Next to the bed was a copy of
All the Pretty Horses,
the same book she had bought on Franklin Street in Chapel Hill.
He knows everything about me!
D
R. KATE McTiernan slept. Awoke. Slept some more. She made a joke of it. Called herself “lazybones.” She
never
slept in. Not since before med school, anyway.
She was begining to feel more clearheaded and alert, more in command of herself, except that she had lost track of time. She
didn’t know if it was morning, noon, or night. Or even which day it was.
The man, whoever the bastard was, had been inside the mysterious, despicable room while she slept. The thought made her physically
ill. There was
a note
propped on the bedside table, where she was sure to see it.
The note was handwritten.
Dear Dr. Kate,
it said. Her hands were trembling as she read her own name.
I wanted you to read this, so that you understand me better, and also the rules of the house. This is probably the most important
letter you’ll ever receive, so read it carefully. And please take it very seriously.
No, I am not crazy or out of control. Actually, I’m quite the opposite. Apply your obviously high intelligence to the concept
that I’m relatively sane, and that I know exactly what I want. Most people don’t know what they want.
Do you, Kate? We’ll talk about that later. It’s a subject worthy of much lively and interesting discussion. Do you know what
you want? Are you getting it? Why not? For the good of society? Whose society? Whose life are we living, anyway?
I won’t pretend that you are happy to be here, so no false-sounding welcomes. No cellophaned basket of fresh fruit and champagne.
As you will soon see, or have already, I’ve tried to make your stay as comfortable as possible. Which brings up an important
point, perhaps the most important point of this first attempt at communication between us.
Your stay will be temporary. You will leave—if, Big If—you listen to what I tell you… so listen carefully, Kate.
Are you listening now? Please listen, Kate. Chase away the justifiable anger and the white noise in your head. I am not crazy
or out of control.
That’s the whole point: I am in control! See the distinction? Of course you do. I know how very bright you are. National Merit
Scholar and all that.
It is important that you know how special you are to me. That’s why you are completely safe here. It is also why you’ll leave,
eventually.
I picked you from thousands and thousands of women at my disposal, so to speak. I know, you’re saying “lucky me.” I know how
funny and cynical you can be. I even know that laughter has gotten you through difficult times. I’m beginning to know you
better than anyone has ever known you. Almost as well as you know yourself, Kate.
Now for the bad parts. And Kate, these next points are as important as any of the good news I’ve stated above.
These are the house rules, and they are to be strictly observed:
The most important rule: You must never try to escape—or you will be executed within hours, however painful that would be
for both of us. Believe me, there is precedent for this. There can be no reprieve following an escape attempt.
Just for you, Kate, a special rule: You must never try to use your karate skills on me. (I almost brought your gi, your crisp
white karate suit, but why encourage you to temptation.)
You must never call out for help—I’ll know if you do—and you will be punished with facial and genital disfigurement.
You want to know more—you want to know everything at once. But it doesn’t work that way. Don’t bother trying to figure out
where you are. You won’t guess, and will only give yourself an unnecessary headache.
That’s all for now. I’ve given you more than enough to think about. You are totally safe here. I love you more than you can
imagine. I can’t wait for us to talk, really talk.
Casanova
And you are hopelessly out of your mind!
Kate McTiernan thought as she paced the eleven-by-fifteen-foot room. Her claustrophobic prison. Her hell on this earth.
Her body felt as if it were floating, as if warm viscous fluid were flowing over her. She wondered if she’d suffered a head
injury during the attack.
She had only one thought:
how to escape.
She began to analyze her situation in every possible way. She reversed the conventional assumptions, and broke down each
to its component parts.
There was a single, double-locked, thick wooden door.
There was no way out other than through that door.
No!
That was the conventional assumption. There had to be another way.
She remembered a problem-solution puzzle from some heretofore useless undergrad logics course she had taken. It began with
ten matchsticks arranged as Roman numerals in a math equation:
XI + I = X
The problem was how to correct the equation without touching any of the matches. Without adding new matches. Without taking
away any matches.
