Hillary_Tail of the Dog

by Angel Gelique

  She opened drawers and files and searched under heaps of papers. Finally, Hillary found what she needed—an envelope addressed to Dr. Morrison with his home address. Now she knew exactly where she was. She turned her attention back to the laptop and searched online for a cab company within Bellefluer, the town where Dr. Morrison’s house was located. There was just one listing in another town called Sea Cove. She hoped it was nearby. Hillary grabbed the cordless phone on the desk and dialed the number. The dispatcher, a woman with a deep, hoarse voice informed her that she could have a cab in front of the house in ten minutes. It would cost forty-five dollars to drive to Juniper Lane in Summerville. Hillary arranged for her pickup. She would be ready to go by then.

  Without sparing another minute, she picked up a heavy brass-toned stapler and slammed it violently against the screen of the laptop. It shattered, leaving behind an intricate cobweb-like design. She closed the cover, picked up the laptop and slammed it numerous times into the corner of Dr. Morrison’s desk. Then she threw the mangled laptop to the floor.

  What the hell is she doing? Dr. Bentley wondered, hearing the ruckus. He desperately wanted her to leave and was growing impatient. After she had walked into the room and nearly saw him with his eyes opened and head up, he wasn’t taking chances. His eyes had remained closed and his head tilted far back. He intended to stay that way until he heard the front door close. He could hear Hilary shuffling about the house. He had heard her carrying on a muffled conversation, to whom, he had no idea. He had wondered if she had called his wife. He knew that’s exactly where she was headed next. Patty would have no idea what who she was. She’d invite her in. She wouldn’t stand a chance against Hillary.

  Adrenaline pumped within his veins as he thought about what that meant: It was entirely up to him to save his family. Failure was not an option. He had to break free and warn his wife to grab Amber Skye and get out of there fast.

  The minutes dragged on until at last, he heard the honking of a horn. He could hear Hillary’s footsteps trudging down the hall.

  Hillary ran into Monica’s room and grabbed the shopping bag. Many of the items therein were blood-stained but she didn’t think it would be noticeable. Just as long as the bag didn’t break open, she would be fine. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror before leaving the room and shrugged. As she approached the front door, she quickly ran through a mental list in her head, making sure she had everything that she needed. Then she exited Dr. Morrison’s house, slamming the door shut behind her.

  The hot, humid air and bright sun almost made her dizzy. She squinted as she made her way to the cab. The cab driver waited inside as she helped herself into the car. Maybe it won’t be his lucky day after all, Hillary thought, annoyed that he hadn’t offered to help her—not that she needed or would have accepted his help anyway. She slammed the car door shut and told the long-haired, sweaty old driver where she wanted to go.

  “How long will it take to get there?” Hillary asked, staring intently at the driver in the rear-view mirror.

  “Just under an hour,” he replied in a gruff, disinterested voice.

  He turned the key in the ignition and drove off.

  Hillary was excited that she would be at the Bentley household so soon. She couldn’t wait to meet Dr. Bentley’s wife and daughter.

  Dr. Bentley’s heart raced in both excitement and dread the second he heard the door slam. This was it...the clock was ticking. He had already thought of a plan. Now he had to put that plan into action. He said a quick prayer and took a deep breath. It was now or never. If his plan failed, his family would suffer and die horrifically.

  ~19~

  Dr. Bentley had spent countless minutes attempting to lift the straightening iron that lay close to his legs. At first he had wasted several minutes getting it inches off the floor only to have it slip from within his leather shoes and fall back to the floor. Next he kicked off his shoes and tried lifting it up with just his socks. That method proved no better. He needed to remove his socks and get the cord between his toes.

  There was no clock in the room and he could not see his watch. He had no idea how many minutes had actually passed since Hillary left. He estimated about ten to fifteen, but when every second mattered, he could not rely on his circadian clock for accuracy.

