“Shh, calm down, baby. Slow down. Are you hurt?” Charles stepped forward, reaching out to wrap his arms around his wife, but she twisted away and instead held out what looked like a bar of soap.
Confused but intrigued, Jack stepped closer as Charles took the soap and frowned down at it. “What is this?”
Nora pressed close to him and pointed, the tip of her finger moving over what looked like scratches on the soap’s surface. “Read it. That’s someone’s cry for help. Someone’s in the attic! We have to call the police. We have to go save whoever’s up there!”
Charles’ face had paled, and he turned to Jack with alarm in his eyes, holding out the bar for Jack to see. Jack read the words, trying to process what they could mean. Was this someone’s idea of a joke, or was there something much darker going on at Hawthorne Dungeon?
“Nora, what’s your feeling?” Charles said, his voice tight with agitation. “What does your gut say?”
“It says there’s someone up there. It says Phillip Duncan is not who, or what, he says he is.”
Charles rubbed his face with his hands, anguish in his voice. “I should have listened, Nora. You’ve been trying to tell me for a while now.”
“What?” Jack said, confused by the exchange. “What are you talking about?”
Charles turned to Jack. “Nora knows things. Feels things, I mean, in a way ordinary people don’t. She has a sense. I know it sounds weird, but I’ve seen it play out over and over again. If Nora feels there’s something wrong here, there is. That’s all there is to it.” He held out the soap once more to Jack. “We need to get up there and find out what the hell is going on.” He put his arm around his wife and she pressed her face against his shoulder.
“Wait,” Jack said, again examining the words scratched into the soap, trying to visualize a situation where something like this could happen. “Let’s take a second to figure this out before we go charging up there. Phillip lives on the premises, right?” Charles nodded. Jack continued, “Is he up there right now?”
“As far as I know,” Charles replied. “Though it is a Saturday night and it’s not yet midnight. He’s a young guy. It’s possible he’s out for the evening.”
“Okay. We’ve got his cell for making appointments, right? Why don’t you call or text him and find out if he’s here. You can get him down from the third floor on some pretext or other, and while you have him occupied, I’ll go up there and see what I can find.”
“Good idea.” Charles wrinkled his brow in thought. “I know. There was a leak a while back in the submersion tank down in the basement and apparently Phillip fixed it, or got it fixed. We could go down there and spray water on the floor so it looks like there’s another leak. Then we’ll text him to tell him there’s an emergency. If he’s here, I’m sure he’d come down. Asleep or not, from what I’ve observed, Phillip is a very hands-on caretaker, which has mostly been a credit—I mean, he’s really spruced up the place. But by the same token, he likes to keep his hand in every little thing, and a possible leak could be a big deal, since it could damage the structure of the place.”
“But what if he’s out? Or says he’ll call a twenty-four hour plumber because he’s asleep or something?” Nora asked.
“Then we’ll figure something else out to get him down there. If he’s out, so much the better. We can go right up there and look around.”
“Agreed,” Jack said. “It’s definitely worth a shot.” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and held it up. “You guys both have your phones?”
Charles nodded, patting his pocket. “Mine’s still in the harem room. I’ll get it,” Nora said, glancing at Charles, who nodded. As Nora dashed from the room, Jack continued, “I’ll make myself scarce up here while you guys go downstairs. You can tell him I already went home if he asks. All the other keyholders have already left for the night, am I right?”
“Yeah,” Charles confirmed.
“Text me once he’s down there, and I’ll run up to the third floor,” Jack said. “Keep him down here as long as you can. If I find something or”—he swallowed, the seriousness of what they might be facing finally hitting home—”someone, I’ll text you right away.”
Nora returned, and the two of them moved quietly down the hallway to the stairs, while Jack went to the harem room, which was farthest away from the stairway.
It seemed like an hour, but was probably more like two minutes when he heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs, first overhead, and then as Phillip descended the flight to the first floor. Another hour passed, or maybe it was another two minutes, and Jack’s phone buzzed in his hand.
