by Sandra Brown
“Nobody else works the night shift?”
“Well, there’s Marvin. He’s been doing our janitorial service for several months.”
“Last name?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Never can tell about people,” Griggs said. “Do you get along with these guys all right?”
She laughed. “Nobody gets along with Marvin, but he’s not the type to make a scary phone call. He only speaks when spoken to, and then he more or less grunts.”
“What about Stan?”
She felt disloyal talking about him behind his back. If she spoke candidly, it wouldn’t be a flattering description, so she told them only what was relevant. “We get along fine. I’m sure neither of them had anything to do with that call.”
Griggs smiled at her and closed his small notebook with a decisive snap. “Doesn’t hurt to follow up.”
• • •
Her home telephone was ringing when she let herself in. She rushed to answer. “Hello?”
“Ms. Gibson, it’s Officer Griggs.”
“Yes?”
“Did you get in okay?”
“Yes. I just disengaged my alarm. Have you learned anything?”
“That number belongs to a pay phone near the UT campus. A squad car was dispatched to check it out but nobody was around. The phone’s outside a pharmacy that closed at ten. Place and parking lot were deserted.”
In effect, they were back to where they had started. She had hoped they would trace the number to a sad and lonely individual like Griggs had described, a lost soul who had threatened her and an imaginary captive in a dire attempt to get attention.
Her initial misgivings returned. “So what now?”
“Well, there’s not really anything to be done unless he calls again. I don’t think he will, though. It was probably someone just trying to rile you. Tomorrow night, we’ll have squad cars patrolling the area around that phone booth, watching for anyone lurking in the vicinity.”
That wasn’t satisfactory, but it was all she was going to get. She thanked him. He and his partner had done what was expected of them, but she wasn’t ready to concede that Valentino’s call was a prank and nothing to worry about. Even the origin of the call was worrisome. Wouldn’t someone seeking attention leave obvious clues so that he could be traced and identified, chastened by the police, maybe even written up in the newspaper?
Valentino had used a public telephone so the call couldn’t be traced. He didn’t want to be identified.
That disturbing thought was uppermost in her mind as she made her way through the living area of her house, down the hallway, and into her bedroom. As always when she returned home from work, the rooms were dark and silent.
The houses neighboring hers were also dark and hushed at this hour, but there was a difference. In those houses, the prayers of children had been heard before they were tucked in. Husbands and wives had kissed good night. Some had made love before settling beneath their blanket. They shared a bed, body heat, dreams. They shared their lives. Darkness was relieved by nightlights, small beacons of comfort that shone in rooms littered with toys and shoes, with the accoutrements of busy family life.
The nightlights in Paris’s house only emphasized the sterile neatness of the rooms. Her movements were the only source of sound. She slept alone. That wouldn’t have been her first choice, but that’s the way it was, and she had come to accept it.
Tonight, however, the solitude was unnerving. And the cause was Valentino’s call.
She’d had years of experience listening to voices, picking up nuances in speech, detecting underlying messages, separating truth from lies, and hearing more than what was said out loud. She was able to draw several conclusions about a person based strictly on his or her inflections. Calls had left her feeling happy, sad, reflective, annoyed, and, on occasion, downright angry.
None had left her feeling afraid. Until tonight.
chapter 4
Her limbs were beginning to cramp from being held in one position for so long, and an itch on the sole of her foot was driving her nuts. Her face hurt and she could feel it swelling. She ached all over.
That son of a bitch, she thought, unable to curse him out loud because of the tape over her mouth.
Why had she ever thought he was so special? It wasn’t like he took her to fabulous places and spent money on her. They’d never been anywhere together except this place, and it was a rathole.
She didn’t know anything about him, not where he worked, not even his name. She’d never learned his name even by accident. It wasn’t printed on anything in the apartment, no subscription magazines or mail, nothing. He remained nameless, and that should have been her first clue that he wasn’t classy and intriguing, but just flat-out, freaking weird.
The second time they were together, he had defined the nature of their relationship. Laid down the ground rules, so to speak. He had opened the conversation while spreading baby oil over her, hoping to achieve a special effect in a series of photographs.
“Your friend . . . the one you were with the night we met.”
“You mean Melissa?” she’d asked, feeling a stab of jealousy. Was he wanting to invite Melissa to join them in a ménage à trois? “What about her?”
“Have you told her about us?”
“I haven’t had a chance. Her folks made her go to France with them for vacation. I haven’t seen or talked to her since the night I met you.”
“Have you told anyone about me and what we do here?”
“Oh, sure. I announced it over breakfast to my parents.” His poleaxed expression made her giggle. “No, silly! I haven’t told anyone.”
“That’s good. Because this is so special, I like thinking that you and I are each other’s best-kept secret.”
“We are each other’s secret. I don’t even know your name.”
“But you know me.”
He stared deeply into her eyes, and she was reminded of her first impression of him, that he could see straight into her innermost being. He apparently had felt the instantaneous connection that she had. After all, he’d told her that first night that he loved her.
