Dark Mysteries (26 page)

K
was the one to open the door. His foot landing perfectly, making it
crack and spring open. And they were in.

Xander
looked around, a strange, rising panic working its way into his
throat. “No,” he gasped, shaking his head.

K
looked equally as horrified, his shoulders falling, his mouth open.

Gabe
was the only one moving, turning into the room at the side. Xander
could hear him moving through the rooms on the floor, toward the
back, then the other side before coming back to stand with them. “We
need to check the basement and the second floor,” Gabe said,
his tone suggesting hope when they knew there was none. They needed
to check the house before the gave up and left without her.

Because
the entire god-damn house was empty.

Twenty

It
was the sound that woke her up. The darkness tried to keep her under,
tried to keep her blissfully in it's cold embrace. But she fought her
way to the surface, irritated that it wouldn't stop. The
whoosh-whoosh-whooshing. It just wouldn't let up. She grasped toward
consciousness, immediately regretting it. But there was no way to go
back into that comforting nothingness. There was no way to escape.

The
room was different. That was the first thing she thought as her eyes
opened, struggling against the splitting headache that at her
temples. But it was different. Smaller. Darker. Colder.

Ellie
looked down at her feet, realizing for the first time that she was
standing in water. Not much. A few inches, barely covering the tops
of her feet. There was the aching in her arms and shoulders, a
numbness in her fingers. From being shackled above her head. That
much, at least, she had been expecting.

She
was alone. The door closed. The cinderblock walls were not padded.
Not that it would matter. She wasn't going to scream. Not for help.
Not out of pain. Nothing. She couldn't give him that. That sick sort
of pleasure he would get from her begging. She might be completely
powerless, but she was still in control of her voice. If nothing
else.

Ellie
took a deep breath, smelling must and old water, and she wondered how
long she had been there? A few hours? Days?

The
worst part was not knowing. Being completely in the black about basic
things. Like the time of day. The day of the year. How much of her
life she was losing.

She
flexed her feet in the cold water until the pins and needles
vanished, standing up straighter to ease the stress on her arms, her
wrists. They weren't bleeding yet. She couldn't have been there long.
Wherever she was.

Obviously
not in Nick's old house. Her own personal little house of horrors.

The
hysteria bubbled up unbidden, instinctual, and she fought against it.
Freaking out wasn't going to fix it. Nothing was going to fix it. She
needed to find ways to bear it.

Over
the years, between the endless hours of trying to create new lives,
the thought would pop up. The 'what-ifs'. What if he finally got her
one day? What would she do? How could she escape? Or how could she
not completely lose her mind while stuck in there?

She
had read stories. Stories from survivors of torture. If you aren't a
person of faith, they suggested, it was time to find God. Pray. And
when prayer wasn't enough, meditation could work. Buddhist monks
could burn themselves to death without moving an inch. Think of
things that keep you positive. Your spouse. Your parents. Your
children.

Xander.

K.

The
only two people in the world who meant anything. The only ones who
could help her through it.

She
wondered about K. What he must have thought when the line went dead.
Had he panicked? God, would he try to find her? Even as the thought
was forming, she knew he would. Of course he would. But it wouldn't
matter. Because he wouldn't find her. Not now that Nick had moved.
Not if, maybe, she was stashed away in the middle of the woods
somewhere. Who knew where she could be?

As
if sensing her thoughts, the door opened, and the only person in the
world who did, indeed, know where she was, stepped inside.

He
looked older. The only times she had gotten a look at him in the
recent past were full of panic. Of dread. Of trying to plan an
escape. She had never stopped and taken a look at him. But his hair
was starting to thin at his temples. The frown lines between his
brows had etched deeper and there were new ones, from the edge of his
lips toward his chin, cutting deep, the skin almost looking like it
was folding in on itself. There was even a little pouch of fat around
his midsection that had never been there before.

How
old was he? She found it weird that she never asked him that while
they were dating. But he was older. By at least ten years. She used
to guess he was about thirty when they met. Way too old for her. So,
that put him somewhere in his mid, or late if she was off in her
estimation, thirties.

He
had marks on his face from where she hit him. A long red and mark
across his cheek and nose. His eye was blackened slightly. She felt a
surge of pleasure at the sight.

“Eleanor,”
he said, her name rolling around his mouth with too much familiarity,
making her skin crawl. “I missed you,” he said, moving
toward the wall across from her and leaning against it.

She
looked down at his feet, finding him wearing rubber boots. Actual
rubber boots. In a bright, obnoxious red. It was so ridiculous that
she almost wanted to laugh.

“How
terrible for you,” she found herself say, knowing she should
just stay silent. Knowing that talking was only going to get her beat
worse. But she couldn't help it. Years of bitterness and anger, kept
buried deep, started coming to the surface.

Nick
smiled, a small quirk to one side of his mouth. “Being away has
made you feisty,” he said then shrugged a shoulder. “Don't
worry, I'll fix that.” The threat was there, but mild, under a
layer of some kind of sweetness. “How have you been, Eleanor?
You grew your hair. I preferred it shorter.”

“Get
used to disappointment,” she said, lifting her chin. Knowing
that was the one. The last string.

But
he chuckled. A low, rolling sound in his chest. “Have you ever
ridden horses, El?” he asked, knowing full well she had not.
“The only thing better than a horse that already blindly
accepts your command, is a horse you have to break yourself.”
He pushed off the wall, walking closer, the water sloshing about her
feet as he did so. He stopped about a foot away from her, reaching
out to stroke her cheek.

She
wanted to look away. To see anything other than him putting his hands
on her. But she kept her chin lifted and sought out his eyes.
Defiant. Unbending.