“Go for it,” the screen said. Adrenaline kicking in, Jack sprinted for the stairs and took them two at a time. He stood on the third floor landing a moment, getting his bearings. There were three doors along a long, narrow hallway. He moved to the closest and turned the knob. Reaching inside the doorframe, he felt for a light switch. After a moment his fingers found not a regular switch, but a sort of button. This must be one of those old-fashioned switches, he realized, and he pushed it inward.
The room was illuminated by a single overhead light. It was a storage room, filled with stacked boxes, rolled up rugs and what looked like a large chandelier set on its side on the floorboards, the crystals coated with a fine film of dust. He entered the room, feeling ridiculous as he softly called, “Hello? Is someone in here?” He froze as he heard a small scrabbling sound, but realized after a moment it must just be a mouse in the walls. He poked around among the boxes until he was satisfied no one but himself was in there. Turning off the light, he left the room, closing the door again behind him.
The next door along the hallway was ajar, the light on. As Jack stepped cautiously in, he saw this must be the caretaker’s living quarters. The room was unexpectedly large. One half contained a king-size bed with a massive wooden headboard, along with a bureau and an armoire. The bed was unmade; the covers appeared to be hastily thrown back. Across the room was an old stone fireplace, which must share the same chimney as the fireplace in the harem room. Two armchairs were set in front of it, a table between them with some books piled on it.
Again feeling slightly ridiculous as he entered the room, Jack called out softly, “Hello? Anyone in here? Are you okay?”
Silence.
He moved quietly but quickly through the room, peeking under the bed, opening the armoire and looking into the attached bathroom, even pulling back the shower curtain that ran the perimeter of an old-fashioned freestanding bathtub.
Nothing.
Back in the bedroom, his eye was caught by the cover of the topmost book on the fireside table. It was a glossy mass-market paperback with the title How to Train Any Woman for Complete and Total Submission by Master Blake. There was a photograph of a kneeling woman on the cover, arms behind her back, her body crisscrossed with both faint and fresh welts. Jack drew in his breath as he stared at the photo. Rather than finding it erotic, he found the image very disturbing. The young woman’s head was shaved bald, and her dark eyes, which appeared too large for her thin face, seemed to beseech the viewer, her expression at once one of pleading and defeat.
“Jesus,” he whispered into the empty room.
Recalling himself to his task, Jack left the room and approached the third and final door. He turned the knob and opened the door, holding his breath. The room was dark and he reached for and found another of the old-fashioned switches. The room remained dark. He pushed the switch several times and concluded the bulb must be burned out. There was enough light from the hallway to see it was another storage room, this one filled with furniture—old dining room chairs stacked along one wall, several sofas pushed together, a stack of framed oil paintings leaning against another wall. There was so much junk piled into the room he could barely enter it, but he did so anyway, using the flashlight on his cell phone to further illuminate the space.
“Hello?” he called again, though he was certain no person could be stashed in there.
“Anyone in here? Are you okay?”
Silence.
He stepped back into the hall. Had he missed a room? He walked slowly back, again putting his head into each of the other two rooms, trying to think. Maybe the soap thing had been someone’s idea of a bad joke. Maybe whatever “sense” Nora had was off-kilter on this one. It was possible her innate dislike of Phillip Duncan, which Jack shared, had colored her perceptions.
He thought again about the words etched into the soap.
Pls help me. Held in att
Held in attic, his brain supplied, finishing the incomplete word.
He wasn’t in the attic. He was on the third floor.
He looked up, and there it was—one of those pull-down attic doors, a thick string dangling from it with a metal ring at its end. He grabbed the ring and pulled. The door swung soundlessly down, a set of portable stairs unfolding as it opened.
He placed his foot carefully on the bottom step, grasped the railings and hoisted himself up. The light above had gone on automatically when the door had opened downward. For a moment he forgot to breathe as he gazed around the space. Other than a few boxes stacked here and there, the room was empty, and he realized he’d been expecting to find something, or someone, waiting there for him.
