Текст книги "Blind Rage"

Автор книги: Terri Persons

Соавторы: Terri Persons
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter 33

HELL HAD SWITCHED colors; now it was white.

He came and went. He periodically removed the gag, let her drink tepid water or juice, and sealed her mouth back up. She didn’t know how long he’d kept her in the blue bedroom, tied to the posts. Days?

Then he shot her up with something that knocked her out again. When she came to, she found herself flat on her face on his bathroom floor. The odors that had nauseated her during the assaults also permeated the snowy tile beneath her. Wanting to get her face away from the stink of his soap and cologne, she rolled onto her side and curled her knees up to her chest.

While she was unconscious, he’d changed her binds and gag. Now a strip of duct tape covered her mouth like a giant bandage. More of the stuff twined her wrists together so that her hands looked like those of a silver mummy, palms locked together in permanent prayer. The bastard knew what he was doing; she couldn’t use her finger-nails as tools. She didn’t look down, but it felt as if her legs were just as thoroughly bound. Why had he bothered to untie the ropes and take her off the bed, only to rebind her with tape and dump her in the john? Maybe he got a rise out of finding new ways to subdue her, the sick bastard. Perhaps it was because she’d been emptying her bladder on the bed, forcing him to change the sheets. Too bad she had nothing in her bowels. Her stomach rumbled and she ignored it. Being hungry was at the bottom of her tally of woes.

Number one on the list was the large white object sitting on the floor beside her. The tub. He’d been talking about it, what he’d do to her once he dropped her in it. The thing towered over her like a menacing iceberg. Was it filled with water? She tried not to think about it.

The bathroom door was closed. She heard no sounds coming from the other side, not even the soothing radio voice, her invisible companion in this blue and white hell. Finding her position uncomfortable, she started to lie on her back, but felt something preventing her. A loose corner of the duct tape from her mouth was stuck to the tiles. Maybe she could keep working it and peel off the tape. She pressed the side of her face into the floor so the tape really caught and then rolled her head down onto the tiles. She could feel the tape peeling away. Throwing her whole body into it, she rolled until she was facedown on the floor again, and kept rolling.

She found herself on her back again, this time free of the gag. Closing her eyes, she caught her breath. The effort had left her nude body covered in perspiration but rejuvenated. She’d removed the tape over her mouth. With time, she could free her hands and legs. How long was he going to be away? She visualized him dead in a car crash, his body slumped against the steering wheel, broken and bleeding. The image energized her further.

Raising her hands to her mouth, she hooked her teeth over the tape and tried to create a tear in the wrap. There were too many layers, and her teeth weren’t sharp enough. She dropped her hands and ran her eyes around the cell, searching for something she could use to slice the tape. He’d been careful, her jailer. There was nothing sitting on the floor itself, not even a wastebasket or toilet plunger. Even if she could get on her feet to reach for something, there was no medicine chest in the room, only a mirror hung over the sink. The top of the toilet tank was loaded with colognes and aftershaves; the creepy fucker had more perfume than a woman. If she knocked down a bottle, she could use the broken glass to cut her bindings, like in the movies. Forget it. He’d probably hear the clatter and come running.

The shower door was closed, but she knew there was nothing useful in the stall. While the water pummeled her during her first trip to his bathroom, she’d had plenty of time to study the cubicle and its contents. One bar of Ivory in the wall-mounted soap dish. Two washrags hanging from the neck of the showerhead. A small window made of glass block positioned high up on the wall, near the ceiling.

Perhaps the metal edge of the glass shower door would work. She rolled onto her side, grimacing when the wad of tape pulled at her hair. Rather than traveling with her, it stayed stuck to the floor. She braced her feet against the base of the tub and used it for leverage to propel her body toward the shower. She curled her legs under her and rolled onto her knees. Slowly, she raised her torso so that she was in a kneeling position in front of the shower.

Sweat streamed down between her breasts, collected under her armpits, and beaded her upper lip. What would he do if he found her like this? Would he kill her right then and there?

After a couple of minutes, she mustered enough courage to slide her taped hands up the glass and over to the door handle. She’d have to open it carefully, or she’d end up falling backward onto the floor. The handle was the size and shape of a toilet paper tube, sliced in half lengthwise. She inserted her taped fingers into the curve of metal and slowly pulled toward her. The pop of the door unlatching echoed in the tiled chamber, and she froze. No devil materialized, and she mouthed a silent Thank you, God.

