The young woman opened her eyes. The first thing she noticed was the ear-splitting headache. Then—after a few heartbeats—it was the darkness. She knew that her eyes were open because she tried blinking, but the darkness remained absolute. Wherever she was, it smelled dank and abandoned. She was indoors, that she knew because she could hear the wind whistling outside, making the windowpanes shudder.
She had no idea where she was. The last thing she remembered was being on a date and walking in the park, being grabbed suddenly from behind, and a wet, malodourous cloth being pushed onto her mouth and nose, and then nothing more.
She stirred, groaning. Everything hurt. It was then that she realized that she was bound and gagged. The floor was hard underneath her, cold, moist, unforgiving. She grasped in a flash of understanding that she was being held captive. Trying at first not to panic, she attempted to loosen her ties by moving around, by twisting her arms and legs, but it dawned on her pretty soon that she would never be able to get free. Her kidnapper had done too good a job. She wouldn’t even have the opportunity to scream, what with that cloth around her mouth.
She wasn’t tied to anything, really, but she was bound tight. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness and her headache vanished, she began to discern shapes around her. She seemed to be in an enormous room full of furniture that had been covered by white sheets. These shone weakly by the meager moonlight coming in from the windows. And between the two windows, a sliver of light coming through the bottom told her that it was a door. Had to be.
If she could only move closer to it. Little by little. Maybe she could get up from the floor somehow and reach the doorknob. She dragged herself toward that sliver of light as hard as she could, inch by inch, but with her arms behind her back, all she did was scrape her face and her shoulder, making little progress toward the door.
Exhausted, she stopped. She had to think. She tried relaxing her aching body, but she kept shivering violently from the cold, yet she knew that the cold was the least of her problems. She was as good as dead.
She sobbed, feeling sorry for herself. This was the end of the line for her. Might as well give up. There would be no escape for her. Struggling was pointless. She had heard of that other murder, the woman they had found in the park, and she knew that she would be next.
From the first moment, she had known that this guy was bad news, and yet she had gone on a date with him. Why had she done that? Why had she not listened to her instincts? This miserable life that she lived, barely making enough to feed her child, a life of danger. Was she even surprised that it had come to this? How many of her friends had gotten hurt, or even killed on the job? How many of them had disappeared, never to be seen again?
And that wasn’t even the worst part. She knew that crueler things were yet to come. Mostly she feared the pain. She was terrified of the pain. Would he hurt her? Would he kill her slowly? Would he laugh while he tortured her? She knew he would be capable. All she had to do was remember those dead eyes that never smiled, not even when he was pleased.
Her imagination ran wild in the darkness, conjuring up violent scenes of torture and depravity, and gagged, she screamed with a silent guttural sound nobody would ever hear. She knew she was never going to leave this place alive. At least she reminded herself that her little son was safe, that his sitter was too kind to abandon him to his fate and would probably be willing to raise him if she were never to go back. He would have a warm home to live in, and plenty of nourishing, healthy food to eat, and books to read, and nice clothes to wear. Everything that she couldn’t give him.
As she thought about these things, scalding hot tears ran down the side of her face, burning her skin. She longed to wipe them away, but her hands were behind her back. She would never see her sweet child again. But he would have a better life without her, and that was the only thing that consoled her.
How naïve she had been. She had known from the first date that this man was different. That he was strange. Still, she tried to be nice to him, and how was he repaying her? Who had never said an unkind word to him? He was going to hurt her.
The tears kept on coming. She was so frightened. She remembered prayers she hadn’t said since she had been young and prayed fervently to a God that had allowed this to happen.
How she wished that her life could have a do-over, that she could wake up in the morning and realize that it had all been a nightmare and that she and her child were safe. If only she was given another chance, she would never ever do the things she had done in this life but find another path that would keep her safe. She wanted to go home. She wished she could go home to her mom. Her mom who had called her the most horrible names and told her to get out because she never wanted to see her again. That mom had once loved her. And now she would never know what happened to her daughter, and she would never meet her grandson. She wished her mom was there to hug her sorrow away.
She kept sobbing inconsolably, shivering on the cold floor, until a wedge of light coming through the door told her that her monsieur was back. Her head snapped toward the direction of the light, and the fear took her breath away.
“Did you miss me?” she heard him ask, and she held her breath. “Did you, dearie?” Then she heard him chuckle as he closed the door behind him.
Chapter 26. Oscar
Alfred got out of bed carefully, so as not to disturb his wife. He heard the poorly imitated call of a Yellow-bellied toad and he smiled. That was Oscar, whistling unconvincingly under his window.
He looked back quickly to make sure that earplugs and eye mask were in place, and he opened the window. A cruel gust of cold wind tore through his flannel pajamas, but he stuck his head out.
“You know I can’t hoot like an owl to answer your secret signal. What do you want so early?”
“I have news. Just heard on my GMRS radio. Come on down.”
“Give me a minute. I have to change.”
Alfred hurried about the room, gathering his clothes, but making sure not to disturb his wife. There was an excitement in his heart. It was like the call of the wild. Like when he was young, and he would hear the whistle under his window and would have to climb down the trellis while his parents slept.
