You Are Mine

by Ricky Fry

  He slogged down the stairs with a cardboard box in his arms, smiled at me when he reached the bottom. I shivered, and not because it was chilly in the basement, and he’d left me the night before in my underwear.

  Oh great, he’s brought me another dress.

  He frowned when he saw the one he’d torn off me the night before crumpled up into a makeshift pillow. Then he put the box down and took a seat on the chair.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper last night.”

  I was not expecting that. If this is some kind of game, I need to be careful about how I play it.

  He didn’t wait for me to say anything. “It’s just, I want you to be happy with me, and I thought the dress would make you happy.”

  “It was a beautiful dress, Travis.”

  He sighed. “We both know you hated it. I was never much use when it came to style or fashion. I just wanted things to be perfect.”

  “Nothing is ever perfect.”

  “You are,” he said. “You’re perfect. That’s why I chose you. That’s why you’re mine.”

  I’ll never be yours.

  “How’s your head?”

  “It’s much better.” It was a lie, of course, but it was what he wanted to hear. “So, what now?”

  He smiled. “I brought you some things. Two blankets and a pillow.”

  “That’s nice of you.” I couldn’t believe I was thanking him, but after a long, cold night in the basement, a blanket would be a welcome relief.

  “And there’s more,” he said. “Another surprise.”

  Not another surprise.

  “Oh?”

  He pulled a sealed plastic bag out of the bottom of the box. I recognized it as the bag the detention deputies had given him in Topeka—the bag with my things.

  “I took it from the van before I ditched it. Maybe you’ll feel better in your own clothes.”

  If he hadn’t been the monster that he was, I could have kissed him. Nothing would have felt better than to slip into my jeans and hoodie.

  “I’ll wash them for you,” he said as he nodded toward the old washer and dryer. “In the meantime, maybe you’d like to take a hot bath?”

  I was wrong. A hot bath would be even better than my hoodie.

  I nodded. As much as I wanted—no, needed—to clean myself up, I imagined Travis perched on the toilet, watching me with a grin on his face as I bathed.

  As if reading my thoughts, he said, “Don’t worry. I’ll be a gentleman. You can have the bathroom to yourself, as long as you promise to behave.”

  “I promise.” The words came out of me like some obedient, 1950’s housewife, but I’d already decided after the events of last night, it would be better to play nice. Maybe if I could get him to trust me, he’d let his guard down. Maybe then I’d have a chance to kill him.

  “Great, a hot bath it is then.”

  He tore up open the plastic bag and threw the contents into the washer, placing my black Converse shoes neatly on top. I was surprised when the old machine sputtered and came to life. It looked as though it hadn’t been used in a decade or two.

  With the clothes in the wash, he went upstairs and came back with the wrench, loosened the bolts on the cuffs and my hands slid free.

  “The shackles stay on,” he said as he slid his arm around my elbow. “Be careful on the stairs.”

  It was my first time seeing the cabin. It was modest, not much more than two or three rooms with old furnishings to match the washer and dryer. I was most surprised by how neat and tidy everything was. In the kitchen, a dishrag was draped neatly over the door handle of a vintage stove. The pots and pans from last night had been washed and returned, in order of smallest to biggest, to the open shelves of a wooden cupboard.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Huh?” I was distracted by the wood-burning stove in the living room. How nice it would have been in the winter to curl up beside it with a good book.

  “The cabin? Do you like it? I know it’s not much.”

  “It’s—quaint.”

  He must have been satisfied with my answer because he smiled as he led me into the bathroom and turned the tap above a deep, clawfoot tub.

  “There’s soap and shampoo there, on the rack beside the toilet. You can undress as soon as I lock the door behind me. Oh, and Spencer?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Wash your feet real good. I didn’t want to say anything last night, but they stink.”

  Maybe I didn’t bust his nose as bad as I thought.

