by Jack Heath
But whenever she was performing, she could assume that people were watching. Strangers around the world. So this was her chance to get a message out. But it would have to be something Shannon wouldn’t think was suspicious. She wouldn’t survive another punishment.
She dropped clues into every performance. People must know she was missing by now. Maybe her face and name were all over the TV. Maybe Shannon was even a suspect.
“Hi, I’m Abbey,” she said with a flirty smile, before demonstrating each toy.
“Oh, Shannon,” she would moan, every time she pushed some horrid new object up her ass. He wouldn’t believe she was genuinely fantasizing about him, but he would think that she was trying to curry favor. He wouldn’t realize she was trying to make him a target.
When the police didn’t barge into the panic room after what felt like a week of this, she escalated things. She wished she knew Morse code, so she could stroke out a rhythm. She went to Google it. Remembered her phone was gone. In desperation, she scratched out a message on her own forearm with a fingernail. The angry red marks spelled out Help Me. She flashed it to the camera several times as she violated herself. She figured Shannon would be too busy watching her hands to notice the message farther up her arm.
Unfortunately, her other observers didn’t seem to notice, either. Or maybe they noticed, but didn’t care.
She shut that thought down. No one would see a distress signal like that and just ignore it.
Would they?
Day after day, help didn’t come. She was going to have to do something more dramatic. An SOS the audience couldn’t overlook. But what she had in mind would almost certainly get Shannon’s attention. There would be a punishment. Maybe a fatal one. She would only get one shot.
So she needed to build her audience before she tried it.
She threw herself into the performances. Her orgasms became more and more convincing. Even when she wasn’t performing, she was performing. Smiling to herself, singing like a concubine, swaying her hips as she walked around the tiny room. She made her bed, putting her clothes away. Doing all the things that men don’t realize they like, just in case someone was watching. She requested makeup and a hairbrush. Shannon gave them to her gladly, delighted by her newfound enthusiasm. When she asked for a mirror, he stuck one to the outside of the glass. She couldn’t touch it, but she could see herself.
She looked like a ghost. Once upon a time she had longed to be that thin. Long neck, thigh gap, ribs almost visible. She scrambled into the corner so the camera wouldn’t see her cry.
She’d already composed and memorized the message. After she sent it, she might have to endure a period of starvation. If Shannon came in, she might even need to defend herself. She couldn’t do that in this shape.
She started doing yoga in her cell. Plank, runner’s lunge, warrior two. She did it naked, to grow the audience. She told Shannon she thought her breasts were getting smaller, and asked him for more food. “Please—it’s making me feel like less of a woman,” she told him.
He started cooking proper meals for her. Pasta with carbonara sauce. Caesar salads. Schnitzel. She wolfed them down, stronger every day. She thanked him with warmth that wasn’t entirely fake. It was fucked up, how grateful she was for the food.
It was hard to tell when to do it. She had no way of knowing the size of the audience. Was she the most popular porn star on the internet yet? Certainly she was the hardest-working.
Then one day Abbey noticed that she had started sleeping well. She looked forward to meal times. She had stopped fearing that she would never escape, and started accepting it. She realized that in some part of her mind, this place had become her home.
It was time.
Shannon had brought a new toy—a silicon penis that looked dangerously huge. Abbey held it up to the camera, hefting it, milking the suspense. Getting everyone’s attention. Then she said: “My name is Abbey Chapman. I’ve been kidnapped by Shannon Luxford. I’m being held prisoner in a two-story house in Westbranch. Please help—he’s going to kill me. My name is Abbey Chapman. I’ve been kidnapped by Shannon Luxford...”
* * *
This time she was ready. She was strong, and she wasn’t handcuffed to the bed. She had psyched herself up. If he switched off the lights and starved her, she could take it. But hopefully he wouldn’t. Hopefully he would come in here to beat her or stab her—and she would kick him to death.
He did neither. He came in like everything was normal. He opened the slot and gave her a tray of stir-fried noodles, a new shade of eyeshadow and a cheerleader’s uniform. Then he replaced the battery in the camera and left.
He hadn’t seen the broadcast, she realized. A grin spread across her face. When the cops showed up on his doorstep, he would be completely blindsided.
She waited, tingling with excitement.
Hours passed.
Days.
The police didn’t come, and Shannon kept behaving as though he hadn’t seen her message. Abbey was adrift on a sea of confusion. Was it possible that no one else had seen it, either? Or had thousands of people decided she didn’t matter?
“What do you think this is?”
When the question came, she was sitting cross-legged on the bed with her eyes closed. Trying to imagine she was in a cornfield on a sunny day, nothing but yellow in every direction. She had taken a half-day meditation course in high school, and it was really starting to pay for itself.
She opened her eyes, and immediately knew that Shannon had seen the video. He didn’t just look angry. He looked hurt.
“I think this is a fucking prison cell,” she said. It was such a relief to drop the act.
“Fred saw your little message,” Shannon said. “He told me about it right away. What did you think was going to happen?”
“Who is Fred?”
Shannon gestured at the camera. “The guy you’ve been performing for this whole time.”
Abbey was confused. “He’s one of the people on the site?”