No easy way out.
No apparent solution.
The problem had been unsolvable to many students, but she had figured it out relatively quickly. A solution was there, where
none seemed to be. She solved it by reversing the conventional assumptions. She turned the page upside down.
X = I + IX
But she couldn’t turn this prison room upside down. Or could she? Kate McTiernan examined every single floorboard and each
two-by-four in the wall. The wood smelled new. Maybe he was a builder, a contractor, or perhaps an architect?
No way out.
No apparent solution.
She couldn’t,
wouldn’t
accept that answer.
She thought about seducing him—if she could force herself to do it. No. He was too clever. He would know. Worse than that,
she
would know.
There had to be a way. She would find it.
Kate stared down at the note on the bedside table.
You must never try to escape—or you will be executed within hours.
T
HE FOLLOWING afternoon I visited the Sarah Duke Gardens, the place where Naomi had been abducted six days ago. I needed to
go there, to visit the scene, to think about my niece, to grieve in private.
There were more than fifty acres of exquisitely landscaped woodland gardens adjacent to the Duke University Medical Center,
literally miles of allees. Casanova couldn’t have hoped for a better site for his kidnapping. He had been thorough. Perfect,
so far. How was that possible?
I talked to staff members and also to a few students who had been there the day Naomi disappeared. The picturesque gardens
were officially open from early morning until dusk. Naomi had last been seen at around four o’clock. Casanova had taken her
in broad daylight. I couldn’t figure out how he’d done it. Not yet. Neither could the Durham police or the FBI.
I walked around the woods and gardens for almost two hours. I was overwhelmed by the thought that Scootchie had been taken
right here.
A spot called the Terraces was particularly beautiful. Visitors could enter through a wisteria-covered pergola. Lovely wooden
stairways led down to an irregular-shaped fishpond with a rock garden stacked directly behind. Visually, the Terraces were
horizontal bands of rock, accented by stripes of the most beautiful color. Tulips, azaleas, camellias, irises, and peonies
were in bloom.
I knew instinctively that this was a place that Scootchie would love.
I knelt near a visually striking patch of bright red and yellow tulips. I was wearing a gray suit with an open-necked white
shirt. The ground was soft and stained my trousers, but it didn’t matter. I bowed my head low. Finally, I wept for Scootchie.
Tick-cock. Tick-cock.
Kate McTiernan thought that she’d heard something. She was probably imagining it. You could definitely get a little buggy
in here.
There it was again. The slightest creak in the floorboards. The door opened and he walked into the room without saying a word.
There he was! Casanova.
He had on another mask. He looked like some kind of dark god—slender and athletic. Was that his fantasy image of himself?
Physically, he would be considered a hunk at the university or even as a cadaver in an autopsy room, which was preferable
to her.
She noted his clothes: tight, faded blue jeans, black cowboy boots edged with soil, no shirt. He was definitely a hardbody,
proud of his rippling chest. She was trying to remember everything—for the time when she escaped.
“I read all your rules,” Kate said, trying to act as calm as possible. Her body was shivering, though. “They’re very thorough,
very clear.”
“Thank you. No one likes rules, least of all me. But they’re necessary sometimes.”
The mask hid his face, and it held Kate’s attention. She couldn’t take her eyes away from it. It reminded her of the elaborate,
decorative masks from Venice. It was hand-painted, ritualistic in its artistic detail, and weirdly beautiful.
Was he trying to be seductive?
Kate wondered.
Was that it?
“Why do you wear the mask?” she said. She kept her voice subservient, curious, but not demanding.
“As I said in my note, one day you’ll go free. You’ll be released. It‘s all in my plan for you. I couldn’t bear to see you
hurt.”
“If I’m good. If I obey.”
“Yes. If you’re good. It won’t be that hard. Kate. I like you so much.”
She wanted to hit him, to go after him.
Not yet,
she warned herself.
Not until you’re sure. You’ll only get one try at him.
He seemed to read her mind. He was very quick, very bright.