  It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered at the moment was the pure bliss of slipping my cold and achy body into the steamy hot water. There was even a bottle of bubble bath. I poured a capful into the water, and soon the shackles on my ankles were hidden beneath a layer of thick, lavender-scented foam. I could have been any other girl in any other place.

  But you’re not just any other girl.

  He was playing nice today. It was a part of his twisted plan, like good cop and bad cop, designed to break me down until I would do anything he said. But I wasn’t going to let myself be fooled. I had a plan too. I just wasn’t sure how I was going to pull it off.

  I unwrapped the bandage on my head and touched the place where he’d hit me the first night. A small scab had formed, and the wound was clean. It stung only a little as I massaged shampoo onto my scalp and into my hair, which I washed twice until it was soft and clean. Then came the soap. I scrubbed and scrubbed until the dirt had been worked free from my knees and elbows before moving on to the rest of my body. I’d just finished scrubbing between my toes when a knock came at the door.

  “Spencer?”

  “I’m almost finished.”

  “Take your time,” he said, his voice slightly muffled by the door. “I’m going to open up and leave a clean towel on the toilet seat—just a crack. I won’t peak. Knock on the door whenever you’re ready, and I’ll come for you.”

  I’ll come for you.

  Travis always had a way of making everything sound creepy. Maybe that’s why he’d decided to kidnap me. He was too creepy to meet a girl under normal circumstances. Then again, Matt wasn’t creepy at all when we met. He’d turned out to be a totally different kind of psycho.

  I wanted to stay in the tub forever until I’d shriveled up so small I could slip right out through the drain. I added more hot water and had almost dozed off when he knocked on the door again.

  “I’ve got coffee,” he said. “And toast.”

  I knew it was his way of telling me he’d become impatient, so I climbed awkwardly from the tub—it wasn’t easy with the shackles—and dried myself off with the towel. When I’d wrapped it securely around my body, I rapped my knuckles on the door and waited for him to come.

  He led me into the living room and took a seat next to me on the sofa. “Your clothes are in the dryer.”

  “Was I in the tub that long?”

  “Nearly an hour. Would you like some coffee?”

  “Yes, black.”

  He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with coffee and toast on a Mickey Mouse tray. We drank and ate, and I thought about how surreal it was to be drinking coffee with my kidnapper—the murderer of my friend.

  When the coffee was finished, we went back down to the basement, where we repeated the same process we’d done with the dress. I pulled on my t-shirt and hoodie before he returned my wrists to the cuffs chained to the wall. Only then did he remove the shackles just long enough for me to pull on my skinny jeans.

  “It’s nice,” he said, passing me the Converse and watching as I slid them onto my feet. “You look natural, like the kind of girl who’d be comfortable in the city or roasting marshmallows around a campfire.”

  “Thanks.” I was just glad to be back in my own clothes, with a hoodie and two blankets to keep me warm.

  He snapped his fingers. “Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t we cook dinner together tonight? There’s a recipe for roast chicken I’ve been wa
nting to try—garlic, herb, and butter.”

  “That sounds great.”

  He winked. “Pick you up at seven.”

  I’m looking forward to it.

  And it was true, I was looking forward to it. A kitchen has knives. And a knife was what I needed to kill him.

  SIXTEEN

  If someone had been standing outside the cabin looking in through a window, they would have seen a happy, young couple preparing dinner together. They would have seen a man chopping carrots and chives and a woman pressing cloves of garlic as they both sang along to the radio. They would have seen lit candles on the table and thought it was all very romantic. And then they would have moved on, never knowing the real truth of what they’d seen.

  As promised, he came for me at seven. He’d spent hours before in preparation. I’d heard him moving things back and forth from the kitchen to the living room. At one point, he even went out to his truck, and I thought he might have left, but minutes later, he was back, pacing around above me as little clumps of dust fell from the basement ceiling.

  By the time he’d led me up to the kitchen, there was already a raw chicken sitting alone in a glass dish on top of the stove. Vegetables and other ingredients were lined up neatly in plastic bags.

