No, that wasn’t true, she suddenly remembered: She had seen him, or glimpsed him, on the news one night as he came out of the courthouse. He’d held his hands to cover his face, but they’d also shown his mug shot and his name. What had he been charged with again? She couldn’t recall.
She had no idea how the legal case finally ended, but his shop, which she passed occasionally on her way to the downtown farmers’ market, closed soon after. Later it reopened as an Asian grocery. That had been around six months ago.
He’d been a trim, friendly man when he’d worked on her and Helena, laughing and teasing them. Now, though, he seemed wasted and cold, with eyes like those of the sharks she’d watched on The Discovery Channel. Something about him seemed rancid, as if his personality had gone rotten like a head of lettuce left too long in the crisper. Before, she’d actually gotten a secret tingly thrill from the way his rubber-gloved fingers lightly stroked her skin; now the thought of him touching her at all filled her with disgust.
Sweat covered her now, and she winced as it trickled into her eye. There was no way she could stand up with her ankles bound across each other, and he’d been too careful to leave anything available that might let her cut the tape.
She studied the basement. Pipes ran along the ceiling, but apparently even the water heater was upstairs. The walls and floor were empty of anything except mildew and the occasional small insect. Water seeped in along one edge of the floor and made a puddle about an inch deep. The back of the room was pitch-black, out of reach of the feeble light above her. They were trapped in a barren concrete box.
But why was she here? What connection did she have with young girls like Faith Lucas and Carrie Kimmell?
In the darkness, something announced its presence with a soft scrape against the floor. A shape formed from the shadows, pale and indefinite, and for a moment Rachel’s heart threatened to squirm up her throat and burst through the tape gagging her. Then the image resolved itself into another prisoner huddled in the shadows, knees drawn to her chin. Big eyes peeked out from beneath dark bangs. Rachel stared and felt something inside her twist with renewed despair.
It was Patty Patilia. Not only had Rachel not saved her, now they were to share the same fate.
Rachel slid sideways to the floor and allowed herself to cry again. The sound was muffled and impotent. The tape across her mouth itched, and the taste permeated everything. She had never felt so helpless, and never hated it as much.
She cried only enough to relieve the emotional pressure. It was a skill learned in the wake of her stalker, and it served her well now. She took several deep, calming breaths through her nose. Then she tried scraping the tape from her cheek by catching an edge on the concrete floor, but that merely left another raw spot that stung when sweat trickled into it. She finally gave up and worm-scooted on her side back to the wall. She was exhausted by the time she managed to sit up again and found it hard to catch her breath through the tape. Fresh perspiration trickled down her face and along her spine.
She made eye contact with Carrie Kimmell. Rachel could do nothing against their plastic ties, but if one of the others could make a tiny rip in the tape holding her, she could possibly escape and bring help. Through grunts and nods, she indicated what she wanted.
Carrie shook her head and scooted away, huddling beside Faith against the wall. Both girls had the dazed, glassy look of captives with no fight left in them.
Rachel turned to Patty in the dark corner. Patty’s eyes were clear, but she made no effort to move. Tears cut fresh tracks through the dirt on her face.
With a muffled cry of exasperation, Rachel squirmed along the wall toward Patty. It was difficult, and within moments she fell painfully to the floor. A sharp-edged sliver of glass poked into her shoulder.
Suddenly the door opened and Korbus stood silhouetted at the top of the stairs. He carried what looked like a whip looped in one hand.
Faith and Carrie huddled more closely together, as if they could escape his notice. Patty Patilia began to cry in earnest, the way a terrified child might.
Korbus came down the stairs and perused his captives like a pet owner admiring his animals. He’d changed shirts, and his hair was tied back in a ponytail. He stopped at the bottom, clearly a little winded.
His gaze settled on Rachel. She lay awkwardly on her side, her head twisted around to watch him.
He had the determined look not of a criminal but of someone with a large task ahead. “Looks like you’ve got a lot of initiative,” he said. “Trying to get someone to help you get that tape off, aren’t you? Seems like I got here just in time.”