“No karate,” he said, and she sensed that he was smiling behind the mask. “Please remember that, Kate. I’ve actually seen
you perform at your dojo. I’ve watched you. You’re very quick and you’re strong. So am I. I’m no stranger to martial arts.”
“That wasn’t what I was thinking about.” Kate frowned and looked up at the ceiling. She rolled back her eyes. She thought
it was pretty fair acting under the pressure circumstances. No threat to Emma Thompson or Holly Hunter, but decent.
“I’m sorry then. I apologize,” he said. “I shouldn’t put words in your mouth. I won’t do it again. That’s a promise.”
He seemed almost sane at times, and that terrified her more than anything else so far. It was as if they were having a nice
normal chat in a nice normal house, not in his house of horrors.
Kate looked at his hands. The fingers were long, and might even be considered elegant. An architect’s? A doctor’s hands? An
artist’s? Certainly not a workingman’s hands.
“Well, what do you have in mind for me?” Kate decided on the direct approach. “Why am I here? Why this room, the clothes?
All my things?”
His voice remained gentle and clam. He was actually trying to seduce her. “Oh, I guess I want to fall in love, to stay in
love for a while. I want to feel real romance every day that I possible can. I want to feel something special in my life.
I want to experience intimacy with another person. I’m not that different from everyone else. Except that I act instead of
daydream.”
“Don’t you feel
anything?
” she asked. She feigned concern for him. She knew that sociopaths couldn’t feel emotion, at least that was her understanding.
He shrugged. She sensed that he was smiling again, laughing at her. “Sometimes I feel a great deal. I think that I’m too sensitive.
May I tell you how beautiful you are?”
“Under the present circumstances, I wish you wouldn’t.”
He laughed a nice laugh and shrugged his shoulders again. “Okay. That’s settled then, isn’t it? No sweet talk for the two
of us. Not for now, anyway. Bear in mind, I can be romantic. I actually prefer it that way.”
She wasn’t prepared for his sudden movement, his quickness. The stun gun appeared and hit her with a vicious jolt. She recognized
the gun’s crackling sound, smelled the ozone. Kate fell back hard against the bedroom wall and cracked her head. The impact
shook the whole house—
wherever
she was being kept.
“Oh, Jee-sus no,” Kate moaned softly.
He was all over her. Flailing arms and legs, all of his weight pressing down on her. He was going to kill her now. Oh God,
she didn’t want to die like this, to have her life end in this way. It was so pointless, absurd, sad.
She felt a fierce and explosive rage swelling up in her. With a desperate effort she managed to kick out one leg, but she
couldn’t move her arms. Her chest was on fire. She could feel him ripping off her blouse, touching her all over. He was aroused.
She could feel him rubbing against her.
“No, please no,” she moaned. Her own voice sounded very far away.
He was kneading her breasts with both hands. She could taste blood, and feel its warmth trickle from the corner of her mouth.
Kate finally began to cry. She was choking, and she could hardly breathe.
“I tried to be nice,” he said through tightly gritted teeth.
He stopped suddenly. He got up and unzipped his blue jeans and yanked them down around his ankles. He didn’t bother to take
them off.
Kate stared up at him. His penis was large. Fully erect, and bright with pulsing blood and thick veins. He threw himself down
on her and rubbed it against her body, moving it slowly against her breasts, her throat, and then her mouth and eyes.
Kate began to drift in and out of consciousness, in and out of reality. She tried to hold on to each thought that came to
her. She needed to feel some control, even if it was only over her thoughts.
“Keep your eyes open,” he warned her in a deep growl. “Look at me, Kate. Your eyes are so beautiful. You’re the most beautiful
woman I’ve ever seen. Do you know that? Do you know how desirable you are?”
He was in a trance now. It seemed like it to Kate. His powerful body danced, snaked, writhed, as he thrust himself in and
out of her. He sat up and he played with her breasts again. He caressed her hair, different parts of her face. His touch became
gentle after a while. That made it even worse for her. She felt such humiliation and horrible shame. She hated him.