He drew in a breath and saw the door set against the back wall. There was a key in the lock, one of those old-fashioned iron keys, and he turned it, aware his hand was shaking slightly.
The room was dark, save for a small nightlight glowing dimly against one wall. The first thing that hit him was the stench—the air was close and fetid, smelling of urine, stale sweat and vomit. “Hello?” he called softly. There was the sound of something rustling, something much bigger than a mouse.
He reached for the wall switch, every nerve in his body on high alert. As the room flooded with light, Jack stared in horror at what he saw. Half a dozen thick chains of varying lengths hung from the ceiling, cuffs dangling at their ends. Crammed into the small space was a medical exam table and a large, crude X cross fitted with ankle and wrist restraints.
At the back of the room a young woman sat huddled against the wall on a bare mattress set directly on the floor. She was naked, her knees drawn up to her chest, her hands bound in some way behind her back, a red ball gag wedged between her teeth. Her head was shaved, her eyes large and fearful. Her breasts were high and small, the tracery of her ribs showing beneath pale skin, which was marked with welts and traces of dried blood.
He stared, transfixed, rage making his blood run hot. If Phillip had been standing in front of him, he would have broken his neck with his bare hands. The girl was staring at him, her eyes wide with terror, as she tried to press back into the wall.
Jack’s heart broke inside his chest and his eyes filled with tears. He sprang forward, covering the short distance to the mattress in a few strides.
He crouched beside the girl, who continued to stare at him, her eyes now beseeching. “It’s okay. I won’t hurt you. I’m not here to hurt you, I promise. Oh my god, oh my god,” he whispered as he fumbled with the buckle of the gag. He got it open and pulled the saliva-soaked ball from her mouth. “Are you okay? What happened here? Oh, sweetheart, what did he do to you?”
“Are you real?” she whispered, working her jaw. “Is this another dream?” She shifted awkwardly on the mattress, and Jack realized her arms were still bound behind her.
“I’m real. Let me help you. Are your wrists bound?” He reached for her and she recoiled slightly. She had no idea who he was, of course. Perhaps another monster come to torment her, despite his assurances. Quickly, he said, “My name is Jack. I’m a keyholder here. We saw your soap. My friends, Charles and Nora, have that bastard downstairs. Don’t worry, he’s not going to come up here, I promise.”
The girl, who’d been holding herself taut, seemed to collapse at this news. “The soap?” she said, still whispering. “Oh my god, you found it? I was so scared he would find it, or no one ever would.” Tears were streaming down her cheeks. “But you found it. You found me.”
Jack nodded, a sense of urgency returning now that the initial shock was wearing off. “Listen, I’ll get your arms free and then you can tell me what happened here, okay? Let me just text my friends so they keep him down there till we get the police here.”
She looked frightened again. “Oh god, he’ll punish me if he finds you here! Maybe you’d better go—”
“No, no, no, shh,” Jack said softly, reaching for the too-thin young woman and taking her gently onto his lap so he could get at her hands. “We won’t let him come up here. You’re safe now. No more harm will come to you, I promise.”
But how much had already befallen her? What a nightmare, to be held like this, defenseless, terrified and alone, at the mercy of what was clearly a criminally insane sadist. The cover image of the book he’d seen in Phillip’s room flashed into his mind—another too-thin waif with a shaved head, staring pleadingly into the camera. Was this where Phillip had got his monstrous idea?
Fortunately her cuffs weren’t locked, but only clipped together. He opened the clips and pulled the leather away from her wrists, which were red and chafed from being too long in their leather confines. Settling her back on the filthy mattress, Jack shifted to give her room.
The girl wrapped her arms around her naked torso. Jack glanced around the room for something she could put on. Finding nothing, he quickly unbuttoned his shirt and draped it over her shoulders. She pulled the too-big shirt around her frail body.