The secrecy was probably necessary because of a wife who knew nothing about his “hobby.” She envisioned his missus as a missionary-position-only prude who would never understand, much less consent to, his need for variety and excitement. Pictures of Mrs. No-name masturbating? Get real. Never in a million. Probably not even a bare-boob shot.
That night his lovemaking had been especially ardent. He was focused, you might say, not just his camera. She lost count of the number of times they did it, but it was always different, so it never got boring. He couldn’t get enough of her and told her so. It was a heady experience, being practically worshiped by a man so classy he could probably have any woman. She had thought she would never want it to end.
But that had been then.
Each time she saw him, his jealousy increased, until it began to irritate her and rob her of the pleasure of being with him. No matter how good the sex was, it wasn’t worth the hassle he gave her about other men.
She had thought about standing him up tonight, but then changed her mind. He was going to take it hard whenever she told him she didn’t want to see him anymore. She dreaded a scene, but better to put him out of his misery sooner rather than later.
He had been waiting for her at the appointed place. And, unlike the night they’d met, he didn’t look at all cool and relaxed. He was agitated and edgy. The moment she joined him in his car, he started in on her. “You’ve been with somebody else, haven’t you?”
She supposed she should be flattered that he was jealous, but she had a headache and was in no mood for the third degree. “Do you have a joint?” Having learned that she was fond of smoke, he always had some for her.
“In the glove compartment.”
There were three in a Ziploc bag. She lit one and inhaled deeply. “Best thing for a headache.” Sighing, she laid her hea
d on the headrest and closed her eyes.
“Who was he?”
“Who was who?”
“Don’t jerk me around.”
His tone brought her head up.
“You’ve already been with someone tonight, haven’t you?” His fingers were clenching the steering wheel. “Don’t bother lying about it. I know you’ve just had sex with someone else. I can smell him on you.”
At first she was surprised and a bit unnerved that he knew. Had he been spying on her? But the uneasiness soon gave way to anger. Why was it any of his business who and when she screwed?
“Look, maybe getting together tonight isn’t a good idea,” she’d said. “I’m PMSing and I don’t need any shit from anybody. Okay?”
His anger dissolved instantly. “I’m sorry I raised my voice. It’s just . . . I thought . . .”
“What?”
“That we had something special here.”
That’s when she should have told him that she didn’t want to see him again. Right then he’d given her an opportunity, but, damn it, she hadn’t taken it. Instead she’d said, “I don’t like you ragging me about where I go, what I do, and who I do it with. I get enough of that at home.” She leaned back and pulled deeply on the joint. “Either chill or take me back to my car.”
He chilled. He was subdued, even a little sullen, when they reached the apartment. “Want some wine?”
“Don’t I always?”
She was already high from the weed. Might as well go all out and get really wasted. One mercy fuck, then she’d tell him they needed to cool it for a while—read forever—then she’d get the hell out of here and never come back.
His computer monitor was the only source of light in this room where the shades were always drawn. One of the more graphic photos of her was on his screen saver.
Seeing it, she said, “Tsk, tsk. That’s definitely one of the ‘afterglows,’ isn’t it? I’m such a naughty girl. Naughty but nice, right?” She winked at him as she accepted the glass of wine he brought from the kitchen.
She drank it like water, burped loudly and wetly, then extended the empty glass toward him in an impertinent request for a refill.
“You’re acting like a slut.” He calmly took the glass from her and set it on the nightstand. Then he slapped her. He slapped her so hard that tears came to her eyes even before the rocket of pain from her cheekbone reached her brain.
She cried out, but was too shocked to articulate a word.
He pushed her back onto the bed. She landed hard. The room seemed to tilt. She was more wasted than she’d thought. She struggled to get up. “Hey! I don’t—”
“Oh, yes, you do.”
He splayed his hand over her chest, holding her down while he wrestled with his belt and fly. Then he began tearing at her clothing. She swatted his hands, kicked at him, and called him every name in the book, but he wouldn’t be stopped.
He pushed himself into her with such force that she screamed. He covered her mouth with his hand. “Shut up,” he hissed, so close to her face she felt a shower of spit.
She bit into the flesh beneath his thumb. He yelped and withdrew his hand. “You bastard,” she yelled. “Get off me.”
To her astonishment, he began to laugh softly. “You fell for it. You thought I was serious.”
She stopped struggling. “Huh?”
“I was just fulfilling your rape fantasy.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Am I?” He thrust hard into her. “Can you honestly say you don’t like it?”
“Damn right. I hate it. I hate you, you son of a bitch.”
That caused him to smile, because in spite of what she said, she was responding. When it was over, each was exhausted and glistening with sweat.
He recovered first and went for his camera. “Stay just as you are,” he said as he clicked off the first shot.
The flash seemed exceptionally bright. She was good and truly stoned.
“Don’t move,” he told her. “I have an idea.”
Move? She was too lethargic to move. Her entire body throbbed, starting with her cheekbone—how was she going to explain a bad bruise?—and all the way down to her splayed thighs. Christ, she still had her sandals on. How funny was that? But she was too tired to trouble herself with taking them off. Besides, he had told her not to move.