She put all of her hatred into the glare she sent his way and was pretty sure her Fuck you! carried clearly.
He smiled. “Might as well get you caught up with the rest,” he said, and pulled a knife from his pocket. He flicked it open with a practiced twirl of his wrist, and the blade gleamed hotly in the light.
Korbus brought the knife down slowly and slipped it under the tape at Rachel’s ankles. She felt the flat of the blade against her foot. Then he cut the tape with an effortless snick. She winced as he yanked it free of her skin.
He put away the knife, grabbed her arm, and pulled her up. She got her feet under her and stood, freshly conscious of her nudity as her breasts swayed with the movement. She unsuccessfully fought the blush creeping up her shoulders and neck. Korbus glanced at her, and for a moment there was the male predatory appreciation she’d expect from a man who kept naked women in his basement.
But almost immediately it faded to the cool, clinical gaze of a technician at work. He unrolled the whiplike strip in his hand, revealing it to be a dog leash with a choke collar attached. Before she could react, he had the chain-link collar around her neck and the leash clipped to it. She glared at him, fury rising past fear.
He wrapped the leash’s other end around his fist; to choke her, he only had to tug. “Come on,” he said, and turned toward the stairs. She spread her feet and braced herself as the collar tightened against her neck.
He stepped close and spoke in a cold whisper. “Be sure you want to pick this fight, Rachel,” he said. “If you give me too much trouble, I’ll bend you over a table and show you what women are good for. Only I won’t use my dick, I’ll use whatever’s handy. Understand me?” He snapped her panties’ elastic waistband for emphasis.
The use of her name frightened her the most. She choked down a whimper but looked away from those paradoxically dead yet ravenous eyes.
“Then you’ll cooperate?”
She gazed at the floor, at her own bare feet now smeared with sweat and dirt. She nodded.
“Good. Up the stairs, then. You go first.”
She glanced at Carrie and Faith. Their incomplete tattoos told her exactly what was in store. Then the leash tightened, and she preceded him up the stairs. Her bare feet felt tender against the wood.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THEY EMERGED INTO the kitchen. Dishes were stacked neatly in the drain, and magnets held magazine photos of tattooed women to the refrigerator. Korbus paused to close and lock the basement door.
Rachel looked around for a phone or computer, but if he had either, they weren’t in this room. She saw no sign that anyone else shared the home. The windows were all covered with heavy blinds, so there was no chance a neighbor might spot her. If there were any neighbors, that is; they could be in one of Wisconsin’s thousands of isolated farmhouses. The door that looked like it might lead outside was dead-bolted and chained.
Korbus led her down a short hall and into what at first she took to be a bathroom. It certainly had been once, but he’d knocked out the wall between it and a small bedroom, making a single space with a sink, counter, and toilet. The walls were painted bright white and reflected the fluorescent lighting so that, after the basement, Rachel was almost blinded. Where there had been a bathtub was now a table that slanted at a forty-five-degree angle from the floor, made of rough-edged wood and stained with what could
have been either ink or blood. The renovation work appeared to be recent, hurried, and rather sloppy. That made it no less effective, though.
He closed the door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. There were no windows. She could hear nothing except her own heart and Korbus’s labored breathing.
At last he turned to face her. His expression was weary and pale. “I’ll cut your hands loose,” he said, “and you can go to the bathroom, if you need to.” He looked evenly at her until she nodded. Truthfully, her bladder was killing her. “But if you try anything funny, you’ll be pissing your panties from now on. Understand?”
Again she nodded. What else could she do?
“Turn around, then.”
First he removed the collar. Then she felt the knife slip between her wrists and cut the tape. It yanked painfully on her arm hair as she separated her hands. Then he slipped the leash off over her head. She crossed her arms over her breasts, expecting him to grab her at any moment.
Instead, he turned on the tap and faced the door. “I’m not watching. I’m not one of those golden-shower guys. Do your business.”