She opened the door a little wider and slipped her fingers out of the handle. She pressed the outside edge of her taped hands against the edge of the shower door as if she were pleading for mercy—in a real sense, she was—and started to move her hands up and down in short, quick strokes. She concentrated on the edge of the binds. If she pulled her hands apart as hard as she could, she found she could create a small gap between her wrists. The tape that stretched between the gap was a good place to rub, a weak spot, and she could see the very beginnings of a tear.

As she worked, she kept an ear tuned to the bathroom door. If she heard him thumping around in the bedroom, she’d lower herself onto her belly to keep him from seeing her hands or her mouth. He’d assume she was still out and perhaps leave her alone, giving her time to finish the job. Once free, she’d kill him. She didn’t know how. Maybe she’d come up behind him and strangle him with his own belt. If she could find the crap he’d been shooting into her body, she’d use it to knock him on his ass. She’d fill the tub and dump him in, do him the way he planned to do her. He’d be the one the cops would find floating.

Chapter 34

STEPPING OFF THE elevator, Bernadette was startled to see Garcia standing in front of her condo talking to her caretaker. The shaggy-haired Harold Winston was in his usual workday outfit of bib overalls while crew-cut Garcia was in his dark suit, white shirt, and conservative tie. A study in contrasts. She wondered what in the world the two men had to talk about, and then it occurred to her: Harry was gossiping with Garcia about the bums in the basement. Her boss didn’t need to be reminded of that mess, and she quickened her pace. She got to her door as Harry was piling on the excuses for the busted front door.

“So then I told the association folks that all the hardware around here is shit, the doors are shit, the windows are shit, and they’d better start looking at replacing—” Harry halted his diatribe as she came up to the pair.

She looked at Harry and smiled a tight smile. “What about my dishwasher, Harry? Is that shit, too? When you gonna fix that?”

He tugged on his beard. “Just waiting on the parts, Miss Saint Clare.”

“Sure you are.”

Harry pointed to Garcia. “This gentleman showed me his badge and asked me to let him inside. Hope that’s okay, Miss Saint Clare. Since he works for the feds same as you, I figured—”

“That’s fine,” she interrupted.

Harry said, “I escorted him up, to make sure he knew where to go.”

“He’s been here before,” she said.

Harry looked at Garcia and winked. “Is that right?”

Bernadette looked at Garcia and asked flatly, “Shall we take this inside … sir?”

“Sounds good.” Garcia smacked Harry on the back. “Don’t let them work you too hard, old-timer.”

Rolling her eyes, Bernadette closed the door hard behind them. “Old-timer. Give me a break. That lazy, overpaid turd.”

“He seems like a decent enough fella.”

She shrugged off her coat and tossed it over a kitchen chair. “He’s getting paid a lot and is doing absolutely nothing while the place is falling apart.”

“It’s not his fault that Murrick did a cut-rate renovation job.”

“August spent a ton of time and money fixing this place.”

Garcia followed her into the kitchen. “Awfully touchy about him, aren’t you?”

“It isn’t nice to speak ill of the dead.”

He took off his coat and dropped it over the back of a kitchen chair. “What did you get from the nursing home?”

She leaned her back against the kitchen island. “Ruth was only a few years older than we are when she died. She’d been in the home since she was a teen. Her parents put her there after she became brain damaged. She was injured in a ‘household accident.’ That’s the official line, at least. But I think …” She paused, unsure of whether she should unveil her theory.

“You think what?”

“I think her father tried to drown her, causing the brain damage. I think the brothers witnessed it. I think one of them went wiggy as a result and is drowning young women.”

“Why now? If the girl was injured years ago—”

“Remember. She died in April, the same month the first victim was found floating in the river.”

Garcia walked back and forth between the table and the island. “If you’re correct—”

“I am.”

“How did you get all this?”

“I talked to one of her former roommates at the home.”

“Why are all the victims college women, especially ones with emotional problems?”

“I don’t know. Could be the first victim happened to be a screwed-up coed and he decided to stick with a known quantity. That’s the sort of girl he would have grown accustomed to through the practice. Skinny, emotionally vulnerable women. Easy pickings. Maybe it has to do with the fact that Ruth was injured in the years before she would have started college.”

