The Dead Place (22 page)

“Parents always think that. We thought that. Kids change. And if Elizabeth Hirsh has been abducted by some stranger, God forbid, he obviously targets college students.”

“Grace isn’t that much younger.”

“To me it makes a lot more sense that she’s run away from home. She’s been heading in that direction for the last year, and now she’s done it.”

She wanted to believe that. She held onto it like a talisman, clutching it along with his hand. “You really think so?”

“Definitely. And she left because of me.”

Her turn to comfort. “You can’t say that, Ian. It’s my fault, too. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own problems that I barely noticed hers.”

“We should have realized there’d be adjustment problems. I guess I just hoped that changing schools, changing neighborhoods would be enough.”

His hand was running through her hair again, a hypnotic, soothing gesture. She felt her own hand reciprocating, moving across his jaw and stroking his throat lightly. His skin felt cool under her fingertips, yet charged. She hadn’t touched him in almost a year.

He swallowed, and she felt the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple. The hand tangled in her hair tightened. His other hand trembled as he placed it lightly against a breast. Her own breath caught and she let her thumb dip into the hollow of his throat and continue down his chest.

He imitated her, moving his hands in unison with her exploration, keeping the touch light.

It was a weird dance, silent and halting, oddly fragile, with fingertips alighting on skin so parched for human contact that just tracing the body, which under ordinary circumstances might hardly qualify as prelude, carried with it extraordinary sensation.

There was an unspoken question everywhere his hands landed, and she answered each by moving her body closer to him and moving her hands in kind. She hesitated only once, when his hand found its way inside and she had a sudden memory of the roughness of that gesture in the studio and for a moment she was back there, slammed back against the table, watching the paints spilling on the floor, smelling the blood.

He stopped at once, pulled back, and she could feel his breathing, hard and warm, against her chest. His willingness to stop refocused her; she came back to the feeling of their bed underneath her, his body warm against hers. She found his hand and guided him forward.

They came in virtual silence; a few muffled “oh’s” of exclamation from her and Ian’s long exhalation. She tried to hide the tears that came afterward for Grace, but he must have heard the catch in her throat, because he caught them with his hands, smoothing them into her skin like a balm, and then he cradled her just as she’d cradled Grace as a child.

Kate forgot Grace was missing when she woke up. Just for a moment, in that weird state between sleep and fully awake, it was as if the last six months hadn’t happened and there was nothing more urgent than stretching a hand across the bed to the dark head on the opposite pillow.

Vague memories of a pleasant evening swaddled her, but then Ian rolled over and said, “She’s been missing for fourteen hours.”

Just like that, the dreamlike state popped like a soap bubble. Kate sat straight up, heart pounding. She looked past Ian at the clock. “It’s almost fifteen hours.”

Her stomach rose, and she untangled wobbly legs from the bedclothes and lurched to the bathroom to throw up.

“I’m sure she’s with Damien,” Ian said from the doorway as she rinsed her mouth with water. The face in the mirror was almost unrecognizable, ugly white with large dark circles under the eyes, the hair a tangled mass of red frizz.

“And if she’s not?”

He didn’t answer her, retreating back to the bedroom. She followed him, surprised to see him laying a suit out on the bed.

“You’re not going to work?”

“Of course.”

“But what about Grace?”

“I can’t sit here all day waiting,” Ian said. “She’ll come back when she’s good and ready and feels like she’s punished us enough.”

She sank back onto the bed. “I want to go back to the city.”

“That’s a fool’s errand, Kate. They’re on their way to California or someplace else.”

“We can’t just leave her with him!”

“The police will take care of it. Let’s let them do their job.”

He dressed with his usual calm, knotting his tie with precision in front of the wardrobe mirror, his face that of a Buddha she’d seen in a shop window. His passivity shocked and enraged her.

“We should be doing something!”

“There’s nothing we
can
do.”

It was an answer she couldn’t accept. She trailed him down the stairs to the kitchen, where he made coffee as if it was just a normal day. When he offered her a mug, she waved it away.

“I can’t believe you can just go work.”

“I have responsibilities—”

“Your responsibility is as a father!”

“—that go beyond this house!”

They were both shouting. Ian turned from her and looked out the window. Any closeness she’d felt toward him had evaporated. Kate’s mouth felt dry, her heart a cold, dry stone.

She left the kitchen without saying a word, and climbed back up the stairs to Grace’s room. The bed was still rumpled, and she made it as if smoothing the sheets would bring Grace back to it.

Footsteps downstairs, and then Ian called, “Good-bye.”