  Growing increasingly frustrated, Dr. Bentley slowly focused on getting his socks off. His nervous trembling only added to his clumsiness. Bringing his left foot up, he slipped his toes into the cuff of his right sock and pried it down. It looked as though it might work until his foot slid out of his sock and lowered to the floor, leaving his sock lowered on his leg.

  Cursing, Dr. Bentley tried again. He knew he needed to take his time and work slowly, but his mind raced with frightful thoughts of Hillary on her way to his house. Just how close was she now? Taking a long, labored breath, he placed his left toes within his lowered right sock and curled them tightly around the cuff. As he prayed and prayed in his mind, he very slowly moved his foot down. The sock got all the way down around his heel before his left foot slipped out of the sock.

  “Dammit!” he screamed. Sweat trickled down the sides of his face. Then, as if sense and logic had suddenly infused his irrational brain, a thought occurred to him. Instead of lifting his feet and having gravity work against him, he should just step on his sock with one foot and pull away with the other. It took all of two seconds to remove his sock this way as he cursed himself for allowing anxiety and fear to cripple his brain function.

  With both socks off, Dr. Bentley had no trouble at all grabbing a hold of the straightening iron. It was still warm, but not hot. He didn’t know if his plan would work now. Still, he had to try. With the cord between his curled toes, Dr. Bentley lifted his right leg up, bringing the iron off the floor and toward his outstretched fingers. He was terribly inflexible and strained his leg muscle in an attempt to reach the iron. Even ignoring the ache, it was clear that he was physically unable to bring the iron any closer to his fingers.

  His heart raced as his anxiety reached treacherous levels. Drenched in sweat and trembling uncontrollably, he cursed under his breath as he pondered his next move. He let the iron fall to the floor then quickly moved his foot further down the cord, about a foot away from the iron. Then he positioned the cord between his toes, curled them tightly and lifted his leg and the iron up slowly. With the iron approximately two inches off the ground, Dr. Bentley began to swing his leg back and forth. When it seemed that the straightening iron had gained sufficient momentum, Dr. Bentley rapidly jerked his leg forward, propelling the iron toward his lap. With desperate, outstretched fingers, he managed to grab a hold of it and clung to it as if a life preserver had been tossed to a drowning man.

  It was a victorious moment, but the true test was yet to come. Dr. Bentley slowly maneuvered the straightening iron within his grasp, trying his best to steady his shaky hands. He placed his thumb directly on the ceramic plate. It was barely warm to the touch. His heart sank, but still, he had to try. What other choice did he have?

  After a couple long and daunting minutes, he slowly positioned the iron in his hand so that the warm plate could come into contact with the duct tape around his wrist. His plan was to melt the duct tape enough to break free. Each passing second drained his hope, as the iron was cooling off fast. Just when he thought he had maneuvered it enough to touch the tape, the straightening iron slipped from his grasp, falling onto his lap.

  More minutes passed as he desperately tried to reposition the iron so that the plate would touch and melt the tape. It was a futile attempt and he knew it. Even if he were able accomplish his task, it would be useless. The iron had cooled off too much. Screaming in frustration, he flicked his wrist, tossing the iron across from him. It landed toward the head of the bed. Dr. Bentley stared at it with contempt and despondency. It represented hopelessness, and worse, the impending death—no, the painful, torturous death—of those he loved the most. And he was helpless...absolutely powerless to do anything ab
out it. At that moment, Dr. Bentley wished Hillary had killed him. How could he live with himself knowing that he was responsible for all of the bloodshed?

  Through his tears, Dr. Bentley spotted something just beyond the straightening iron. The object was hidden under the edge of the bed. It looked metallic. He squinted, hoping to get a better focus on it. He gasped. He knew exactly what it was, and his heart raced with excitement at his renewed hope. It was the scissor—the one Hillary had used to cut off his pants and free his legs. She had inadvertently kicked it under the bed.

  “Okay,” he panted aloud, “okay...think...think.”

  His upper body was securely taped to the chair and the scissor he needed was about six feet away from him. How would he ever get a hold of it? Fear gripped him, paralyzing his brain. He couldn’t stay focused. All he could think about was how close Hillary was getting to his family. He had no idea how much time had passed since the cab had driven off. If the cab driver sped, he could be there in as little as forty minutes.