This was her chance, she thought. He had his back to her, and she was free. But she was also weak, sore, and naked. And he still had that knife.
She slid down her panties and sat on the toilet. The running water masked the sound, at least. As she urinated, she carefully pulled the tape from her mouth, wincing at the numb area it left. She worked her lips and jaw back to life.
She finished, pulled the panties back up, and said raggedly, “Mr. Korbus?”
He did not turn around. “Flush, please.”
She pulled the handle. In the quiet, apparently soundproofed room, the noise was like the Death Star exploding. When it faded, he turned to her and said, “You can climb onto the table, or we can fight about it.” He held up a thick baton with a gleaming metal tip. “One jolt of this gets a cow into the slaughterhouse chute, so it’s a good motivator.”
She swallowed hard, connecting the prod with his threat in the basement, and wrapped her arms tight around her torso. “This isn’t going to work. You know people will look for me.”
He nodded toward the floor. “People are looking for them too. Cops, friends, parents.” He smiled, a cold yet somehow pathetic expression. “They won’t look here.”
Although she hated it, she let her tears flow, hoping she would seem more sympathetic. She hunched down, making herself as small and pathetic as possible. “Why are you doing this to me?” she said in her best little-girl’s voice. “I never hurt you. I never did anything to you.”
He smiled again and shook his head. “You don’t remember either, do you? Just like the rest. I’d hoped that since you weren’t some airheaded college girl, you might be different.”
“I am,” she said, ashamed at the whining tone she used. “Really, I am. Please believe me.”
He sighed, both bored and annoyed. He gestured with the prod and said, “Get up on there or I’ll use this. I mean it.”
Still sniffling, she stepped up to the table. She laid her back against it, arms still crossed over her chest. The wood was rough and cold against her shoulders. There was a lip at the bottom for her feet and two straps to secure her ankles.
“I’m going to buckle your feet,” he said. “You try to kick me, or hit me, or anything, then you get zapped.” She stayed very still as he secured her ankles with Velcro straps bolted to the wood. She struggled to keep her thighs together.
He stood with a groan. One of his knees popped loudly. He put the cattle prod aside and said, “Put your arms down. If you cooperate, I’ll shackle them at your side, which isn’t that uncomfortable. Give me a hard time, and I’ll tie them behind your back again. And,” he added, leaning close as he’d done in the basement, “I know how to pierce pretty much every body part. Some of them hurt more than others.”
She lowered her arms. He’d already seen her, after all. He fastened her right wrist, then walked around the table for the left one. When she felt the strap pull tight, she was suddenly claustrophobic, and her heart began to thunder. “Please, don’t do this, whatever it is. Let me go,” she said, breathless. “Please, this isn’t right, you can’t do this—”
“Calm down,” he said firmly, the way he might snap at a panicky child. “I’m not going to kill you.”
“What about Ling Hu?” she almost shouted. She frantically pulled at the bonds on her wrists, rattling the table. Don’t freak out! her rational mind cried, but it couldn’t be heard over the terror. “You killed her!”
He grabbed her jaw firmly and slammed her head back against the table. She froze. He leaned so close that she could smell his minty, vaguely antiseptic breath.
“Let me tell you a little story about Ling Hu,” he said. “I saw her in a convenience store down on Willie Street. I remembered this amazing design I did for her, something that would be a real work of art. She didn’t want it, though, she just wanted a tramp stamp like all the other girls. So, anyway, I complimented her tattoo, thinking she might remember me, thinking she might even thank me for it. You know what she said? ‘Fuck you, creep.’”
He released Rachel’s jaw. “So I grabbed the stuck-up little bitch off the street, brought her back here, and decided to give her that tat whether she wanted it or not. I won’t be around in six months; my work deserves better than that.”
“Are you sick?” Rachel asked quietly. “I mean… ill?”