Maybe she dozed for a minute or two. Next thing she knew he was back, bending over her, pulling her wrists together.
“What’s that?” She roused herself and saw that he was using a necktie to bind her wrists together.
“A prop for a photograph. You’ve been a bad girl. You need to be punished.” He climbed off the bed and picked up his camera and adjusted the focus.
That’s when it began to get creepy and she felt the first twinges of apprehension. She had struggled to sit up. “Have I mentioned that I’m not into bondage?”
“This isn’t bondage, this is punishment,” he said absently as he moved to the lamp. He adjusted the shade, setting it first at one angle, then another, causing shadows to shift across her body.
Okay. Enough of this. She’d had it. After tonight, no more of him. Posing for him had been fun. It had been something different and, admittedly, it had been a kick to later look at the pictures of herself.
But he was getting too possessive and too . . . too out there.
“Look,” she recalled saying sternly, “I really want you to untie my hands now.”
Finally satisfied with the lighting, he began setting up the tripod.
Taking another tack, she softened her tone. “I’ll do anything you want. You know I will. All you have to do is ask. Anything.”
He still didn’t seem to be listening. While he was distracted, she had inched toward the edge of the bed, calculating the distance to the door. But when she looked at it, something struck her as odd, and a cold dart of fear went through her when she realized that there was no doorknob on this side. Only a brass disk where the doorknob should have been.
That’s when he had stopped tinkering with the camera. No doubt sensing her alarm, he had smiled down at her. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I want you to untie me.”
“You moved and spoiled the lighting,” he chided gently.
“Lighting, my ass, I’m leaving.”
Her cheerleading days had paid off. She came off the bed with surprising strength and agility. But she didn’t get far. He caught her by the hair and yanked her back, then shoved her down onto the bed.
“You can’t keep me here,” she’d cried.
“You just had to ruin it, didn’t you?”
“Ruin what?”
“Us.”
“There isn’t any ‘us,’ you sick wacko.”
“You had to cheat on me. Just like the others. Didn’t you think I’d find out? I listen to Paris Gibson, too, you know. She put your call on the air. Thousands of people heard you telling her that you felt smothered by my possessiveness. You were going to take her advice and dump me, weren’t you?”
“Oh, Jesus.”
He’d stood over her, both fists clenched at his sides as though he were forcibly suppressing his rage. “You can’t treat people like toilet paper and get away with it, you know.”
And because he had become so freaking scary, she had wisely shut up.
He had taken a few more photos, then decided that her feet also needed to be tied. She had fought him as if her life depended on it, but he’d eventually slapped her so hard her ears rang. That was the last thing she heard.
When she came to, she was spread-eagled, her hands and feet tied to the bed frame beneath the box springs, her mouth taped shut. The apartment was empty. He was gone. She was alone, and no one knew where she was.
Over the passing hours, she had devised a dozen means of escape, but dismissed the ideas almost as soon as she conceived them. None was workable. She was helpless to do anything but wait for him to come back for more of his sick sex games.
&
nbsp; Jesus, she thought, what have I gotten myself into?
“I hope you’ve enjoyed this evening of classic love songs. Please join me again tomorrow night. I’ll be looking forward to it. Until then, this is Paris Gibson on FM 101.3. Good night.”
Great. Now she didn’t even have Paris to keep her company.
chapter 5
Gavin Malloy was awfully drunk. The pleasant buzz from the cheap tequila wasn’t quite so pleasant any longer. It was too hot to be drinking tequila shots. He should have stuck to beer. But he had needed something strong and nasty to drown his depression.
The hell of it was, he was still depressed.
The evening had been spoiled for him early on. His drinking had accomplished nothing except to make him light-headed, sweaty, and nauseous. Blearily he looked toward a clump of scraggly cedar trees and wondered if he could cover the distance over the rocky ground before he puked. Probably not.
Besides, he’d seen a couple disappear behind the trees a while ago. If they were still doing what they’d gone there to do, they wouldn’t appreciate him hurling on them. Talk about coitus interruptus.
He chuckled at the thought.
“What’re you laughing at?” his new friend asked, nudging him in the gut, which caused the tequila to slosh. The guy’s name was Craig something. If he’d ever heard his last name, he’d forgotten it. Craig drove a Dodge Ram pickup, the biggest one made. Jet black. Fully loaded. It was one badass truck.
Gavin, Craig, and several others had been hanging out in the bed of the pickup for hours, waiting for something to happen. A group of girls had come by earlier, drunk some of their tequila, showed them just enough skin to get them excited, then wandered away with promises to return. So far they hadn’t.
“What’s funny?” Craig asked again.
“Nothing. Just thinking.”
“’Bout what?”
What had he been thinking? He couldn’t remember. Must not’ve been very important. “My old man,” he said around a belch. Yeah, his old man had been in the back of his mind all night, bothering him like an itch he couldn’t reach.