“It
is going to be an absolute pleasure to break you,” he said,
leaning in and planting a kiss on her cheek.

She
balled up her fists. Wanting to hit him. Wanting to hit him more than
she had ever wanted to hit anyone ever before. But he moved back,
looking at her for a long moment, before opening the door. He stepped
out and she waited, holding her breath. Because it wasn't over. He
wasn't going to just... not do anything.

Just
as she thought maybe she was wrong, Nick was back with Bobby and a
battered-looking Jason on his heels. All carrying ten gallon buckets
in their hands. Jason smiled at her as he threw the first bucket onto
the floor. Ellie watched as ice splashed into the water.

More
and more buckets came until there was more ice than water. Until she
felt the hopelessness of it fill her.

Then
Nick was closing the door, watching her, smiling.

It
didn't take long for the cold to set in. She took turns lifting one
foot out of the ice and water, wiping it against her pant leg,
holding it up until it thawed. Until the skin wasn't an awful, angry
red. Then she sunk it back in and repeated the same process with the
other foot.

It
would melt. She comforted herself with that idea. Eventually, it
would melt. It was cold in her cell, but not freezing. It would melt.
And then it would just be like a cool bath. No big deal.

She
needed to stay positive. Clear minded. Alert. She couldn't even think
of sleep until the ice was fully melted. She didn't want to risk
frostbite because she was sleepy. In her mind, she ran the streets of
her old city. Seattle and D.C. Philly and Portland. New York. She
cleared out the people. The noise on the streets and concentrated on
the routes. Up and down. Over. Through.

She
made a promise to herself that if or when she got out, she would go
back. She would run those streets one last time. But not because she
needed to. Not because it was her only way to ensure her survival.
Just because. Because it was something that helped her through the
cold. Helped her forget the stabbing in her feet. Helped her block
out the chattering of her teeth.

She
ran those streets for hours, watching ice cubes sink into the puddle,
watching the water rise up toward her ankles. Time was a strange
foreign concept with her overhead fluorescent light. The lack of
windows. No clocks anywhere.

So
she started to count the seconds. One. Two. Three. Three-thousand
six-hundred. Three-thousand six-hundred was an hour.

She
got there four times before she felt her eyes getting heavy. Sleep
meant she would lose track of minutes. Of hours. But she needed the
escape. She needed the strength. At least she would still have a
roundabout idea of how much of her life was wasting away.

The
door opening woke her up. She sucked in a deep breath, blinking the
stubborn sleep out of her eyes. Trying to ignore the screaming in her
shoulder blades from her unconscious weight pulling against her
shackles.

Nick
walked in, red boots splashing, a cup of coffee in his hand. “Oh,”
he said, managing to look almost sheepish. “I hope you didn't
want any,” he said, gesturing with his cup.

She
would gnaw off her own leg to get that kind of warmth. But she
clenched her jaw, trying to stop the chattering and shook her head.
“I hate coffee,” she said, the words full of deeper
meaning.
I hate coffee because of you. I hate coffee because we
used to share that. I hate coffee. But not nearly as much as I hate
you.

“Oh,
right,” Nick said, nodding, unphased, “it's all about the
tea now. When you're finally done down here, I'll make sure Bobby
pick some up for you.”

So
he planned to let her out? One day. One day when she seemed
repentant. When she begged for mercy. When she told him she loved him
again. That she was wrong for leaving. She missed him. Then he would
bring her back into his life. A ornamental accessory. A body to slam
into at night. A face to accept his fist as fitting and deserved
punishment.

She
wanted to think she was strong enough to withstand anything. That
there was no chance of her breaking. But she knew better. She knew
that, given the right kind of persuasion, you would make someone do
just about anything. Turn on their families. Throw their lives away.

There
was a chance that she could end up in that life again. A seat filler
at events. A timid, submissive facsimile of her former self. Nothing
but a glorified punching bag.

But
she would be fed. And kept warm.

It
could happen. It could happen a lot easier than she would have liked
to imagine before. She always thought she could take it. Grit her
teeth. Try to slip away. Live. Then recover. Then go through the
process again. Until one day he finally went too far and pushed her
into a coma. Or killed her.

But
the way out would be easier. Unpleasant in its own way. But easier.

“Did
you know, El, that there are five kinds of pain used as...
punishment?” he paused. Torture. He meant torture. “There
is blunt, sharp, loud, hot, and cold. Yesterday, we obviously tried
cold. How did that go for you?”

“Like
a vacation in the alps,” Ellie said, her voice weaker than she
would like. She was so tired. And hungry. The last thing she had
eaten was that power bar back at that hotel. That had felt like
forever ago. Weeks. Months. But it was probably a day. Maybe a little
more.

Nick
gave her a tight-lipped smile. “It would go to follow that we
would continue today with heat, but I am going to save that for
another few days.” When she was already good and dehydrated. So
she could sweat into misery. Or maybe he was going to burn her. A
part of her thought she might prefer burns to inescapable heat. “I
think we should get the most unpleasant out of the way now. What do
you say? Sharp?” he reached into his pocket, grabbing a knife
and flicking it open. He stood there a moment, admiring the blade,
testing the sharpness with his fingertip.

Ellie
tensed. Sharp could be tolerable. Sharp could be quick. Shallow. She
didn't think he had any intentions of actually stabbing her. His fun
would be over with too quickly then.

He
paused, moving to put his coffee cup down by the door. “I
really like your skin, Eleanor. It's so pale and soft looking. I'd
really hate to mark you up all over. So why don't we agree to choose
somewhere that no one will ever really see?” he asked, walking
closer. He reached out, grabbing her leg and pulling it outward,
running the dull edge of the knife along the sole of her foot.