by Ricky Fry
In one corner was the wooden chair Travis had taken a seat on, and in the opposite corner sat an old washer and a dryer, their pea-green exteriors chipped and faded.
I found a bottle of water set neatly beside the bucket and drank. The cool liquid soothed my throat, which had gone raw from the previous day’s screaming. Food and water. A bucket for my business. It was all one needed to live when you subtract love and sunshine and the company of friends.
I guessed we were somewhere far from the city. He’d said it was an old hunting cabin, which meant it would likely be set back some distance from any kind of well-trafficked road. Even if I managed to escape, I would face a long hike over unknown terrain. It was a chance I might have to take.
Better to die lost in the forest or the mountains than in his basement dungeon.
But there was the problem of the chains running from each of my wrists to a heavy ring bolted deep into the concrete wall. And the shackles, the same ones I’d worn since leaving the jail in Topeka, still dug into the skin around my ankles.
Escape seemed like an impossibility.
Don’t cry. Not here. Not like this.
Crying meant giving up, letting him win. I had to be strong, even if it meant eating his food. Even if it meant shitting and pissing into a plastic bucket.
Crap. Now I have to pee.
I’d grown accustomed to squatting in shackles during the many stops we’d made on the road. As I braced myself against the wall and listened to the splashing of piss in the bottom of the bucket, I distracted myself with thoughts of rescue.
I imagined the police bursting into the cabin and the pathetic sound of Travis whimpering as they carried him away. Maybe he’d put up a fight, and they’d shoot him. That would be even better.
Sure, he’d tossed out the GPS device, but sooner or later, the police would put things together and figure out it was him. Maybe they’d find Ruby’s body. I hoped they’d find Ruby’s body. The thought of her rotting alone somewhere almost brought tears to my eyes, but I forced my attention back to a rescue.
There had to be something connecting Travis to his uncle’s cabin. A tax bill. A letter. Something, anything with his name on it.
Any minute now. Any minute they’ll surround the place, guns drawn, and this whole nightmare will soon be over.
I closed my eyes and waited. Just when I was about to give up, I heard the sound of tires rolling up the driveway.
They’re here! They’ve come for me.
But if I was expecting an army, I would have been disappointed. Instead, there was only the sound of a single car door opening and closing, followed by the jingle of keys as someone entered the cabin.
The police wouldn’t have keys.
Travis was back.
More jingling of keys. The door at the top of the stairs swung open, and the sunlight cast his shadow down the creaky wooden stairs.
“Hi, honey,” he said. “I’m home. I was thinking we might have pasta for dinner.”
I said nothing.
“Okay, pasta it is then.”
And the door swung shut.
That’s when I began to cry. Only a single tear at first, but soon it was joined by others until they rolled down my cheeks and onto the concrete floor.
I buried my head in my arm and choked back sobs, determined not to let him hear.
FOURTEEN
I dozed off for a while after crying. I woke to the sound of pots and pans up above in the kitchen. The light from the window had faded, and I sat in darkness, listening to Travis sing along to some country song on the radio.
Dante was wrong about the Nine Circles of Hell. There was a tenth circle, and I’d found it there in the basement.
The music stopped, and I heard his keys jiggling in the lock again. The lights flickered on, and I shielded my eyes.
Travis trudged down the stairs with something over his arm. “I brought you a gift. I hope you like it.”
The only gift I would like is a one-way bus ticket to somewhere far away from you.
I forced a thin smile across my face. “Oh?”
He held out his arm and displayed the ugliest dress I’d ever seen. It looked as if an 80’s teenage prom movie had a love child with Little House on the Prairie. “I had to guess your size. Thought it might be nicer than those pink prison scrubs.”
“You expect me to wear that down here in this damp and moldy basement?”
“Oh, I almost forget,” he said. “I got some shoes to go along with it. I’ll bring them down with dinner.”
“How about you give me my Converse back?”
“Those smelly old things? No, you should look like a proper lady.”
I imagined how I must have looked and almost laughed—four days since I’d had a shower. No makeup. A bandage on my head, and I was pissing in a bucket.
Like a tacky dress is going to change anything?
“I want my Converse, Travis. And my hoodie. It’s cold down here.”
“I’ll bring you a blanket. But first, why don’t you try on the dress? You’ll have to be careful with the pasta. It would be a shame to ruin it on the first night.”
“I’m not wearing that thing.”
The stupid grin disappeared from his face, and his cheeks flushed red. “You will wear it because I said so.”
The anger in his voice flickered like the crackle of the fluorescent lights overhead.
“You said it yourself—I don’t want to stain such a nice dress with pasta sauce. I’m a messy eater, you know. Always so clumsy.”
“Spencer, are you patronizing me?”
“No, it’s just—”
“Maybe I don’t have a fancy college degree, but I know when someone is putting me on. Now I bought you this dress, spent a pretty penny on it too. How about some fucking gratitude?”
I didn’t know what to say. He was clearly upset, and he’d already hit me once. I didn’t want him to hit me again.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll wear the dress.”