Those had been exciting times. He didn’t even much regret the anguish he had caused his parents in his youth, because back then, he had lived life to its fullest, and it had never been the same again.
But this morning, he was young again. He tiptoed down the creaking stairs and was out of the house before he had even zipped his coat up. He greeted Oscar happily and patted his shoulder with enthusiasm.
“Come on, Oscar. Let’s go to Ruby’s. I’ll buy you coffee. I have money today.”
The mood was light as they hurried along the slippery street. The salt had failed in numerous spots on the pavement, making the walk dangerous at times. But they held on to each other when they slipped, laughing like giddy teenagers.
“This is great,” Oscar said. “I have news and you have money. We make a great team.”
“We sure do.”
Ruby’s was packed with people eating quickly before heading for work. Their coffee was famous, and their waffles fabulous. Alfred—determined to splurge—ordered both coffee and waffles, surprising Oscar, who had borne the better part of paying for treats for quite a long time.
“You’ll have to tell me where all your riches are coming from.”
“Agreed,” Alfred said. “But first, I have to hear the news. And they better be good. After all, I’m risking Henrietta’s wrath. And you know how she gets when she’s not pleased.”
Oscar laughed and took a bite of his fabulous waffle.
“There’s been another one,” he whispered loudly over the table.
“No way,” Alfred said. “Another murder?”
“Yup. That’s what they’re saying. Another redhead.”
“Are you telling me that the first victim was also a redhead?”
“Yes, I am. The first time they didn’t mention it,
but this time, someone blabbed. They say she was pretty and young. And a street worker.”
“You mean a prostitute?”
“Yes.”
“Where did they find her?”
“In the park, again. In the back. I’ve never been back there, the park being so large. But they say there’s a hunting lodge. She was found there. The murderer bruised and crushed her body with a blunt instrument.”
“Poor girl. That’s terrible. Do they know who did it? Or nothing yet?”
“Nothing yet. But I had an idea. Why don’t we go out there, see if we can find this Hunting Lodge they're talking about? See what’s going on.”
Chapter 27. The Bible
Henrietta woke up to find herself missing a husband. She stretched luxuriously on the bed enjoying the extra space and wondered what the day would bring. Ever since she’d started eating properly, her outlook on life had improved considerably.
She suspected that Alfie had wandered off with Oscar. Not that she missed him that much. It certainly didn’t bother her that Alfie had made friends and often left her alone for hours. She rather enjoyed it. She put her robe on and sauntered down to the kitchen.
She sipped on her piping hot coffee while she made the lodger some breakfast. Him being a vegetarian sure made things easy, as he was quickly satisfied with eggs, toast, and marmalade, though, in all fairness, she tried to make those eggs special, sometimes preparing omelets, or poaching them, and keeping an assortment of marmalades for him.
Tray in hand, she took a despondent look at the long stairwell that she had to climb. The enthusiasm was always easier before she started climbing. It was a grueling task, managing to get all the way up there without tripping or without spilling the food. The weight in her hands increased as she got more tired, and usually by when she had reached the attic, she was out of breath.
Today, she stopped on the third floor. She put the tray down on the side table and sat down to catch her breath. Some days were harder than others. She closed her eyes as she waited for her heartbeats to slow, but she didn’t complain. She was ever so grateful to have him in her life.
Soon she distinguished in the calm penumbra of the sitting room an underlying sound that seemed to be coming from above, the monotonous drone of a voice intonating some repetitious mantra. The words didn’t reach her. Only the tedious, endless murmur. She sat up, surprised. What on earth was that? She had never heard anything like that before, ever.
The lodger. It had to be.
She got up from the sofa and approached the stairs, and she cupped her ear to hear better. The sound was louder where she was standing. She climbed a couple of steps. Indeed, whatever it was, it was getting louder, so it was definitively coming from the lodger’s room.
Intrigued—all fatigue forgotten—she picked up the breakfast tray and began slowly ascending the stairs. Halfway there, she could already distinguish some of the words. The way to hell, she heard. And then, lieth in wait as for a prey. My God, she thought, is he reading my Bible?
She stood transfixed in front of the attic door, staring at it, listening to the monotonous sound, the heavy tray still in her hands. She wished to move, but she felt herself unable to do so. What was this man doing, reading such horrible things out loud?
The voice continued talking to himself for another few seconds and then stopped. Henrietta—disconcerted at the sudden silence—breathed quietly and waited. She didn’t want to be discovered so close to his door and be accused of eavesdropping. She remained standing there, too close to the attic door, knowing that she must make her presence known, but it was awkward. Finally, she couldn’t take the discomfort any longer and was about to tap on the door with the edge of the tray as she usually did, when suddenly, it opened by itself and she looked up to see George Baxter, her lodger, fully dressed in some clothes she had never seen him wear before, standing up straight, his eyes shining with what seemed to be religious fervor. She knew that he knew that she had been standing there.