She stood still, wanting to call out, “Stay,” but her lips couldn’t form the word. The silence stretched on for a full minute, and then the footsteps retreated. When she heard the door shut, she sank onto Grace’s bed and started to cry.

Ian drove toward the university on autopilot, heeding the speed limit and stopping at red lights, but feeling anger like a heavy band across his chest. He gripped the steering wheel tighter and tighter with his hands, the only outlet for the rage threatening to overwhelm him. As if he didn’t care about what happened. As if he wasn’t worried, too. What did she want from him?

It felt like he’d been asking that question all of his married life. Living with Kate was like a damn roller coaster, always had been. Emotional highs and lows were a part of their lives and all because of her artistic temperament.

In the early years of their marriage they’d had long, ridiculous arguments, invariably instigated and dragged on by her and invariably exacerbated by his responses, which were never what she wanted to hear. At a certain point he’d given up trying to interpret her moods, and settled for weathering them the way you waited out a storm.

The less said the better, he’d learned, though it was hard to resist the temptation to humor and encourage her out of these funks. He realized that this was a flaw in himself, this need to see her happy, but he also thought that she should have worked harder at contentment.

A horrible day’s painting always resulted in a horrible evening with her. Every emotion had to be taken seriously; every temporary block had the potential to end her career.

What angered him the most, now as well as then, was the assumption that, since he wasn’t verbalizing and emoting like she was, he must not care. Of course he cared about Grace! She was his daughter for God’s sake! But what good came of sitting around counting down the minutes until the police could actually do something about it?

He pulled into his parking spot, and was walking briskly toward his office when he saw Dr. Beetleman heading toward him. Beetleman smiled broadly, held out a hand in greeting.

“Ian, just the man I’m looking for! We got a set of drawings from the second architect, come have a look.”

Ian shook his head. “I’m sorry, Laurence, not today.”

Dr. Beetleman nodded. “Of course, another time. Is something wrong?”

“Grace is missing.”

“You mean Kate didn’t find her?” Dr. Beetleman looked distressed, and Ian filled him in on what had happened. He listened intently and then quietly said, “It’s so much stress for you, Ian.”

The kindness in his voice crushed Ian. He choked out, “Yes, yes it is.”

Dr. Beetleman was from an older generation in which men didn’t physically touch each other. He clasped Ian’s arm instead, which was as close to an embrace as he got. “If you need anything, anything at all, please ask me or Clara.”

“Thank you.”

Ian forced himself to keep going to his office. As he turned down his hall, he saw Jerry Virgoli walking toward him. It was too late to turn back. Jerry had seen him.

He nodded at Ian with a small smile. “Dean.”

Always the title, never just Ian or even Professor Corbin. It galled Ian, never more so than today, but he just smiled, said, “Jerry,” in a friendly sort of fashion, and trooped on. Just like he always did. Just like he always would. The burden of a good husband and father.

Kate drank the coffee that Ian had made, but couldn’t eat anything. She wandered through the house, feeling useless, before heading in desperation for the studio. It was impossible not to stare at the painting and see Grace as the figure caught in the dark river, and Kate couldn’t bear it. She fled back to the house.

The piano, Grace’s piano, was shut, a fine patina of dust covering the lid. Sheet music and books lay scattered across the bench where Grace had left them just yesterday when she grabbed what she needed for that afternoon’s lesson. Kate gathered them into a neat stack and when that task was done, she needed another one to keep her hands occupied and went in search of a cloth to dust the piano.

It was hard to imagine Grace existing without a piano. Did Damien have one in that vast apartment? It was hard to remember a time when they hadn’t had the piano, and before that a time when Grace, a tiny, twinkling baby Grace, hadn’t played the piano—but that had been a different time and looking back on it felt like looking back on someone else’s life.

When the wood grain of the upright was gleaming, Kate sat down on the bench and slid back the lid. She rested her hands lightly on the keys, picturing Grace sitting there, Grace playing. The few notes Kate played echoed loudly in the empty room. She closed the lid.

She was upstairs sorting through Grace’s desk when she heard noise at the front door. Kate ran down the steps, heart racing, sure that it was Grace returning. There was a shadow behind the curtained side window. Kate threw open the door, but there was only the mailman retreating down the walk.

Disappointment left a sour taste in her mouth. She stood on the porch watching the mailman walk briskly along his route, and she stayed there, looking up and down the empty street, wanting desperately to believe that at any moment Grace would come.

The weight of the mail in her hand called her out of her reverie. She sorted through it, past credit card offers and the gas bill. Stuck between two shopping circulars was a white envelope with her name and address typewritten in the center. No return address. She turned it over and saw that someone had carefully placed a strip of scotch tape as an extra seal. Kate could feel the weight of something more than a letter.

