pocket for a set of keys, and knelt to where the eyebolt was screwed into the wall at floor level. The eyebolt she had so slowly, agonizingly loosened. Loosened . . . how much? Too much? Kirsten held her breath, tried not to watch, couldn’t manage that, so she tried to conceal her dismay from R
ose, who she desperately hoped was too busy gloating to notice that dismay.
Please, please, please don’t twist on it, don’t yank at it.
She was able to force her attention elsewhere, didn’t dare to say a word, lest Rose notice her concern and speak out. Rose knew Kirsten had been working with the sections of disassembled cot frame, surely was bright enough to realize what Kirsten had been trying to do. But Rose’s attention had switched to Kendall again, Kirsten saw, and again there was that gloating smirk on the woman’s lips.
Then Stafford grunted, straightened up, and Kirsten felt the tension go out of her like a flood.
“I fear you’ve lost your bed for the night, Rose,” he said with a gracious, mine-host smile. “Not to worry; we’ll find somewhere for you to cool your heels. Why don’t we go outside and discuss that . . . leave these two to get reacquainted?”
Then he paused, cocked his head thoughtfully, his gaze flitting between the two women. “But first, I think it’s only fair that you give Kirsten back her ring,” he said, smiling hugely, the inference being that he’d caught Rose out, somehow.
Which might have been the case. Rose shot him a scurrilous glance as he reached out to lift the ring and its chain from Rose’s neck, then step over to replace it around Kirsten’s.
Thank you . . . I think. But she didn’t say it out loud. Couldn’t.
He gallantly waved Rose out through the door ahead of him, stepped through behind her, then paused and looked back, first at Kirsten, then at the rifle propped against the wall. She could see him measuring with his eyes, calculating the risk. Kirsten measured too, in her mind, knew she couldn’t reach the rifle no matter how hard she tried. Unless she could free the eyebolt. Could she even do it? She had yet to try and unscrew the damned thing using only her hands and there would be no time to dismantle the camp cot. Would she have time? If Stafford caught her at it, he’d find a more secure way to hold her . . . to hold both of them.
DINING WITH DEVILS -- A Tasmanian Thriller Page 13