“There is no goddamn site, you stupid bitch. Did you really think I’d connect this camera to the internet? Fred mails outfits and toys to me. I record you, and mail the recordings back to him.”
The dawning horror was too much to take. “But...so he’s paying you to...”
“No. It’s a trade. He makes his own recordings and mails them to me. Everybody wins. And nothing touches the internet.”
Abbey couldn’t speak. Her last hope, sucked down the drain.
“You’re not even my type,” Shannon said, as though she should be ashamed of this. “You’re lucky Fred isn’t into bruises. I’d love to beat the shit out of you right now.”
Instead, he turned out the lights.
* * *
“Tell me about Fred,” I say.
Abbey, Thistle and I are in the foyer at the FBI field office, waiting for her mom. Abbey won’t go any deeper into the building, but at least we’re out of the cold. Black clouds have gathered outside the window, blocking the moon. A storm is coming.
Abbey has been talking for so long that her voice is getting croaky. Back at the hospital, it took a couple of hours for her to tell us her story. A doctor eventually arrived in the parking lot, looking annoyed that she couldn’t examine Abbey upstairs. Thistle and I were out of earshot for the examination, but Abbey says the doctor has given her the all clear. As soon as we got to the field office, a trauma psychologist interviewed her. Thistle and I didn’t hear any of that, either. Now we have Abbey back, and she’s filling us in on the details we missed in between sips of an electrolyte drink. The yellowish tinge is already fading from her skin.
Even after everything I’ve seen and done, Abbey’s story has unsettled me. Maybe because I misjudged Luxford. I’ve been hunting the wrong kind of monster.
“Shannon never told me Fred’s last name,” Abbey is saying. “Or anyth
ing else about him. And I basically stopped talking to Shannon after that. I’d given up. On everything.”
“But it wasn’t long between your SOS and Fred telling Shannon, right?” I say. “A few days at the most?”
Abbey shrugs helplessly. “It was basically impossible to keep track of time in there. I don’t know.”
“But not long enough for Shannon to mail something international,” I say. “And you mentioned a cheerleader uniform, right?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“A foreigner wouldn’t be into that,” I say. “It’s a pretty American thing.”
“Did Shannon mention his boss at all?” Thistle asks. “Kenneth Biggs?”
“I don’t think so.”
“How about Daniel Ruthven?”
“It was a fucking abduction,” Abbey says. “There wasn’t much small talk, okay?”
“When we found Shannon’s porn stash,” I say, “he went on the run.”
“Yeah, no shit. Left me to die.”
“Can you think of anywhere he might have gone?”
“He never mentioned a secret hideout, if that’s what you’re asking,” Abbey says. “But I’d say there’s a good chance he’s with Fred.”
“You’ve been very helpful,” Thistle says. She squeezes Abbey’s hand. Abbey looks down at Thistle’s fingers. It’s been a long time since she’s had physical human contact, other than the beating.
“I’m afraid to sleep,” Abbey says, not letting go. “I had dreams like this all the time. Getting rescued. How do I even know you’re real?”
“There’s a counselor who can—”
“Abigail!”
A middle-aged woman runs into the foyer and sprints toward us, tears carving valleys through her makeup. Her handbag bounces so vigorously on her shoulder that a bunch of stuff falls out. She doesn’t even seem to notice.
“Mommy!” Abbey cries. The two women wrap each other up in a desperate hug, like they’re afraid a tornado or a flood will tear them apart.
Thistle tells Mrs. Chapman that the trauma psychologist will have to speak to her about Abbey’s long-term care, and that she will need to sign some forms regarding the flights. I’m not convinced that Abbey’s mom hears or understands any of this.
Soon the psychologist reappears and takes over. Thistle nudges me, and we escape into the parking lot. It feels good to get outside, despite the frigid night air. All the grief in there was exhausting.
My Toyota is still at home. Thistle offers me a ride. As we drive out, we pass a dark blue sedan in the parking lot. A Buick. I feel like I’ve seen it before, but it takes me a second to place it. I’m pretty sure it’s the one I saw at the cabin in the woods.
CHAPTER THIRTY
I turn once. What is in will not get out. I turn again. What is out will not get in. What am I?
“I don’t like not knowing the motive,” I say.
Thistle takes the exit toward my house. “Control,” she says. “Some men just like the idea of owning a woman.”
“Yeah. But if Luxford is our guy, why kill all those other people?”
Thistle drums her fingers on the wheel. “He said Abbey wasn’t his type,” she says finally. “Maybe what he meant was, he doesn’t like sex toys and outfits. Maybe he gets off on blood, pain, death. Maybe Fred’s recordings are of torture, or murder.”
I squint. “How does Biggs fit into this?”
“Biggs is in a different category altogether. He knew Shannon. His death could have been connected to Hope’s rape, like we said.”
“If Luxford gets off on murder, why rape Hope and all those other women at all?”
“A person can have more than one defect,” Thistle says. She sounds only half-convinced, but she has no idea how right she is.
The car stops and I unbuckle my seat belt.
So does Thistle.
It’s after midnight. What is she doing? “What, you want to walk me to my door?”
