Dark Mysteries (28 page)

Gabe
walked back in, Brian and K following behind curiously.

“Wait,”
he said, throwing open a cabinet under the sink where an egg crate
was full of old newspapers. He remembered something. He remembered
her. When she first got there. There had been a newspaper on his
table and she had picked it up. And all the color had drained from
her face. When he had asked her about it, she had said something
about the overdose story. The too-strong heroin hitting the city
streets.

There
had been a picture. A picture of Nick. And there was something about
it. He couldn't place it, but there was something about that picture.
He needed to find it.

“Dude,
you're acting a little bit crazy,” Gabe said, watching as
Xander sat down on the kitchen floor, pulling out newspapers,
scanning them, then throwing them across the apartment. Gabe looked
at K and Brian, both of their faces a matching mask of concern. Maybe
this was it. Maybe Xander had finally pushed into the deep end. He
had been teetering on the edge sanity for weeks. Never sleeping.
Barely eating. Spending every spare minute searching, calling,
hitting dead end after dead end.

“Xander,
man,” K cut in, his deep voice soft, but with an edge to it.
“Yo... snap out of it. What is going on?”

But
Xander wasn't listening. He needed to find the paper. As the stack
got smaller and smaller, he felt his heart slamming in his chest. It
had to be there. Somewhere. He didn't remember being diligent enough
to actually put the papers out for recycling. He was too busy
obsessing. Trying to find her.

All
the while, the secret might have been buried under his sink the whole
time.

It
was the second to last paper at the bottom, the headline catching his
eye, making his breath catch in his throat. He dragged the paper out,
unfolding it to the image. And there was Nicola Russo, walking out of
a building. A man was right at his side. But there, standing behind
him, almost completely cut out of the picture, was someone else.
Someone very familiar.

Xander
jumped to his feet, barreling into the office, banging into Gabe's
shoulder as he passed. They followed behind him, watching him like
some kind of wild animal escaped from his cage as he threw himself
down in his computer chair, typing madly on the new computer he had
no idea where it came from. He hadn't even thought to ask. One day it
was just there.

“Xander...”
Gabe started, sounding almost skittish, “you gonna tell us what
is going on here, man?”

But
he wasn't listening. He was breaking into city records. Trying to
find the plans. The right ones. The ones that would confirm his
suspicions. And then there they were. The building. Normal. Nothing
interesting. No secret hideouts. Except. Oh, except... the
prohibition era bunker in the basement. Thought to be long filled in.
But... it wasn't.

“Got
you, fucker,” he said, standing up, his eyes wide, bright.

“Xander...”
K started.

He
threw the paper across the desk at them. “Look at that
picture,” he said. Begging them to see what he saw. See who he
saw.

“Is
that...?” K started, looking up at him with slow recognition.

“Yeah
it is,” he said, then turned the computer screen to face them,
“and look at this.”

“Son
of a bitch,” K said, putting the same pieces together.

“What?”
Gabe asked, looking confused.

“Three
Sixes,” Xander told him. “That guy who ran it. The one
who seemed so innocent. That we considered collateral damage. That
fucker was in this picture with Nick, looking like they were good
buddies.. And there's a bunker in his basement.”

Twenty-Two

She
lost track of the hours when blunt started. It was what she
remembered of Nick. Not the tentative slices to her feet. Not the ice
she was forced to stand in. No, Nick always got the sickest sort of
satisfaction from his fists hitting skin and bone.

He
liked to admire the bruises. He liked to see if he could make them
worse. That was what Nick had always been good at.

It
was four days before blunt. She started to try to keep track by
Nick's change in clothes. Each new shirt meant another day. But she
was pretty sure there were times where more than one day passed. Days
when Bobby would come in with a small space heater and put it on as
high as possible and she wouldn't see Nick at all.

Those
days were the worst. The choking heat. The sweat dripping down her
face that she couldn't even wipe away. Her clothes getting drenched
and heavy. The crushing feeling on her chest, making her feel like
she couldn't breathe properly.

And
then the dehydration would set in. Slowly at first. A dry mouth that
wouldn't go away. Thirst. Things she could force herself to ignore.
And then the headaches would start, pounding, incessant pain behind
her eyes and deep in her skull. It wouldn't take long for the sweat
to dry up, her eyes to feel like paper. Because there was simply no
moisture left.

Just
when the dizziness was threatening sweet oblivion, the door would
open. And in would come Nick, clucking his tongue, shaking his head
as he turned off the heater. As if it was a mistake that it was left
on. As if it wasn't a direct order from him.

The
first time, he walked over and produced the knife from his pocket,
grabbing the front of her sweater and slicing the material up the
front, then down the arms, until it fell into a mutilated mess on the
ground. The water was long gone. Sucked up by the hot air. She felt
the air on her skin like a blessing, not caring that she was only in
her bra. Not caring that his eyes were dipping lower to look at her
breasts. Not caring about anything but the lack of heat.

He
went out and came back in, a big bottle of water, sweating against
the heat. He walked over to her, his face set in soft lines. His
black eye was almost gone, the red marks nothing put pink lines.

She
felt the dryness in her throat, could almost choke on it. But she
turned away. It wouldn't take long. Dehydration was a faster way to
die than many. Faster than starvation by weeks. She could just keep
her mouth shut. Endure the thirst. Until unconsciousness took her.
And then she would be beautifully unaware as her body started to shut
down.

It
wasn't a bad way to go.