He stopped pacing and faced her, propping his butt against the edge of the kitchen table. “Which one, though? Which brother?”

“I came home to try to figure that out.”

“You’re going to use your sight.”

“That’s the plan. I’ve still got the scarf. All I need is the venue.”

He loosened his tie. “The urinal downstairs again, or should we find a church?”

“The basement’s good. I want to do this quick.”

Garcia took off his blazer and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Let’s get to it.”

“One more thing: I got a call at the office.”

“Yeah?”

“Professor said he’s got a student missing.”

“Is he up to something?”

“I think I believe him. He said her name is Regina Ordstruman. Gone since Friday. Maybe since Thursday.”

“He volunteered that information?”

“That’s about all I could get out of him before his lawyer friend made him hang up the phone.”

Garcia yanked off his tie. “Fucking lawyer.”

“Forget about him. We might have a missing girl, and my sight could find her.”

He threw his tie on the table. “Right. That’s right.”

“I’ve got to run upstairs and get the scarf.” She headed for the steps spiraling up to her sleeping loft. “Mind if I quickly throw on some jeans while I’m at it?”

“Go ahead,” he said. “Wish you had a pair that fit me.”

While she changed, she heard him opening her refrigerator. Bernadette liked that he felt at home in her condo. It took her only a couple of minutes to change, but he was finished with his sandwich by the time she came down. “Superb salami.”

She held up the bagged scarf. “Ready?”

He pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. “Let’s rock.”

Chapter 35

THE DUCT TAPE was a bitch.

While the stretch of tape at her wrists developed a small tear, she’d made little additional progress in her bid to free herself. The stuff kept sticking to the shower door’s edging, forcing her to stop and start again. Her knees ached, and at the same time her taped ankles were losing sensation, making it difficult to keep her balance. She’d gone from perspiring to shivering as the sweat coated and cooled her body. The lack of food was making her light-headed. As her concentration wavered, so did her determination to escape.

She repeatedly rested her forehead against the edge of the shower door. Was she in the middle of a bad dream? Of all the rotten men in her life, why had she picked this bastard to star in her nightmare?

THE BASTARD was in the kitchen making a sandwich to settle his nervous stomach. There was something comforting in the mechanical assembly of layers. Bread. Mayo. Cheese. Meat. Tomato. Lettuce. Bread. On the counter, between the jar of mayo and the bag of sliced whole wheat, was a handgun. He’d brought it out of storage for reassurance.

He’d been startled by the information on the six o’clock news. While the suspect sketch was vague, the very fact that there was a description told him there was a witness to worry about. Switching from station to station, he’d waited for a name, but the police were holding that card close. Thankfully, no one had connected the most recent incidents to the earlier ones—not publicly at least. The diminutive FBI agent was the only one near to getting it right.

As always, he’d selected his prey carefully. With her frail form and fragile psyche, she’d been easy to manipulate and overpower. No one in her life cared enough about her to register her absence immediately. Those who did notice would dismiss her disappearance as a continuation of her pattern of unstable behavior. He had plenty of time to play with her before releasing her into the water.

Admittedly, with each woman he was feeling less and less satisfied. Rather than increasing his pleasure, pacing them closer together had frustrated him. He’d have to see if keeping one around before finishing her intensified his satisfaction.

Feeling generous, he fished two more slices of bread out of the bag and worked on assembling his guest a ham and Swiss. She’d need to keep her energy up for what he had planned. While he worked, he eyed the gun. Silly to take it out. Everything was fine. He’d put it back in the drawer before going upstairs.

BY THE TIME she heard him, it was too late for her to play possum. He stepped into the bathroom and gaped at his captive kneeling in front of the stall. He dropped the plate and in two strides was on top of her. She opened her mouth to scream, but all that escaped was a squeak. He slapped a hand over her open mouth, wrapped his arm around her nude body, and yanked her to her feet. “You’ve made a serious mistake,” he hissed into her ear as he held her body to his.

She felt his erection through his pants, pressing into her back. It terrified her, and she bit down hard on his palm.

He pulled his hand off her mouth. “Bitch!”

“Help!” she screamed, her voice bouncing off the walls of the tiled cubicle. “Help me!”