  He placed his hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eyes. “Can I trust you?”

  “Yes.”

  He surveyed me suspiciously. Perhaps I’d hesitated a second too long with my reply. Then he brought his hands in front of his chest and rubbed them together. “Good, because the kitchen can be a very dangerous place. But just in case, I’ve removed all of the knives and pointy objects and put them in my truck for safekeeping.”

  I did my best to appear confused. “But how will we chop the vegetables?”

  He pulled back one side of his flannel shirt to reveal a small knife hanging from his belt in a leather sheath. “I’ll do the chopping. You can help with everything else. There’s a garlic press over there. Start with that.”

  Damnit. There has to be something else in the kitchen I can kill him with.

  I did as I was told and got to work on the garlic. When I was sure his back was turned, I glanced around the room, desperate to find something that might make a suitable deadly weapon.

  No luck.

  There was time, I told myself. Better to let him relax and become too comfortable. So I pressed garlic and waited and laughed at his bad attempts to be funny.

  “Hold up,” he said. “Something isn’t right. You’re not having any fun.”

  “Sure, I am. It’s nice to spend some time out of the basement.”

  “No, that’s not what I meant.”

  What is it now?

  “We need some music? Don’t you think we need some music?”

  “Um, I guess so.”

  He carried a small, portable radio in from the living room and plugged it into an outlet behind the counter. “I’m afraid there’s only one channel way out here. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

  He fidgeted with the dial for a minute and picked up a signal. A bouncing disco beat filled the small space of the kitchen. I recognized the song immediately: Stayin’ Alive by the Bee Gees.

  Travis hummed along with words as if the irony of the lyrics was totally lost on him. Even I joined in here and there if only to play the part of a girl who was somehow having fun.

  By the time we’d finished with the preparations and put the chicken in the oven, the radio had moved on to Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive.

  I wondered if it was a conspiracy, as if the disc jockey at the radio station was a part of some sick, cosmic joke. Or maybe it was the universe just telling me what I needed to hear.

  I sang along at the top of my lungs, holding a wooden spoon like a microphone. “Go on now, go, walk out the door. Just turn around now, ’cause you’re not welcome anymore!”

  Once again, the words seemed lost on Travis, who didn’t seem to pay them any mind. Instead, he smiled and hummed along as I sang.

  When the song had finished, he gave me a lighter and told me to light the candles on the kitchen table. Then he took two glasses down from the cupboard.

  “I have a surprise for you.”

  Please, no more surprises.

  He went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of white wine. “I read it goes well with chicken. I’m sorry I don’t have any proper wine glasses.”

  It was just some cheap off-brand label, but it didn’t matter. Suddenly I felt very thirsty. “That’s very thoughtful, Travis. Why don’t you serve it?”

  I hoped he might pull a corkscrew out of a drawer, something I’d later be able to stab into his neck, but instead, the cap twisted off, and he poured us each a glass.

  We sat at the table and sipped chilled wine as the kitchen slowly filled with the scent of garlic and herbs and simmering chicken. Candle flames danced and flickered between us. And for a moment, any anger I’d felt toward him was replaced by a kind of pity.

  Travis wasn’t ugly. Out of his uniform, he was almost handsome. Yes, he’d shown a violent temper, but in his better moments, he’d proven he was capable of thoughtful and gentle consideration. He was even neat and tidy, but not in an obsessive way like Matt.

  So why did he think the only way to get a girlfriend was to kidnap one? It was sad, really. Was he a monster? A psychopath? Or maybe the product of a deranged mother?

  Either way, it was too late for him now. He’d become a serial murderer, and for that, there were no second chances, no redemption.

  We finished the first glass, and he poured us each another. It had been an hour since we’d put the chicken in the oven, and the timer still read thirty minutes. With only toast for breakfast, I was hungry. Even the small amount of wine had already gone to my head.