He ignored her and instead turned to his worktable. “So I looked back through my shop’s old records. There were eleven of you bitches who turned down designs I’d worked really hard on. And five of you were still in town. I decided that if God hated me so much He had to destroy both my career and my life, then I’d make damn sure I left my mark anyway.”
He paused and chuckled to himself. “I mean, hell: I grabbed Ling Hu right off the street and no one saw me. If that’s not a sign, I don’t know what is.”
“So what will you do to us … afterward?”
He shrugged. “I don’t really give a fuck. I suppose I thought at first I’d just let you go. By the time any of you got to the police, I’d be dead, and I figure at least one of you will decide to leave my art alone. But now…”
He stopped and tapped his fingertips on the table. “I did not kill that Chinese girl. She had asthma or something that I didn’t know about, and the sleeping pills I was giving her must’ve aggravated it. I actually feel a little bad about that, and that’s why you’re wide awake.”
“Do you feel bad enough to let me go?” she whispered.
He sighed and shook his head. “When life takes all your options away, you go with what’s left, whether you like it or not.” He put a strap across her throat, then stepped to a cloth-covered workbench and examined a row of small metal tips. He pulled surgical gloves from a box dispenser and expertly put them on. “I won’t kid you, this is going to hurt. Maybe a lot; my hands aren’t as steady as they used to be. But the less you fight, the faster it will go.”
The reality washed over her like a cold wave. Her body, her skin, was about to be defiled. Soon he would use her, not sexually perhaps but still as an object with no more importance than a sheet of poster board. And she could do nothing to stop him. “Please, don’t,” she whispered.
He turned to her, a tattoo gun in his hand. “My advice …” And here his smile turned frightening. “My advice is to simply lie back and enjoy it.”
RACHEL LAY LIMP and whimpering on the table. Her throat was raw from screaming, and her muscles exhausted from straining against the straps holding her. The insistent pain became the only thing that penetrated her haze-lathered mind.
She realized with sudden clarity that both the buzzing sound and the burning sensation had stopped. She opened her watery eyes and croaked, “Are you done?”
Korbus swabbed his work with antiseptic. “For now,” he said, and wiped sweat from his own face. “I can’t work too long at one time.”
She began to tremb
le uncontrollably, and her skin felt cold and clammy. Was she going into shock? What he’d done to her certainly qualified as an injury.
After she was clean, Korbus took a picture of his handiwork. He’s taken one at the start too, the first time in her life that Rachel had been photographed naked. Then he’d uploaded the photo to his laptop and printed out the first of the stencils.
She’d seen these stencils before. She recalled sitting in Korbus’s tattoo parlor with Helena, half drunk and giggling as he showed her the same design he was now imposing on her. She’d asked for a simple silhouette of the Hudson Park effigy mound, but instead he presented her with an elaborate image of a forest scene that would fill the space between her sternum and pubic bone with half-nude natives dancing along her ribs. There was no way she was getting that done—not least because being topless for the tattoo guy was just trashy—so despite his best efforts to persuade her, she got only the one design. She’d always liked the result and never once thought about his insane idea again.
Now, though, it was all she could think about. The smell of ink and antiseptic, the odor of microscopic bits of skin and blood burning, made her almost pass out. But merciful unconsciousness eluded her. She felt the blood trickle in tiny rivulets down her skin and the cool bite of alcohol as he wiped it away.
She had no sense of time in the windowless, clockless room. At one point Korbus was gone for what seemed like several minutes. She fought with all her strength to break free, straining arms and legs against the table and straps. She screamed for help. She did not look at what he had done to her.
When he returned, he settled back into work without even a word. Finally he sat back, face sweaty above his surgical mask, and said, “That’s the biggest part. We’ll start on your boobs tomorrow.”
She glared at him, trying to channel her fear and shame into rage. He did not look away. Instead, he said, “I stayed up all night working on this design. Inspiration, you know. No sense of time, didn’t stop to eat or sleep. My mojo was working. And then you laughed at it. I expect that from these other spoiled bitches, but you, you’re a grown woman. You’re supposed to have…”
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