Jack’s hands were still shaking, making it hard to text with his thumbs, and so he spoke his text instead, saying, “I found a woman here. She’s,” he paused a second, censoring the words that had leaped to his mind about her terrified and emaciated state, held captive who knew how long in a filthy torture chamber, and said instead, “she’s okay but she needs medical attention. Something’s very wrong here. Don’t let Duncan out of your sights. I’m calling 9-1-1.”
“What’s going to happen?” the girl asked, no longer whispering. Her voice was low and pleasing, stronger now, and a tiny fraction of Jack’s fear for her abated.
“We’re going to get you help,” he said. “What’s your name, honey?”
“Eva. Eva Sandler.”
“Eva,” Jack repeated. He had a thousand more questions about how she’d ended up in this attic torture chamber, how long she’d been there, and what she’d endured, but the first thing he had to do was get her the care she needed.
“Let’s get you out of this hellhole, okay?” he said, almost managing a smile. He stood, and bent down, holding out his hands for her to take. “Can you stand? Can you walk?”
“Yes. I’m okay, really. He let me eat today.”
He let me eat today.
The import of those words and all they meant pierced Jack’s heart like an icy needle. “Oh, baby,” he murmured, before he could stop the words. “You poor, poor darling.” He reached for the girl, pulling her into his arms.
Chapter 9
Nora stood by the front window in the brownstone’s living room, peering anxiously out at the street. Her heart was beating painfully in her chest, Jack’s text emblazoned in her mind.
Charles had done an excellent job of keeping Phillip engaged in looking for a leak that wasn’t there. While Phillip was inspecting the pipes behind the submersion tank, the text had come through. White-faced, Charles silently held out his phone to Nora, who barely managed to swallow her gasp of terror.
“Go up to the front hall and wait for them,” Charles had mouthed silently. With a nod, Nora fled the room, glad to get away from the handsome monster tinkering behind the water tank.
A siren wailed, the sound getting louder. Blue and red lights flashed, illuminating the room. Nora ran to the front door and pulled it open as a police cruiser slowed to a stop in front of the house. Two uniformed police officers climbed out, both with a hand on their holsters, though neither drew his weapon.
“We got a 9-1-1 call, ma’am,” one o
f them said, his voice deep and gruff, as they walked rapidly up the walk to the stoop. He was in his fifties, his body large and bulky in his uniform, the kind of body that was once muscular and was turning to fat. “Are you okay?” He peered at her beneath dark, bushy brows.
“Yes, I’m fine, thank you. We called because there’s a man down in the basement—he’s been holding a woman against her will in this house.”
The policemen entered the foyer. “Holding a woman? As in kidnapped?” snapped the younger cop, a man of medium height with thinning sandy blond hair and small, piggish eyes. “And you know this how?”
“She left a note for us to find,” Nora said, deciding on the simple explanation for now.
“Is the man armed? Does he have a weapon?”
“A weapon?” Alarmed by the question, Nora flashed on the barefoot man she’d left with her husband. “Uh, no, I don’t think so. He doesn’t know we’ve figured this out. My husband is keeping him distracted down there until you arrived. We—”
“This your home, ma’am?” the piggy-eyed officer interrupted.
“Uh, no, I mean, yes, that is, it’s a-a kind of co-op,” Nora stammered, suddenly realizing what these men were going to see in the dungeons. Rallying herself, she continued, “The man is Phillip Duncan. He’s our, our caretaker. He lives here and takes care of the place.”
“Where’s the woman? The alleged kidnap victim? Is she alive?”
“Yes, she’s alive,” Nora said, shaken by the question. “She’s up on the third floor. Jack found her. Jack, our friend, he found her in the attic.”
“So, wait,” the burly cop said, knitting his brows. “You say the perp is down in the basement, but the victim is in the attic?”
“Yes,” Nora said, trying to keep the impatience from her voice. “Like I said, my husband got him down there so our friend could go explore up there. I don’t like the idea of my husband alone with him. Can you please go down there?”
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