The smile returned to his face. “That’s better. For a second, I thought you were a bad girl. And well, you know what happens to bad girls.”
Bad girls die.
I was beginning to suspect those were more than just empty words.
“Now,” he said, “I’m gonna have to unlock the cuffs around your wrists. Promise you’ll be a good girl.”
My heart quickened, and I worked to keep a straight face. Perhaps this was my chance. I could hit him over the head or strangle him and make a break for it. “Yes,” I said. “I promise.”
He disappeared up the stairs and came back with a long length of chain, two padlocks, and a heavy wrench. On his way back down the stairs, he stopped to lock the door behind him.
It doesn’t matter. He has the key. If I knock him out, I can still get the key.
He took a step toward me, and I pulled back.
“Don’t worry. I ain’t gonna hurt you.”
He took one end of the chain and padlocked it to the shackles between my ankles. Then he padlocked the other end to the wall before placing the key on top of the old washing machine.
“That chain only reaches so far. You get any funny ideas, like trying to knock me over the head or something, and the key will be out of reach. You kill me, and you’ll starve down here all alone. So you see, Spencer, it’s best you be a good girl and put on the dress. Now hold out your hands.”
I wanted to kick. Scream. Spit in his face. But what good would it have done? It was going to take more than feeding him a few lines to get him to drop his guard. No, I’d have to play this game slowly. I did as I was told.
He took the wrench and loosened the bolts on the cuffs around my wrist. Then he slid them free, sliding his fingers along mine with a delicate touch.
“See? That wasn’t so hard.”
I nodded.
“What? I can’t hear you. I need you to say it, Spencer. Was that so hard?”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“That’s a good girl. Now take off your shirt and put on the dress.” He passed it to me and pulled up the wooden chair, flipped it around, and sat facing me with the back of the chair between his legs.
“You’re going to watch me?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have any choice. You’ve been very naughty tonight.”
“I can’t do it.”
“You will do it.”
“No, you don’t understand. You’re supposed to step into a dress, not pull it on over your shoulders. I’m going to need you to take off the shackles too.”
He smiled, a stupid little smirk I wanted to slap right off his face. “You’ll manage.”
Fine.
I started with the filthy pink scrub shirt, left with only an ill-fitting sports bra issued by the jail in Topeka. His eyes moved up and down my body, taking inventory of every mole and curve as I shimmied and slithered into the dress.
As hideous as it was, it turned out to be a perfect fit.
He released a long, slow whistle—the kind construction workers used to make in cheesy movies whenever a pretty girl walked by on the sidewalk. “It’s beautiful. Looks like it was made for you.”
My skin crawled.
“Aren’t you going to say something?”
“Um, thanks.”
“You’re welcome. You look so nice; it’s almost a shame to put the cuffs back on.”
Then don’t.
But he told me to hold out my hands again, and he slid the cuffs back over them, tightened the bolts down with the wrench.
“Now, the shackles. Those pink pants are ruining the look.”
He pulled a different key from his pocket, the same type he’d unlocked my handcuffs with any time I’d had to pee out on the road. One at a time, he released my ankles, the first time they’d been out of the shackles in four days. I rubbed the raw skin before sliding the pants down and kicking them across the floor.
“Perfect. I hope you like garlic in your pasta. I’m a huge fan of garlic.”
“Splendid.”
Satisfied with my appearance, he reapplied the shackles and disappeared back upstairs. I sat alone in the frigid basement and smoothed the folds and wrinkles of the dress.
It was all so absurd I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Did he really think I was going to be happy?
Wow, honey. Thanks for the beautiful gift. I’m so looking forward to a romantic dinner.
I wondered if I might be so lucky to get a nice white wine to pair with the pasta. Being chained up in the basement would be a whole lot better if I was drunk.
Dinner was more disastrous than I’d imagined. He tripped and nearly fell as he tiptoed down the stairs with a huge serving tray balanced in both hands. There were pots and plates and even a single yellow daffodil in a plastic vase, but unfortunately, the wine I’d been hoping for was absent.
“Oh wait,” he said. “I forgot the shoes.”
He practically leaped up the stairs and returned a minute later, clutching a pair of bright pink, shiny pleather heels. “I hope you like them. The lady at the store assured me they matched the dress.”
Yeah, if I were a Barbie doll in 1987. Only shoes that ugly could match such a get-up. At least Matt, despite all of his many faults, had impeccable taste.
“Put them on.”
I slipped off the jail-issued shoes I’d been wearing and wiggled my toes. After four days without a proper scrub, my feet were more than a little smelly, but he didn’t seem to notice or mind.
That’s probably because I broke his nose.
I took some pleasure in reliving that moment, the image of blood dripping onto his shirt and the painful wail he’d made as I smashed my feet into his face.
With my outfit complete, it was time to eat. He served the pasta with plastic tongs and poured the sauce over the top. “That’s how they do it in Italy,” he said. “The sauce always goes on last, or the pasta gets soggy. I watched a few cooking videos. I hope it’s tasty.”
Under normal circumstances, it would have been cute, maybe even sweet, for a man to cook for me. Matt didn’t even know how to use the microwave.