Curious, she slit it open. Inside were a folded letter and another envelope, small and with a sealed flap. She took out the letter first. Centered on the page was a short, typed paragraph:

That was all. Kate puzzled over it and then took the smaller envelope out of the first. It opened easily, and a silver necklace slid smoothly out of one corner and onto the porch before she could catch it.

Kate cried out and snatched it up with shaking hands. Dangling from the center of a long chain made of tiny sterling loops was a piano charm. Kate would know it anywhere. It belonged to Grace.

There was light, too much light, shining on her face. Eyes burning. Turn it off. She blinked, blinked again, but it didn’t go away. She rolled slowly up, sitting, shielding her face.

“Drink,” the voice behind the light said. The voice, she knew the voice, but she couldn’t see beyond the light. Something hard thrust into her hands. A bottle. “Drink.” A hand pushed it to her lips, tilted it, and water wet her throat, spilled from her mouth. She was thirsty. So thirsty. She drank and drank, wiping at her clothes, but there were no clothes. She wiped at skin. Weird.

Her arm hurt. Was she sick? Did the doctor give her a shot? Her head hurt, too. Something heavy on her leg. Blink, blink, blink. “Turn off the light,” she tried to say, but it came out funny. The light wouldn’t go away. She drank some more and then a gloved hand took the bottle.

“No.” She reached for it, but her hand moved very slowly. The bottle was going away, the light was going away.

“Sleep.” The voice said. She was tired, so very tired. Back down. Something soft underneath her. Water tickling her stomach. Why was their water on her stomach? Too tired to think. She slept.

“Wake up.” The voice hurt Grace’s ears. She tried to put a hand over her head to block it, but then pain shot through her arm as it was wrenched away. “I said wake up!”

Grace opened her eyes, blinking at light, using a slow hand to rub the gunk from them. Something dark swam into focus and then away. Back again. A black boot next to her face. Awareness of her body came next. She was lying on her side on a thin, bare mattress. She was naked. A man stood over her.

Grace scrambled up and back, slamming against a cement block wall. She turned into it, whimpering, drawing her legs up. Something clanked and she looked down to see what was holding her leg. A metal shackle circled her right ankle, a chain of heavy steel links extending from it. She followed it with her eyes and could just make out a bolt jutting out from the concrete wall. She inched one hand down, keeping her other hand over her breasts, feeling the metal and then tugging at it.

“It won’t come loose.” The voice sounded amused.

She drew the hand back and wrapped it around her body. “What’s going on? Where am I?”

“Where you belong, with your Master.”

The voice was muffled, weirdly hissing, but there was something familiar about it. She followed the boots up a black pant leg and over a black shirt to a face half-covered by a black mask. His chin was stark white against the black, his lips red and fleshy. His eyes were like wet granite in the mask’s open sockets. She whimpered again.

“Who are you?” Her voice trembled. He answered with a gloved hand. Leather landed hard against the side of her face.

She cried out as her head bounced against the cement wall. “Quiet,” he said. “I’m your Master.”

She heard him clearly this time, the words harsh in her ears, blood sharp in her mouth. Master? It was ridiculous, but it hurt too much to smile. She looked past him, trying to see around the flashlight he gripped in his left hand. Beyond its circle of yellow was darkness.

Where was she?

Somewhere subterranean. A basement? All she could see was bare concrete floor and the twin mattress under her. Paper-thin foam clothed in striped ticking, it was ringed with sweat stains and smelled bad. Very bad. There were some other, darker spots. Were they blood?

She clenched her teeth in a futile attempt to stop them chattering. The room was cold, her skin freckled with goose bumps, but she was shaking with fear as much as from cold. On her right forearm was a red mark. It looked like a puncture. She stared at it, trying to figure out what had happened. Was this a nightmare?

“Focus!” The man accompanied his hissed command with another sharp smack, this one to the opposite cheek. Tears flooded her eyes. She touched her face.

“What do you want?”

She saw his hand coming and ducked down, shrieking. He dropped his light and pulled her hair, grabbing hard so that she had to scramble up to avoid having it yanked out of her scalp. He was bigger than she was, taller and broader, and he held her easily with her hair wrapped around his hand while he beat her with his free one. Thighs and backside, back and forth, a steady, hard barrage as if he were beating a carpet.

