Blind Rage (37 page)

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.

Chapter 36

THE KILLER IS MOVING DOWN A DARK, NARROW SPACE. A HALLWAY.
Pictures line both walls, but Bernadette’s sight doesn’t allow her to make out their details. They’re smears of color corralled inside a series of tall rectangles. They could be priceless works of art or framed beer posters.

He enters a bedroom and walks through it so quickly, she hardly has time to take it in. Is it the bedroom she visited during her first round with the scarf? She can’t tell. He comes up to a door and inserts a key in the lock. He turns the knob and pushes the door open. Closes it behind him.

White walls. White floor. White ceiling. A glass shower door. A toilet and a pedestal sink. It’s a bathroom. Why would he keep a bathroom locked? There’s a mirror over the sink, and Bernadette wills the killer to step in front of it. He doesn’t, of course.