by Gary Gregor
Sam listened to the disconnect tone for a few seconds, and then put down the handpiece. A thousand questions flooded his mind. Did Stringer really have Ann? Was she alright? Perhaps she was already dead. Oh God, no, don’t let her be dead.
Stringer was a powder keg, an unstable, fragile cocktail of emotions; anger, revenge, hate. Could he be trusted? Would he kill Ann, despite Sam's co-operation? Why not? He had shown he was prepared to kill others not directly included on his revenge list, Bert Ulstrom for instance. Why not kill Ann? She would be a threat to him now. He was truly insane. He would think nothing of killing again to achieve his goal. What was his goal? Sam was his goal, that’s what. The last one, he said. The last one? What did that mean? Would Sam really be the last one? Perhaps Ann would be the last, if she wasn’t already dead. Could Stringer stop killing even if he wanted to? Perhaps he had taken a liking to it. There had been so many. Was he getting used to it? Getting a real feel for it?
Too many questions; there were just too many questions. Sam was confused, and very afraid. Not for himself; afraid for Ann. He was falling in love with her, he knew that now. It had gone beyond thinking he was in love with her, or wondering what it might be like to truly be in love with her. He truly was falling for her, and it scared him to think of losing her so soon after finding her.
He was not going to let it happen. He would get her away from Stringer, somehow. Then, when he did, he would kill the mad son-of-a-bitch, and he would enjoy it.
23
Sam fought against the empty, hollow feeling gnawing incessantly, mercilessly at his gut. He paced back and forth across the small office floor, struggling against the panic brewing just below the surface, threatening to consume his ability to think clearly and logically. Normally able to assess any given situation quickly, and decide on an appropriate, reasoned course of action, he was confused and befuddled with a mix of fear, anger, and an almost overpowering desire for revenge.
What was he going to do? Suddenly the all-consuming desire to find Stringer took on a whole new perspective, one he had never contemplated. Stringer had Ann; or did he? How could he know for sure? As much as he wanted to believe otherwise, he could not escape the fact Ann was uncharacteristically missing, and Stringer said he had her. More importantly, if Stringer did, in fact, have her, he believed he would carry out his threat to kill her if the police became involved. How must Ann be feeling? Was she hurt? Had the bastard hurt her? God, he hoped not. Sam did not want to think about it, and he shook the image from his mind. He just wanted to find her and get her away from that madman. Think! Think! Fight the panic! Fight the fear!
He stopped pacing and looked out the window into the street below. As he watched, a plan formed in the back of his mind. He had to escape the watchful eye of the two detectives who, at this very moment, sat across the street, presenting him with a problem he needed to address immediately. He had to give them the slip without raising their suspicion, and thereby having them stick even closer to him. It was difficult.
The unmarked car was still parked in the street opposite his building. The driver seemed to be reading the paper, and his partner appeared slumped in the passenger seat. Dozing perhaps? That was a good sign. They were not concentrating. He knew what that was like. He had been in the same situation many times. Surveillance was boring, and more often than not, unproductive. If he was ever going to slip away from them, this was the time; when they were off guard. Their vehicle sat in front of a delicatessen across the street. Sam stared at the shop, and the plan began to take shape
Sam left his office, and hurried outside into the street. He walked past his own car, and crossed the road, heading directly towards the two detectives in their vehicle. As he approached, the driver casually lowered the paper into his lap and nudged his dozing partner. Both men sat upright, alert now. Sam stepped up to the open driver’s side window. He recognised them both. “Good morning fellas,” Sam smiled.
“Hey Sam,” the driver responded. “How’s it going?”
“Good, Mick, how about you blokes?”
“Great, Sam,” the passenger said. “Sorry about this bullshit, though.”
“Don’t worry about it, mate,” Sam said, still smiling. “I understand you’ve got a job to do. Listen, I’m getting a bit peckish, I’m going to duck into the deli here and grab something to eat. I’ve got a ton of work to catch up on, so I’m going to eat at my desk. Can I get you anything?”