“Go ahead! There’s nobody close enough to hear you.” Hooking his hand over her throat, he growled, “If I strangled you right now, nobody would care. You’re of value to no one.”

“Fuck you,” she breathed.

His hand closed around her throat. “I could snap that skinny chicken neck like a matchstick.”

“Please … don’t,” she wheezed. “I—promise … I—”

“What do you promise? Hmmm? Tell me.”

“I’ll give you—”

“Give me what? What can you possibly offer that I haven’t already taken?” He cupped one hand over her breast and bunched the mound of flesh. “This is the only appealing thing about you, and even that is beginning to bore me.”

“Please,” she panted. She spotted her own reflection in the bathroom mirror and saw a pitiful stranger, her face red and contorted and her eyes wide with terror. Spittle dribbled down her chin. Her hair was a tangled bird’s nest.

He caught her looking at herself in the mirror. “You used to be such a pretty, classy girl. Now look at you. You’ve let yourself go, darling.” He released her, letting her fall forward on her face with a thud. “What was I thinking? You’re nothing like her.”

She moaned on the floor. A puddle of red was forming on the tile beneath her. She’d broken a tooth or her nose or both. Her entire face throbbed, and she wondered why the fall hadn’t mercifully knocked her unconscious. As she turned her head to one side, she felt the blood smear across her cheek. The bastard was standing over her, examining his bitten hand. She wished she could have taken a chunk out of his testicles. “Let me go,” she slurred, spraying blood along with the words. Eyeing the food spilled on the floor, she licked the blood off her lips and said, “I’m hungry.”

“Good. I made you a light supper.” He kicked the plate, smashing it against the wall.

She cringed as the stoneware shards ricocheted around. “Please. I’ll eat it.”

He stepped on the bread and meat, grinding it into the floor with the bottom of his shoe. “Bon appétit, ungrateful bitch.”

She rolled onto her back and coiled her bound legs back, preparing to deliver a kick. “Fucker!”

“That’s quite enough theatrics.” He stepped into the shower stall and returned with the bar of soap, dotted with his pubic hair. He held it over her face.

“No,” she said.

“Yes,” he said, trapping her chin with one hand and stuffing the soap in her mouth with the other. “Eat that instead of the sandwich.”

The feel of his hair in her mouth repulsed her more than the taste of the soap. She gagged and coughed out the soap, sending it bouncing across the tiles. The white bar was streaked with red.

He stepped over her to get to the tub. “You need a bath.”

“Why?” she groaned, and closed her eyes tight. The question was addressed not to the man brutalizing her but to God. “Why?”

“I told you why,” said her captor. “Weren’t you listening, or are you too obtuse to comprehend?”

She heard the water start to pound the bottom of the tub. What had she done to deserve this? Was this some sort of retribution for the harm she’d done to her own body and soul? Was this her penance? “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the heavens. “Forgive me.”

“Too late for that,” he said. “Save your breath. You’re going to need it.”

He actually thought she was apologizing to him, the sick bastard. She stayed still.

“Open your eyes,” he said, and kicked her side. “Look at me.”

She grimaced but didn’t open her lids. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Again and again, he kicked her. Each time he did it, it was accompanied by an order: “Open your eyes … Open your eyes, bitch … Look at me.”

She’d win this round, even if it killed her.

“Stupid,” he said, giving her one last kick.

Her side throbbed, but she felt a small victory. Then something splashed in her face, and her lids snapped open. Her face and eyes were searing with pain. He was emptying a bottle of aftershave on her. “Stop it,” she sputtered, shaking her head back and forth.

“It lives,” he said, continuing to pour.

“Don’t.” She shut her eyes and turned her head to one side. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?” he asked, setting the empty bottle on the toilet tank.

“Let me go.”

He loosened his tie, took it off, and draped it over the towel bar. He started to unbutton his shirt. “I’d hoped we could have a pleasant evening at home, the two of us.”

“Let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

“Some music. A little wine. More lovemaking.” He peeled off his shirt and hung it from a hook on the back of the bathroom door.

“They’re looking for me,” she said. “The police. My friends. Everyone.”

He laughed dryly. “Don’t kid yourself.”

She wished she’d black out and never regain consciousness. She sensed him moving around the bathroom and heard the squeak of the taps being closed.

“I think that’s sufficiently deep,” he said cheerfully.