He watched with eager eyes—the same eyes that had watched me undress—as I swirled a plastic fork in the spaghetti and brought it to my lips.
“So?”
“It’s good.”
“You really think so?”
“Yes.” I swirled the fork again and took another bite, careful not to get any sauce on the stupid dress. As much as I hated to admit it, the pasta was actually good. It was the best food I’d had in weeks. If I wasn’t for the cuffs around my wrists, I could have been sitting across from a date at a charming restaurant, not squatting on the basement floor with a monster.
“I’m so happy you like it. Just think, I could cook for you like this every night. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
I shoved another bite of spaghetti into my mouth and nodded so I wouldn’t have to answer directly.
His eyes suddenly grew wide. “Spencer, the dress—”
“What?”
“You’ve spilled the sauce.” He jumped up and paced back and forth, pulling at his hair and mumbling incoherent words under his breath. “It’s ruined, Spencer. The beautiful dress I bought for you is ruined.”
I looked down and saw a tiny red spot just above my left breast. “It’s okay, Travis. It’s just a drop or two. I’m sure we can clean it.”
“No!” He looked like a boy who’d broken his new toy on Christmas Day. “You ruined it!”
“Do you have any paper towels?”
“Paper towels? That’s tomato sauce, Spencer.” His eyes became glassy, and I thought he might cry. “It’s never going to come out.”
I’d seen enough to know Travis ran hot or cold. I was afraid of what could happen when he was running hot.
“Calm down and bring me a rag. The fabric is made of polyester. It’ll probably wipe right off.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down. No, you don’t get to do that, not after you ruined the dress. Now dinner is ruined too. I had it all planned. It was supposed to be perfect, and you ruined everything!”
“I’m sorry.”
He kicked one of the pots, and red sauce splattered like blood on the wall. “You’re not sorry. You wanted this to happen. I knew you didn’t like it.”
“Travis—”
“Take it off.”
“What?”
“I said, take off the fucking dress.”
“No, I won’t do it.”
I knew it wasn’t the right thing to say the moment the words left my mouth. He lunged at me and knocked me backward. My still-bandaged head came down hard on the concrete with a loud thump. He paid it no attention. His hands were on me, clawing at the straps of the dress.
“Please, Travis! Please stop.” It was my turn to cry. “You’re hurting me.”
He tore one strap free and then the other. I tried to push him off, but he was too strong. Instead, he slapped me across the jaw and continued clawing. My head, still reeling from the fall, spun, and my body went limp.
It was easy for him now. He took the dress in both hands and tore it down the middle. When he was finished, it lay in tatters beside me.
He left me there on the floor in my underwear, the cold concrete beneath me. For a long time, I stayed very still, listening to the sounds of the floorboards creaking above my head as he continued pacing back and forth upstairs.
I didn’t dare move, expecting any moment I would hear his heavy footsteps on the stairs as he returned with a knife in hand to finish what he’d started.
When the pacing stopped, and I thought he might have gone to bed, I sat upright against the wall and rubbed the back of my tender head.
I’m going to die down here. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually, he’s going to kill me.
I told myself not to think about such depressing thoughts—it wouldn’t do me any good. But no matter h
ow much I tried, I couldn’t force the image of Travis standing above my crumpled and lifeless body from my mind. These things happen—maybe not often—but they do happen. Another pretty girl found dead. Another headline for the six o’clock news. And why not? He’d killed Ruby and Monica. Why should I be any different?
It was a sobering reality check, but rather than dragging me down into despair, I felt a sudden strength.
I’m going to live. I’m going to survive this, whatever it takes, and I’m going to kill him. I’m going to kill him before he kills me first.
I would have laughed if I hadn’t been afraid he might hear it. So I sat in silence until from somewhere outside the cabin rose the distant hooting of an owl, drifting in through the window on the cool night air.
Was it the same owl I’d heard the night before, as Travis had dragged me from the van into the basement? It didn’t matter. It was a message, a reminder that something still existed beyond these four walls.
I took a few deeps breaths and crawled on my hands and knees into the corner. At the base of the wall, just where it joined the floor, I used the bolt from the cuff around my wrist to carve a single line.
Day one.
FIFTEEN
Time had passed slowly in the van, but at least there had been company and windows with a view of the ever-changing scenery. A small town. A farm with children running and playing in a field. Something to distract the mind as the miles slipped away beneath us.
Now there were only four walls and a single window, through which a beam of bright sunlight illuminated tiny particles of dust.
I spent the morning exploring my space. The chains only allowed me to move a short distance from the wall, but when I dropped my arms behind me and stretched my head toward the center of the room, I glimpsed a vehicle parked outside the window—an old green pickup truck with a rusty chrome bumper—no front license plate.
There were no eggs that morning—no bacon and toast or songs playing on the radio. I thought Travis might have left in the middle of the night until I heard the shuffle of his footsteps moving around above me.
I hoped he would have something else to do besides tending to his captive in the basement. After what seemed like a few hours, there was the jingle of keys at the door and a creaking sound as it swung open.