“No thanks,” the driver answered and turned to his partner, “Pete?”
“Thanks, Sam, we’re good, we had something earlier. You go ahead.”
“Okay, I’ll be just a minute.”
Sam left them and entered the shop. The driver resumed his reading, and his mate slumped again in the passenger seat.
He ordered a sandwich, and helped himself to a coke from the self-service fridge. When his order came, he paid and walked back out into the street. He offered the two watchers a deliberate, casual wave, and headed back to his office.
Inside, he dropped the food and the drink onto his desk, ignoring it immediately. Food was the last thing on his mind. He called a taxi company and gave the dispatcher concise instructions to pick him up from the service lane at the rear of his building, out of sight of the main road. Trusting the two detectives would believe he was working hard inside, he left the office and hurried from a rear door, opening onto the service laneway where he waited impatiently for the taxi.
It was a scraping sound, an abrasive, scratching sound; faint, as though it came to her ears from far away. Ann heard it as she returned slowly from unconsciousness. Slowly, gingerly, she lifted her head and opened her eyes. She could not move her arms. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.
She looked up, above her head. Her arms were bound at the wrists, and she was suspended from a stanchion hanging down from the ceiling. Confused, she struggled weakly against the bonds that dug deeply into her flesh. She relaxed slightly and cast her eyes around the room, taking in her surroundings.
She was in a strange, unfamiliar, windowless room. Light came from somewhere, but it was weak. She strained her eyes, trying to discern more clearly where she was. She stared at the only one door in the wall directly in front of her, and noticed something unusual about it. Then it dawned on her. The door had no handle, just a small, square-shaped hole where a handle might once have been. It was a dark room, but not too dark to distinguish that it was small, dirty, and dusty. It smelled strongly of mildew, and the walls, like the hard floor on which she stood, seemed to be constructed of concrete. They were rough and unpainted, and covered in thick layers of grime that looked like it had accumulated over many years. As she looked around the room, she was sure she could see cobwebs in the dark corners; many cobwebs, clinging to the corners, up where the walls met the ceiling. In the poor light, she stared in disgust at the cobwebs. Cobwebs meant spiders. God, she hoped there were no spiders. She hated spiders. Spiders made her skin crawl. Her eyes fluttered involuntarily, scanning the floor and the walls for any sign of the horrible hairy things skittering towards her. She was in no position to do anything if there were spiders, and didn’t even think of what she might do if she saw one, except perhaps scream.
She looked above again, at the ropes that bound her. The more she struggled against them, the more they dug into her wrists. Most of the feeling in her hands and fingers had gone, leaving them numb. Ann was afraid, terribly afraid.
Her jaw ached; throbbed. She wanted badly to feel it, to touch it and to satisfy herself it was not broken. She moved her tongue around and tasted blood. She groaned with a combination of pain and fear, forcing herself to concentrate, to remember.
A stranger; a bearded, smiling stranger was in her house; in the hall. How long ago was that? Who was he, that strange, smiling man with those horrible, evil eyes? What was he doing in her home? How did he get inside without her hearing him? What did he want with her?
She opened and closed her mouth, moving her jaw. The pa
in was awful, and she moaned softly. She remembered. The smiling man had hit her!
She probed again with her tongue and felt a loose tooth in the back of her jaw. God, yes! Now she tasted fresh blood. Prodding and probing with her tongue had brought on a new bout of bleeding. She wanted to spit the blood out, swallowing it would make her sick. Moving her head slowly to one side, she spat as hard as she dared, and a thin stream of bloody spittle dribbled down her chin onto her blouse. No! Not the new blouse! She looked down at herself. A weak, red stain tarnished the front of her expensive, white silk blouse. She was to wear that to the meeting this morning. The meeting! Oh God, she had missed the meeting!
She looked down in horror at her clothes. They were filthy. Her suit was dishevelled and spattered with an assortment of dark, dirty stains she couldn’t begin to identify. Then, below the dirty suit, she looked down at her legs. A large, unsightly tear in her stockings began just below her right knee. It disappeared from view, up under the hemline of her skirt that, as a result of her arms being forcibly extended above her head, was hitched high, exposing her thighs.