  By the time we pulled the chicken from the oven, we’d emptied the bottle. Travis produced a second bottle and offered me another glass.

  Keep drinking. If I’m feeling it, that means he’ll be feeling it too.

  I drank my wine as he sliced the chicken and carried two plates to the table. Like the spaghetti the night before, it was delicious—well-seasoned and tender enough to cut with the plastic knives and forks he’d set the table with.

  “Tell me about your childhood,” he said. “In the van, you mentioned something about foster care.”

  I didn’t want to talk about my childhood, least of all my dead mother. “It’s nothing special, really. Let’s just say life wasn’t easy.”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  “What about your family?”

  “Oh, my father wasn’t around much. And my mother—” He gazed off for a moment as if lost in thought. “Let’s just say my mother can be a lot to deal with.”

  So there it was. Deadbeat dad. Controlling mother. The perfect recipe for a grade-A psychopath. Although it wasn’t an excuse, plenty of people with shitty parents turned out just fine. I’d had a deadbeat dad too and had never killed anyone. At least not yet.

  Soon enough.

  “Well,” he said. “That’s all behind us now. We can build a new life together, Spencer. Just you and me. Whatever you want, I’ll find a way to give it to you.”

  “Right now, I’d like some more wine. How about you?”

  He started to stand, and I placed my hand over his forearm. “Sit,” I said. “I’ll pour the wine. This has all been so wonderful. You’ve already done so much.”

  He smiled and relaxed in his chair. I took our glasses and went to the counter, emptied the rest of the bottle, and took a deep breath.

  I swung in a big arc, holding the bottle firmly by the neck, and brought it down onto his head.

  “You bitch!” He slid from the chair and rolled onto the floor, one hand raised to his bleeding head and the other grabbing onto the chain between my ankles. “I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill you.”

  He jerked hard, and I fell to the floor beside him, still clutching the unbroken bottle in my fingers. I swung again and missed. He k
nocked the bottle from my hand, and it went spinning into the corner.

  I tried to claw myself away from him, but he pulled me closer until his hands, now covered in blood, wrapped around my neck.

  He was crying. “I would have given you everything. Everything! And you ruined it. You ruin everything.” Tears mixed with blood and ran down his lips, tiny droplets splattering my face as he spoke.

  “Travis—”

  His hands squeezed harder and harder until I couldn’t breathe. There was only one thing left to do. I reached down to his belt and pulled the knife from its sheath, raising it above my head and bringing it down with all of my strength.

  He released a hand from my neck and tried to block my attack, but it was too late. The knife sunk deep into his shoulder, and he screamed.

  It was the only chance I was going to get. I scrambled to my feet as he lay moaning and wailing on the floor, the handle of the knife still sticking out of his shoulder.

  “No,” he said. “Please don’t go. I’ll forget everything. Just stay. Oh, please stay. I need help, Spencer. You can’t leave me like this.”

  “I will leave you. Just like you left Ruby.” I turned to walk out, but not before knocking the candles over and watching as the tablecloth caught fire.

  There was still the problem of the shackles around my ankles. I wanted to go back for the key. Maybe it was in one of his pockets. But I couldn’t risk him getting his hands on me again. If he did, it would all be over.

  Instead, I shuffled out the front door as fast as I could manage and started down the gravel drive, turning only once to look back at the cabin. An orange glow was visible in the kitchen window, and I wondered how long it would be before the cabin was engulfed in flames.

  The drive wound its way through a dark forest. The alcohol was not helping, and I tripped more than one time as I shuffled along. It was quiet now, only the sound of crickets chirping and the chain clinking between my feet.

  It seemed to go on forever, and I wondered how long it might be until I reached the road. I was tired, and my thighs hurt from all the shuffling, but I didn’t dare stop to catch my breath. I imagined he might be somewhere behind me in the dark, still clutching his bleeding shoulder, intent on catching up with me and finishing me off like he’d done to poor Ruby.