Ellie
thought a lot about death. The countless hours at first were filled
with thoughts of Xander, until they became painful. Nothing but a
memory of what she had and would never have again. When people failed
her, books helped. She tried to remember passages, pages, from the
books she had read over and over. She rolled them around in her head
until they didn't even make sense anymore. When the books failed her,
she hummed. She hummed every song she could remember, enjoying the
vibration against the roof of her mouth. Finding comfort in it.

Then
when music failed her, death was like a long lost friend. Right there
for her. Like he had been waiting all along for her to find her way
back to him. She reconciled her feelings on the afterlife. On the
finality of death. The blissful oblivion. The merciful end of pain.

She'd
led a fair life. Better than many. She'd read books, she'd seen
beautiful places, heard heart-breaking music, ate amazing food, known
the touch of a man who she loved like she loved her own breath.

It
wasn't wrong for her to think about ending it prematurely. Far better
people than her died young. In car accidents. In muggings. In
sickness.

At
least she could choose her way to go. Limited options, sure, but
options none the less. Not rotting away in a hospital bed. Not
bleeding to death on the side of the road. Not killed over the fifty
dollars in her wallet.

She
could make the choice to slip out of her pain. She could take the
satisfaction of her presence away from her abuser.

She
could do that.

Death
was her only real option.

“Eleanor,
sweetheart,” Nick said and she winced at the endearment. He
shouldn't be allowed to use that word on her. That was Xander's
privilege only. But his voice was soft and coaxing and she was so
tired of fighting. “You need to drink this,” he said,
holding the water bottle up toward her face, her lips crushed
together in a hard line. “El, please, please drink this.”
She just needed a couple of days. Just a few more. Less probably. She
would pass out first. If she could just hold out.

Then
his hand was on her face, stroking her cheek like he did once upon a
time. When they first started dating. Before he showed her the
monster he could be. She felt herself leaning into it. Needing a
sensation that wasn't pain on her skin. Needing comfort. Even if it
was from him. And then she felt her lips part and water start to flow
inside.

It
hit her system like a shock and she could swear she felt it slip
around her organs, her muscles, re-hydrating things inside that had
started to feel shriveled and brittle. She heard herself moan when
the last drop slipped inside her mouth. Nick chuckled, stroking her
lips.

It
was the laugh that brought her back. Her eyes flew open, taking in
the softness to his eyes. The intimate look. The one that suggested
he was thinking about other types of moans. Moans, she was certain,
thanks to Xander, she had faked. Because nothing Nick had ever done
to her had felt good.

“I
remember being inside of you,” he said, close to her ear. His
breath on her skin. It felt toxic, like it could melt her flesh. “I
still think about that at night. Being buried deep in that hot pussy.
You underneath me. I remember a lot of that...”

“That's
funny,” she broke in, her voice dripping with venom. Mad more
at herself than at him. She just ruined her only way out. “Because
I remember a lot of fake orgasms.”

There.
It was out. She was going to regret it. But there it was. And she
took far too much satisfaction in knowing it was one of the few
things she could say to get under his skin. Whatever the
consequences. It was worth seeing his head jerk back. His mouth fall
open. His eyes go wide. Just for the briefest of seconds she saw
vulnerability and insecurity there. It was enough. It was enough to
make her glad she had said it.

Even
as his fist cocked and swung. Even as his knee found her ribs. Even
as his fingers scraped down her chest. Even as she floated in and out
of consciousness. It was enough.

She
had slipped a seed of doubt into Nicola Russo.

And
then everything was wonderfully, pleasantly black.

–

The
waking up was the worst. That slow, growing realization that you
lived through it. That you were awake to go through it again. That
your body was stronger than you thought.

There
was so much more to be endured.

He'd
knocked her into unconsciousness six times that she remembered. Over
the course of fifteen shirt changes. No telling the time she lost in
between. No telling how many days he didn't bother to open the door.
He got more viscous each time. Like he needed to top each session.
Like maybe he could made her finally open her mouth and scream. Or
beg.

But
she didn't. So, he made her pay for that.

Ellie
sighed, feeling her mind spring awake again. She was still alive.

One
of her eyes wouldn't open all the way and the other one had a
blurriness to it that she tried, unsuccessfully, to blink against.

The
pain started in then. Almost as pulses around her body. Her face. Her
stomach. Her ribs. Her throat. The sharpness came about slowly, one
spot at a time. The ribs were the worst. Her throat the second. Her
face last. She tried to open her mouth, a strange tightness in the
joint and the movement sent a blinding shot of pain up through her
cheekbones, into her eye sockets. Her wrists hurt and she didn't even
need to turn her head to know that there would be scars on top of the
scars. If she lived long enough to heal.

But
pain had an oddly comforting effect on her. It was something she
could focus on. Something she could allow to wash over her. Fill her
with the undeniable evidence of Nick's relentless evil. It's why she
needed to stop drinking. Stop eating what measly food she was being
provided.

The
door slid open slowly and she blinked at the brightness, her one
somewhat-good eye straining to see.

But
it wasn't Nick.

It
was Jason.

“Don't
look so relieved,” Jason said, smirking, stepping in and
closing the door behind him.

“What
is it to be today?” Ellie asked through her swollen lips.
“Noise? More ice?”

“Oh,
no,” Jason said, the coldness in his eyes making her spine
straighten. His face had healed. The bruises faded, the cuts closed
over. She wondered how pissed off she got Nick to make him do that
much damage. “I'm not here for Nick,” he said, looking
her up and down.

That's
when she knew.

There
were different kinds of monsters in the world. Men like Nick. Nick
who had a twisted belief about love and power. Men who needed to take
their own self-hatred out on those closest to them. Men who struck
out because of their own pain.