With a concentrated effort, she gingerly moved her head around to take in her surroundings in more detail, trying desperately to isolate herself from the shooting pains in her face and arms. The dull ache in her back and shoulders threatened to develop into something more sinister, more damaging. How badly was she hurt? She stood up, on her tiptoes, whimpering with the effort, but found it eased the pressure on her throbbing upper limbs.
Then, there was the sound again. That scraping, scratching sound. Where was it coming from? Was it here, in the room with her? Where? What was that? She forced herself to quieten her breathing as she listened. She tried to determine the source of the sound. Behind her! Yes! It came from behind her. Close behind her!
She tried to turn around and investigate the strange sound, and the effort only sent her spinning crazily out of control, adding significantly to her discomfort. Then, once again, darkness accompanied by blessed relief came as she lapsed into unconsciousness.
Whether she slept or not, she couldn’t tell, she only knew that when she opened her eyes again, she sensed it was much later. She still noticed light, not as much as before, but enough to still see the cobwebs high up in the corners. How could that be? The door with no handle was closed, and there were no light fittings on the walls, or on the ceiling, none she could see. And apparently, there were no windows. How could there be light in a room with no windows? Perhaps there was a window behind her, but the memory of her last effort to turn around was still strong, and she decided against trying again. Slowly, painfully, she lifted her head once more, and searched to her front and sides for the source of the light.
There! There it was, on the floor, in the far corner to her left. It flickered. It was a lamp. One of those lantern things that burned oil, or was it kerosene? It burned very softly, and the flickering shadow it cast danced against the wall.
Discovering the lantern brought with it another question; was it day, or night? How could she tell? There were no windows. How long had she been here? She lifted her head and tried to see the slim watch on her wrist. It was not there. Whoever trussed her up must have taken it from her. How did she get here? The evil, smiling man must have brought her here. Why was she tied up like this? Like a wild animal? Where was he now? Would he leave her here? Would he come back? When? Fear overwhelmed her, and she slumped against the strain of her bonds, willing the blessed darkness to return and take away the pain.
The 'swishing' sound went on and on. It was a strange, unidentifiable, terrible sound; ominous and menacing. Loud enough to keep sleep away. Ann found herself concentrating on the sound, and wanting to know what it was, despite the alarm it raised in her.
Tired and afraid, she shuddered violently, her body heaved with great, gasping sobs. She tried to call out, to someone, anyone. Only a cracked and husky groan she failed to recognise as her own came from her parched throat. No one came to help her. She was alone, alone with the cobwebs, their attendant spiders, and that awful, awful sound.
Rough, immodest hands clawed at her, and she opened her eyes to find herself staring into the face of the bearded, smiling man. He was still smiling, just as he was when she first saw him. How long ago was that? How long had she been in this awful place?
She tried to pull away, but the effort caused him to tighten his grip on her shoulder, adding more pain. She saw him raise something to her mouth, and she tasted cool, sweet water. She gulped greedily, choking and gagging in an attempt to swallow as much of the delicious water as her bruised mouth would allow. Water spilled from her mouth and splashed over her chin, but at the moment, satiating her raging thirst seemed far more important to her than table manners.
“Easy, Professor,” the bearded man smiled. “We don’t want you to drown now, do we?”
He lowered the container of water away from her mouth and stepped back a pace.
Ann looked up into the eyes of her captor. “Who are you?” she gasped through swollen lips.
“My name is John,” Stringer answered. “Would you like some more water?” He held the container towards her.
“No,” she said defiantly. “I would like my hands untied.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t do that.”
“Why am I here? What is this place?”
“This place,” Stringer said, gesturing around the room, “is an old ammunition storage bunker. Abandoned since the Second World War. It’s great isn’t it? It was built into the side of a hill, on an old, disused military firing range. There are many tons of earth above us, but we are safe here, I assure you.”
Ann felt the panic rise again. “Safe? Safe from what?”