Thistle raises her eyebrows at me. “We’re short on time. You’re telling me you’re done for the day, just when we’re getting somewhere? Have you joined a civilian consultants’ union, and you only work nine to five now?”
Two dead bodies are concealed in my house. No, wait. Two and a half. It’s hard to keep track.
“I get it,” Thistle says. “You have a girlfriend.”
“I don’t,” I say, taken aback. A girlfriend would be an excellent excuse not to let Thistle in, and I’m flattered that she thinks this is possible. But I don’t want to be with anyone but her, and it’s hard to pretend I do.
“It’s okay,” Thistle says, but I can tell it’s not. “You don’t need to—”
“I was just thinking about the mess. Come on in.”
I lead her up to the front door, my heart pounding. What am I doing? As I disengage the three locks, I wonder if I left any body parts lying around. I always clean up after myself—but what if I didn’t, this time?
“Can you give me a second?” I ask.
Thistle smirks. “Whatever. Go hide your porn. Be quick, though. I’m freezing my ass off out here.”
I think of the three frozen asses already in my kitchen, and slip inside. I switch on the lights and quickly scan each room. I’m looking for blood, bones, severed toes or fingers. There’s nothing. Even the smell Shawn referred to seems to be gone. My leftovers are back in the freezer.
But my heart is still racing when I open the door to let Thistle in.
She looks around my living room with undisguised curiosity. I can almost see her girlfriend theory evaporating. Tattered clothes, abandoned coffee mugs, decomposing furniture—my stuff is everywhere, and no one else’s is anywhere. No dining table, just a coffee table between the TV and the sofa. Thistle’s thinking, No woman would live here.
She walks right into my kitchen and starts opening cupboards.
I run in after her. “What are you doing?”
“You got anything to drink here?” she asks.
It’s the first sign that she might be as nervous to be alone with me as I am with her.
“Vodka, maybe?” She reaches for the freezer with the bodies in it.
I grab her hand before she can touch it.
“You’re my guest,” I say. “Just relax. I’ll get the drinks. How about Southern Comfort?”
“Sounds good,” she says, and walks back into the living room.
I let out a long, shaky breath, and grab a dusty, half-empty bottle my old roommate left behind under the sink.
“I’d make you a cocktail,” I babble, getting out the glasses, “but I don’t have any limes. That means no Alabama Slammers, no Scarlett O’Haras—”
“Straight up is fine,” Thistle says from the lounge room.
Out of her sight, I open the chest freezer. Biggs stares up at me through whitened irises as I grab some ice cubes and slam the lid. I wish I had something to cover him with.
I bring the glasses and the bottle to the coffee table. My hands are trembling slightly, making the ice rattle. It occurs to me that if she’s drinking, she expects to be here at least a couple of hours. She wouldn’t drive drunk, and neither of us can afford a cab.
Thistle pours us each a generous helping and clinks her glass against mine. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” I say. I take only the tiniest sip, but it still burns my throat.
“So,” she says. “Let’s say Shannon is a thrill killer.”
“Let’s,” I say. The sofa is small. The proximity to her feels dangerous, but there’s nowhere else to sit. I sink into the cushions, wanting to be closer and farther away at the same time. Like she’s a fire. I want her warmth, but I’m afraid of getting burned.
“Let’s also assume that he escalates, like most criminals,” Thistle says. “So he starts out by raping Hope. After successfully blackmailing her, he
uses his new position as a TA to do the same thing to a bunch of other people. He now has some power at the college and several young women under his control.”
“The blackmail angle shouldn’t work,” I say. “He committed crimes, and these women know about it. They should be threatening him, not the other way around.”
“It shouldn’t work, but it does,” Thistle says. “Remember, the victims probably aren’t aware of each other. And we know from Hope and Abbey that he targets young, isolated women. If they speak out, they have no support network, and no proof that the sex wasn’t consensual. None of them wants to get dragged into a public ‘he said/she said,’ especially if nude photos and videos are likely to be leaked as part of it. And the guy looks like Superman. A lot of people would say the women wanted it.”
I nod slowly. “So as long as he doesn’t push them over the edge by demanding too much when he’s blackmailing them...”
“They keep doing it,” Thistle says. “Right. And the longer they play along, the harder it gets to tell anybody.” She sips her drink. “So then he escalates. He starts killing people. Single men who won’t be missed. He kidnaps Abbey so he can swap videos with another killer, Fred.”
“Hold up,” I say. “What if Fred is the killer? Shannon likes videos of murder, Fred likes videos of rape and imprisonment. So Shannon rapes, Fred kills, and they swap videos.”
Thistle takes a sip of her drink. “Seems far-fetched. But maybe.”
Some would say a cannibal working for the FBI is far-fetched. I’m reluctant to discard the theory.
“So who’s the blonde?” I say.
“She could be one of the people Shannon is blackmailing,” Thistle says. “Maybe he makes her pick up victims for him. Or for Fred—whichever one does the killing.”
“Maybe she is Fred,” I say. “It could be short for Winifred—or maybe just a code name.”
“Could be.” Thistle settles against the back of the sofa. It creaks ominously, and she leans forward again.