  Pull yourself together, he ordered himself. There’s got to be a way.... With each loud, thunderous heartbeat, his mind heard a nerve-racking tick, tick, tick, tick, tick as the passage of time mocked him and rendered him hopelessly anxious and seemingly helpless.

  Nervously, he began fidgeting in the chair, trying desperately and fruitlessly to wrest free from his tightly bound restraint. Grunting and groaning in frustration, he kicked his legs wildly, tipping the front legs of the chair off the floor. Fearing that he would fall back, he abruptly leaned all of his weight to the left. Instead of falling back, the chair fell to the side with a loud thud.

  Dr. Bentley’s hip crashed against the side of the chair as it slammed to the floor. The pain radiated up his side to his shoulder. As unpleasant as it was, it was far less painful than anything Hillary would have inflicted. With all the adrenaline in his bloodstream, the pain barely registered for long. What did register was the broken chair. The right side of the back of the chair had separated from the seat. It didn’t seem like much, but as Dr. Bentley wriggled frantically, the duct tape seemed to loosen at the bottom due to the extra slack.

  With renewed hope, increased adrenaline and an unrelenting will to save his family, Dr. Bentley used all his might and strength trying to rip his arms free of the duct tape. There were too many layers to rip through, but he did make some progress. He was able to move the tape further up his arms, exposing his elbows. If he wriggled enough, he could try to move the tape even higher above his chest and squirm his way below the sticky prison.

  Twisting and wrenching furiously, he used his legs against the chair to force his way below the tape just as he had planned. Finally, he was making progress. He had no idea how much time had passed since Hillary left but he knew she had to be close now. The thought left a distressingly sick feeling within the pit of his stomach. But this time, the fear did not cripple him. He worked even harder to free himself.

  It seemed like ages before he was at last free from the duct tape and chair. He took two seconds to breathe a heavy sigh of relief before bolting up and running over to the table. Both cell phones were gone. He raced to Dr. Morrison’s office, ignoring the crippling pain that the pull of gravity and motion restored to his damaged scrotum. There was only one thing on his mind, his sole purpose: to save his family.

  He reached for the phone and nearly cried out in excitement when he heard the melodic hum of the dial tone. His finger jabbed the numbers quickly, carelessly misdialing. He cursed aloud as he turned the phone off, then on again and pressed the buttons slowly and carefully. He was overcome with a feeling of nausea and lightheadedness so intense he barely realized the call had gone through. Patty’s cell phone was ringing. He fought the tempting urge to close his eyes and be swept away by the soothing darkness.

  Answer...answer! He ordered Patty in his mind. Three rings, then four, one more then he heard her chipper voice on the voicemail, “leave a message, I’ll call you back!”

  “Damn, Patty, answer the phone!” he cried out as he redialed the number and prayed that she would answer this time. Was it already too late?

  The phone rang on until he reached her voicemail again. Frantically, he left a message.

  “Patty, it’s Jake…get out of the house, get out now!”

  Images of his family being tortured plagued his mind. Waves of nausea returned as his stomach clenched. He needed to sit. He allowed himself to fall onto Dr. Morrison’s leather office chair. His injured scrotum ached even more as he sat. Beads of sweat formed along his hairline. He felt as though someone had turned the thermostat all the way up. He unbuttoned the top two buttons on his shirt.

  With unsteady, shaky hands, he tried calling Patty, this time on their home phone. Once again he had no luck. He set the phone down and sobbed. His head ached like never before. He closed his eyes and started to drift off.

  The ringing phone startled him. He answered it quickly.

  “Hello?”

  “Why are you calling me from Pat’s house? And why—”

  “Oh, thank God!” Dr. Bentley exclaimed. Tears of relief ran down his face. Party’s voice was music to his ears.

  “Listen,” he said frantically, “grab Amber, get out of there. NOW! You have to get out NOW!”