The background music—the running water—was gone, and the silence made her gut churn. She felt his hands under her, lifting her off the floor. This is it. He’s going to drown me. A sense of surrender washed over her, and she rested her head against his bare chest.

“You’re finally behaving. Good girl,” he purred into her ear. “Relax.”

“Yes,” she mumbled.

“Let me know if the water isn’t hot enough,” he said.

She felt him lowering her into the water and found it was pleasantly warm and scented. “Flowers,” she murmured.

“Lavender,” he said. “From an old girlfriend.”

She felt his hands locking on her shoulders. He was preparing to push her under.

From an old girlfriend.

She remembered what he’d called her while he was raping her. She tipped her head backward and through blurry eyes saw his face suspended over her. She whispered three words she hoped would buy her time: “Ruth loved you.”

His hands froze. “What did you say?”

She trained her eyes forward and repeated the words without emotion, to make them more believable. “Ruth loved you.”

He took his hands off her shoulders. “You don’t know anything about—”

“Yes, I do,” she said calmly. “I know … everything.”

“How?”

“We were friends.”

His hands returned to her body. “That would have been years ago.”

“I visited her. We stayed in touch.”

Tightening his hold on her shoulders, he growled, “What did she look like?”

Hope started to clear her head. Her mind raced. Was Ruth a student? His childhood sweetheart? A slut he picked up in a bar six months ago? What was I thinking? You’re nothing like her. She took a deep breath and told him what she figured he wanted to hear. “She was skinny like me, but prettier. Much prettier. Classy. Liked … classical music. Older than me.” She braced herself, waiting for the hands to push her down into the water.

“Tell me more,” he said, his voice and grip softening.

He wanted to believe her. Good. “She never stopped caring about you, but her father was—”

“He was a fiend.”

“A regular bastard.” She needed to get free before she ran out of bullshit or he snapped out of his delusional state. She held her arms up out of the water. “This tape hurts like hell.”

A long silence behind her. His hands dropped from her shoulders. “I’ll get some scissors.”

“Thank you,” she said, silently releasing a breath of relief.

“I’ll untie you and dry you off and get you dressed. We can have a lovely conversation about our mutual friend. Our Ruth.” He reached into the shower stall and returned with a washcloth in his hand.

Her body tensed. He wasn’t quite finished with her, the sadistic son-of-a-bitch.

“But before I get the scissors, let me take the liberty of cleaning you up.”

She sat up stiffly. “No, that’s okay. I can do—”

“Sit back,” he said firmly. “Open your legs.”

She did as she was told, opening her legs as wide as she could with the tape binding her ankles and calves. Staring straight ahead, she feigned indifference while his hands and the washcloth traveled up her thighs. She concentrated on a particular tile across the room. It was cracked, with a spiderweb of damage spreading across it from the center to the edges.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asked with a small smile.

She didn’t know what would please him more, a yes or a no. She said nothing and returned her concentration to the spiderweb. She tried to visualize herself out of the water and on the web. She would be the spider, not the trapped fly.

He wrung out the cloth, lifted it up to her throat, and tied it around her neck from behind. “Ruth enjoyed the way I bathed her. Did she ever tell you?”

“No … she didn’t,” she stammered, feeling the cloth tighten around her throat.

He removed the threatening bandanna and dropped the cloth down to her breasts. “I find it hard to believe she didn’t even mention it.”

“Maybe she did.” She kept her eyes ahead.

He left her breasts, bringing the rag to her face. “Open,” he said.

She opened wide, and he fisted the cloth past her battered lips. She stifled one gag after another as he drove it deeper, grinding it into her mouth while he leered at her. The cloth tasted of mildew and soap.

“That should take care of that lying tongue.” He finally pulled the cloth out of her mouth, and she released a whimper of relief.

“I’m not lying,” she said weakly.

“Nonsense.” He reached between her open legs to immerse the washcloth. “I know you’re lying, but I’m going to take pity on you and let you live a little longer.” He draped the cloth over the side of the tub, leaned close to her ear, and dropped his voice to a whisper. “You behaved so nicely during your bath, I’m going to cut your hands free and let you scrub yourself—under my direction. For my entertainment.”

When he left her side to retrieve the scissors, locking the door after him, she slouched against the back of the tub and swallowed a sob.