She screamed, “No! Stop!” He only hit harder. Single tears became a river. The flashlight rolled around her feet, shining light on other parts of the room, but she couldn’t see, could only feel. Pain. Real pain, worse than a skinned knee, worse than a paper cut. Once, when she was little, she’d been thrown from her bike when it hit a stone and had skinned both knees and elbows. The pain was like that, sharp and hot and too much at one time. Where was her mother to comfort her?

Her skin throbbed. She could feel bruises forming and he hit against those, too. “Stop!” He would never stop.

“Please!” One word, whimpered. He stopped.

“Please what?”

She hung there on tiptoe dangling from his hand. The chain links rattled against the floor with her trembling. Pain dulled her thinking. What did he mean?

He hit her again, his fist a cudgel against her thigh. Red flashed in front of her eyes as quickly as it spread across her pale skin. “Please what?” The hiss was louder.

“Please, please—” She scrambled for the right answer. What did he want? What did he mean? She tried to think. “Master! Please, Master!”

In an instant her hair was released. She swayed and a large hand steadied her gently, pressing her body against his while he stroked her hair. “Good, little one. Good.”

Her body shook under his touch and he made crooning noises, stroking her as if she were an animal he was trying to gentle.

She could smell him, the odor of sweat and maleness, and she pulled back, but the hand tightened around her shoulders and pushed her face against his chest. “No.” Another bruising blow against her backside. “Don’t pull away from me.”

Then his hands were moving fast over her body, cupping her breasts, trailing down her stomach. When a gloved finger suddenly entered her, she cried out and he yelled, “Quiet!”

He slid out of her after a minute’s exploration and wiped his finger across her thigh. His hands turned her, started down her back with the same intensity. He was a man buying a horse and checking it for flaws. She turned her head to see his face.

“What do you want? If it’s money that you want—”

His hand sprang to her head, reaching into her hair and pushing her, slamming her face down onto the pallet. Her nose pressed into the smell of it as she struggled to turn her head. A line of fire streaked across her back.

Grace screamed. Another line of fire, parallel to the first. “Shit!”

“Don’t talk,” he said, and the third time she heard the sound of a whip slashing the air before it landed across her back. “The slave speaks only with permission from the master.”

“I’m not your slave, you bastard!” It was muffled, but he must have heard her. The whip landed again and again. Fast, burning streaks. Pain set off sparklers in her eyes, blinding her with brilliant color. Fire seared through her body. Screams were torn from her with every stroke of the whip until she couldn’t distinguish between the shrieking without and within, her body a whistling teakettle of white pain.

She knew he was finished when she heard him panting. She heard his footsteps retreat, but she didn’t turn her head. The mattress beneath her face was wet with tears and snot, but she couldn’t move. Time passed. She didn’t know how much time. She was aware she was still weeping because she could feel wetness on her arms. Then something wet landed on her back. She thought her voice was gone, but the sensation pulled one last hoarse cry from her.

“Ssh. It’ll help, little one.”

He was rubbing something soothing into her back and she thought it was bizarre, but she didn’t say anything. Better not to say anything.

“Are you hungry, little one? There’s food for you, but you have to promise to behave.”

The tone of voice was singsong, as if he were talking to a puppy that needed to be toilet-trained. She felt acid rise in her throat, but was also aware of the yawning gap in her stomach.

“Can you do that? Can you behave?”

Would he take off her chain? If he took off the chain, she could get away. She nodded. The hand on her back suddenly pressed against the marks. She flinched.

“Answer properly, slave.”

“Yes, Master.” Fast and low, but he was satisfied. The gentle touch was back.

“Good, little one.”

He helped her sit up, but his hands didn’t move to the chain around her ankle. Instead he moved away, taking the flashlight with him. Darkness surrounded her like a curtain, but she could hear him moving around.

The beam of light approached. He held a dog bowl in his hand. Stopping just short of her mattress, he squatted to put it down at his feet.

“Eat, slave.”

She reached with her hand, but the tip of his boot came down on her knuckles to stop her.

“No. That’s not how the slave eats.” He nudged her belly with his boot, her skin shrinking from contact with him. “Get on your knees.”

New tears of humiliation blurred her sight, but she was hungry. Better to fight him after she’d eaten. She got onto all fours so that her head was down over the bowl and her ass raised.

She sniffed at the bowl. Smelled okay. It was pasta of some sort. She tried to do it delicately, using her lips to try and grab a piece. His hand pushed her head into the bowl. “Eat, slave.”

She ate, smearing tomato sauce over her lips and chin, her tears adding salt to the food. When he brought a bowl of water, she didn’t have to be told what to do, but obediently got into position and used her tongue to lap it up.

A hand stroked her head as if she were a kitten. The hiss was filled with pride. “I knew you were a fast learner.”