Chapter 28. George Baxter Reads
“Charm is deceitful, and beauty is vain, Mrs. Jones, but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised,” he intoned in a hypnotic monotone. He looked at Henrietta and smiled with that wicked, strange smile of his. She shivered.
“Is that all from the Bible?” she asked.
“Yes, Mrs. Jones. Henrietta. From Proverbs. ‘An excellent wife, who can find? She is far more precious than jewels.’ Are you an excellent wife, Henrietta?”
“Well, yes, I suppose I am,” she said with hesitation, surprised by the personal tone of his question. She felt discomfort, as if something slimy and ugly had touched her skin. Immediately she stepped back, not knowing how to react, not knowing how to stand her ground. So, she vacillated in the doorway though she knew she would have to go in eventually to put the tray down on the side table. But she wanted to run away.
“I hope I haven’t startled you, Mrs. Jones. No need to look at me like that, like you were scared.” George Baxter chuckled, opening the door wider for her to come in, and to Henrietta’s startled mind the sound of the chuckle was discordant and unpleasant.
“No harm done, Mr. Baxter. I’ll just leave your breakfast here on the table. And you call me when you need anything.”
Henrietta set the tray down and hastily walked back to the door. She turned around to say bye, remembering that she was supposed to be polite.
“You’re a Godsend, Henrietta. You’re like the woman who opens her hand to the poor and reaches out her hands to the needy. Breakfast looks delicious,” he told her. “Thank you for your kindness. I do hate to put you through all that trouble.”
“No trouble, sir. You’re most welcome.”
“I wish you’d call me George,” he told her, gazing at her with his enigmatic dark eyes. He moved closer to her. He was now so close that she could smell his aftershave.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, instinctively taking a step back, “but I don’t think I can do that.”
The lodger laughed at that, although not unkindly. Henrietta quickly closed the door behind her. He was still laughing when she reached the landing and took the first steps down.
Chapter 29. Murder Scene
Alfred thought that the park would be full of gawkers. He expected ambulances, police cars with revolving siren lights, reporters shoving each other out of the way for better access to the corpse, and tons of gawkers. So, he was surprised—when they crossed the busy street—that the entrance to the park was no different on this day than on any other one.
“Where’s everyone?” Alfred asked his friend. “News like murder should have spread like wildfire.”
“Nobody knows about it yet. Remember that the murder hasn’t been announced to the public, so there will only be police and forensic teams at the scene, in the deepest part of the park, at least for now.”
Alfred nodded and kept on walking. It was very early still, and a bitterly cold wind whirled around him, blowing little gusts of fresh snow. He was freezing, but Oscar was very enthusiastic and seemed immune to the weather. Alfred didn’t think that he had ever seen his friend this excited about anything before.
The sun came up late on a winter morning like this one, and the streetlamps were still on in the park close to the entrance, doing little to dispel the darkness, giving the quiet park a ghostly appearance. Alfred’s hot breath came out in foggy bursts as he hurried after his friend, hands in pockets. The hot dog vendor was already at his post, opening his stand and getting ready for the day. Other stands were still closed and looked abandoned.
Soon, he saw no more lamps overhead. Here, the canopy of trees was denser, wilder, and even though the sun was coming out bathing everything with a weak orange hue, little of the sunshine reached them where they walked. You could barely pick out the benches and the water fountains in the penumbra. Everything was under a blanket of fresh snow.
“Do you know where we’re going?” Alfred asked, crunching the freshly fallen snow under his boots.
/> “Of course, I do. I know this park like the back of my hand. I could find my way around with my eyes covered. Don’t forget that I grew up around here. Even my late wife—rest her soul—was from around here.”
“Did she like the park as much as you do?”
“Oh, no. She hated it.”
“Why’s that?”
“She hated many things. The park was just one of them.”
At the front gate of the park, they had met early-morning commuters waiting at the bust stop, moms hurriedly pushing strollers, and walkers walking impatient dogs, but back here, the park was completely empty.
They reached the end of a long paved trail, they left the last fountain and benches behind, and from there on all Alfred could see was an endless open field of pristine snow with just a random set of animal tracks running into the shrubbery into the faraway distance.
“This is awfully quiet back here. You sure we’re going in the right direction?”
“Fear not, my friend. We’ll see the end of the park in about half a mile, and from there on, the Hunting Lodge, an abandoned clubhouse of sorts, some dilapidated stables that nobody uses anymore, and part of a highway that was closed down after an avalanche brought down some gigantic rocks that were never hauled away.”
“Boy, Oscar, you sure know your park,” Alfred said, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. He’d known Oscar for many years, but he’d never heard his friend share anything about his knowledge of the park, or about his late wife, for that matter.
Horrified by his own suspicions, he had the sudden urge to ask Oscar if his late wife had been a redhead. But he knew wouldn’t do that. Never. Oscar was just about his only friend anymore and he wouldn’t risk getting into an argument with him that could possibly jeopardize their friendship. Besides, did he truly want to know?
But he did tell himself sternly that next time he went to Oscar’s house he would take a better look at those pictures on the fireplace hearth.
The Stranger in the Attic Page 5