“Well, most things really, like storms, even cyclones. Even from an air raid I would suggest, in the unlikely event we will experience one.”
“Why am I here?”
“You are here Professor because, for the moment, I need you. You are an important part of my plans.”
Ann did not want to talk. It hurt her to talk, but she had to. She had to understand. “Plans, what plans?”
“Perhaps I will explain later,” Stringer smiled. “In the meantime, is there anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable?”
“Please, untie me,” Ann pleaded. “These ropes are too tight. They are cutting off my circulation.”
Stringer stepped forward and leaned down, bringing his mouth just inches from hers. Ann felt, smelled, his warm, moist breath on her face. She tried to pull away from him. She swung clumsily, and the ropes cut deeper into her wrists.
“The fuckin’ ropes stay!” Stringer screamed. Spittle flew from his mouth and splattered against her face. “I told you that! You don’t listen do you? The ropes fuckin’ stay!”
Stringer placed a strong hand in the middle of her chest and pushed. Ann spun crazily. The ropes burned, and cut her wrists.
“Oh no… no, don’t… please stop!” she cried.
“Stop whining, you miserable bitch!” Stringer ordered. “I hate whining women! That bitch I was married to was a bloody whiner! Fixed her, though! I soon stopped her fuckin’ whining. You want me to stop your whining? I can, you know. I can stop your whining. I’ve got a good cure for whining women!”
“No, no!” Ann cried, trying desperately to calm herself. “I’ll stop, I promise.”
“You better. You just better,” Stringer said, mildly calmer now. He turned away.
“Wait… please wait,” Ann called weakly after him.
“Wait?” Stringer yelled, turning back to face her.
“I need to go to the toilet, please.”
“Jesus, what’s wrong with you people? The stupid bloody journalist wanted a piss too. Well, you can’t. I’m not letting you down, so get the idea out of your pretty little head. If you can’t hold onto it, you will have to stand there and piss your panties.” He turned away and disappeared behind her, out of her view. “Ha…ha, piss your pretty little panties. That’s what y
ou will have to do,” he murmured absently, more to himself than to Ann.
Terrified, Ann listened. The murmurings and crazy chuckling grew softer, and finally ceased altogether. She did not hear a door open, or close, so she knew he was still in the room, somewhere behind her. What was he doing? What did he want from her? Suddenly, from somewhere close behind, the same terrible sound returned. She did not recognise it, but her instincts told her it was a sound she should be afraid of.
Swish…swish…swish it went, over and over again. It had a rhythmic monotony to it that grated on her nerves. Like fingernails dragged down a blackboard, over and over again. She wanted it to stop. Her brain screamed for it to stop. Unable to stand it a moment longer, she tried to turn her head to see behind her. “What are you doing?”
“What am I doing? What am I doing?” his voice came from behind her. “I’m making preparations. That’s what I’m doing.”
Swish…swish…swish.
“Preparations for what?” Ann dared to ask.
“You really are a nosey bitch, aren’t you?”
“I’m not whining, I’m not whining, I promise,” she insisted hurriedly. “I just wanted to know what that sound is.”
“Why don’t you turn around and see for yourself?”
“I can’t turn around.”
“Yes you can, if you go at it slowly. Just stand up on your toes and turn around.”
“I can’t.”
“Okay, don’t. I don’t fuckin’ care one way or the other. You’re the one who wants to know what I’m doing.”
“Why don’t you just tell me what the noise is?”
“Because I choose not to, that’s why. Now, why don’t you be a good little professor and shut the fuck up?”
Swish…swish…swish.
Ann waited, silently, listening to the sound, trying to imagine what it could be. She pushed herself up onto her toes, taking a little of the strain from the ropes around her wrists. She thought about trying to turn around. Still, the damn sound continued, and she knew she had to try. Slowly, cautiously, conscious of the results of her previous effort, she began to turn, like a marionette suspended helplessly on tangled strings. Like a dancer performing a slow motion pirouette in a macabre ballet, she turned. Slowly, slowly she turned. Then, she was around, facing the wall behind her.