  “What? Why? What’s the matter with you?”

  Dr. Bentley’s whole body was shaking uncontrollably.

  “Patty, please, there’s no time to explain…she’ll be there any second.”

  He could hear Patty sigh.

  “So it’s true then,” she said angrily. “Your mistress is on her way over.”

  “No, no, no, no, no...nothing like that. It’s Hillary Greyson...SHE’S GOING TO KILL YOU IF YOU DON’T GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE NOW!”

  “Hillary Grey—”

  “Get out, please Patty, you and Amber need to get far away from there!”

  “You just don’t want me to meet your little tramp, that’s all this is about. Hillary Greyson…really? Hillary Greyson is dead.”

  “She’s not dead, but you will be if you don’t get out of there, she’s—”

  “You must think I’m a real fool,” Patty yelled just before hanging up on him. She yanked the cord out of the base of the phone then shut off her cell phone. She didn’t want to be bothered by him again.

  “No, no, listen....” Dr. Bentley cried into the dead air before realizing she had hung up.

  He quickly tried calling her back on the home phone line. It just rang and rang until the recording played. He called her cell phone again. The call went straight to her voicemail. He knew Patty; she was done talking to him and would not answer his call.

  Dr. Bentley felt the helplessness return like violent waves crashing into him, bringing with it a renewed dose of self-pity: all that effort escaping only to fail anyway. He threw back his head and let the tears rolled down his cheeks. It was now officially hopeless. He closed his eyes and just before passing out, thought about calling the police. It was too late though. The call of the sirens of darkness was too great to resist and he was suddenly overcome by the void of unconsciousness.

  Patty sat on her couch crying, the cell phone still in her hand. How could Jake do that to her? After all those years, all the sacrifices she had made for him and their family. He had been frantic on the phone. It was so unlike him. Was he that desperate not to get caught? Or was she and Amber really in some sort of danger?

  “Why’re ya cryin’ mama?” Amber asked, her little voice full of concern.

  “I’m okay baby,” Patty replied, pulling the child close to her and planting a kiss upon her velvety-soft cheek.

  “When are we going to the park?”

  “In a little while. Mommy has to wait for someone to come over first.”

  “Who?”

  “I-I’m not exactly sure,” Patty said, a final tear escaping down the corner of her eye as she chuckled at the absurdity of her reply and the baffled look on Amber’s face.”

  “A friend of daddy�
��s,” she added.

  Amber’s questioning eyes relaxed.

  “Awwww,” she whined, “how long’s that gonna take?”

  “I’m not sure, but we’ll go to the park right after we’re done talking.”

  SHE’S GOING TO KILL YOU IF YOU DON’T GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE NOW!

  Jake’s desperate warning echoed in her mind. She shuddered as a shiver traveled down her spine. But Hillary Greyson was dead...she was shot to death after she was apprehended in the woods and resisted arrest. Wasn’t she? It was on all the news channels. What was Jake talking about? Why would he say such a thing? Surely he could have come up with a more plausible, clever way to get her out of the house....

  Patty caught the tail end of Amber’s question. She hadn’t even realized the girl was talking to her. She looked annoyed and impatient, waiting for her mother’s reply.

  “I’m sorry sweetie, what were you saying?”

  “You’re not even listening to me,” she whined.

  “I’m sorry. I was thinking about something important.”

  “About daddy’s friend?”

  You have to get out NOW!

  “Yes.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “It’s a girl.”

  “Daddy has a girlfriend?” Amber giggled, amused, teasing her mother.

  Patty was not very amused. She was downright infuriated by the very thought of it. Hearing her daughter say it enraged her even more.

  “It’s not like that, silly,” she teased back. But was it?

  SHE’S GOING TO KILL YOU....

  “So, what’s her name?”

  Hillary Greyson....

  “Hillary…I guess,” She chuckled again. How stupid of her. Hillary Greyson was dead. Period. Mary the mistress was on her way over.

  “What does she look like?”

  “I don’t know, look, why don’t you do some coloring in the meantime?”