Chapter 8
“I got groceries,” she answered automatically, setting down her backpack on the counter. “It took a while.”
He made a big show of looking all around her. “Huh. I don’t see any.”
“They’re still in the garage,” she said.
“Afraid to walk in here carrying something? Cause I might be free and jump you?”
“I get that you’re upset,” she stated flatly.
“You go off for hours and leave me tied up and you ‘get’ that I’m upset? What if there’d been a fire? I could be dead. Then you really would be a killer.”
“Shut up,” she muttered, heading back to the garage. She returned a few moments later and thumped the grocery bags down on the table. Then she switched on the overhead light and they both blinked in the sudden onslaught of illumination.
His blue eyes were stormy. He may have been a somewhat willing captive earlier, but that moment had passed.
“I just need a little time,” she said, mentally cringing at the faint pleading tone in her voice.
“Take all the time you need,” he said expansively. “Be my guest. I’ll just wait right here.” He glanced at the bags. “Planning on making us dinner?”
“I picked up a few things. I’m not much of a cook.”
“A ringing endorsement,” he said. Then, “How long do you intend to keep me here? Or, have you figured that out yet?”
“Not really.”
“Honest,” he stated. “Unhelpful. But honest.”
She opened her mouth to retort, but there was nothing to say, really. Instead, she reached in a bag and pulled out the wheat bread, deli turkey and roast beef, Havarti cheese, romaine lettuce and two different kinds of mustard that she’d picked up. Even though it was after nine
P.M.
she started to make two sandwiches, one of roast beef, one of turkey, until he said tightly, “I’m not hungry. Thanks.”
Instead of responding she finished making the turkey sandwich and ate half of it before her appetite died completely away. She could feel his eyes on her with every bite and it was unnerving, as no doubt it was meant to be.
“I have to use the bathroom,” he said when she’d finished putting things away and cleaning up.
She gazed at him, starting to feel overwhelmed. “I’ll untie your legs from the chair again.”
“Better give me use of my hands, too, unless you want to get really personal,” he pointed out.
“Okay, but I’ll have to follow you in.”
“Hell, no. You can leave the door cracked if you want. Keep the gun on me. But I’m going in alone.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry,” he repeated on a strangled note.
“Will anyone stop by?” she asked suddenly.
“I told you already. No.”
“Nobody? No one?”
“No one,” he said. “No one will stop by.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“They haven’t stopped by yet. They’re not stopping by later. Because no one knows I’m here, but you.”
“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” she muttered, more to herself than him.
“You can still get out of this,” he said after a moment. “No harm, no foul. And, if you’re as innocent as you claim—” he started to suggest.
“
If?
” she cut in.
“—then you should contact the police right now. Let them take care of this. They’re good at it.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “I can’t even make
you
believe me!”
“I believe you. I do.”
“Oh, bullshit.”
“I believe you think someone’s after you, and that’s why we’re here now,” he corrected himself. “You might even be right. The police could help you. Or, if you’d let me, I could help you.”
“You could help me,” she said without inflection. “And why would you do that?”
“Because I think you need help.”
“You’re not a very good liar, Auggie.”
“I’m a
very
good liar,” he disagreed with an edge, as if it were a matter of pride. “But I’m not lying to you.”
“What kind of name is Auggie anyway? A nickname? Is it short for something?”
His lips compressed. “Are you going to untie me? Take me to the bathroom?”
She pulled the .38 from her backpack, looked at it a moment, then walked his way. He laid it back at the sight of the gun, but she merely laid it on the counter before untying his chair from the oven handle. When she released his feet, she quickly stepped back, snatching up the gun again and leveling it at him. His hands were still tied behind him and he gave her a look that said she was half-crazy if she thought he was a threat. She felt dark amusement at that but held it inside. After a moment, she undid the twine wrapped around his hands, then, sweeping up the gun again once he was completely free, she took five steps back.
Rubbing his wrists, he eyed her thoughtfully. “You’re not going to shoot me.”
“I don’t want to,” she said.
“You won’t.”
He sounded so positive it rankled her. “I think I could shoot you. It’s just a matter of displacement. I’ll pretend you’re a wall, or a rock, or a bull’s-eye I’m shooting at. Pulling the trigger would be easy.”
“You can do that? Displacement?” When she didn’t respond, he said, “Been through some therapy, I guess. Displacement. Got any other psychobabble buzzwords?”
“How about crazy, wacko, nutso, psychotic, borderline personality, breaks with reality, delusional, paranoid. . . .” She trailed off. “Dr. Yancy tried to help me, but most of it didn’t take.”
He nodded, not quite certain whether she was putting him on or not, she could tell. “Dr. Yancy is your therapist?”
“Was my therapist.”
“What would he say about this?” He motioned toward the weapon she had leveled at him and the bonds she’d just untied.
“
She
would try to get me to think about the trigger,” Liv said, realizing it was the truth.
“The trigger of the gun?” he asked cautiously.
“The trigger that set this all in motion.”
“Ahhh . . .” he said. “Fear. You saw a horrible scene.”
Images flashed behind her eyes of the Zuma slayings. Blood. Sprawled bodies. Then she saw her mother. Hanging. Eyes closed. Tongue out.
And then Mama slowly lifted her lids and stared at Livvie.
I’m done.
“Hey!” Auggie called.
Liv snapped back to the present. She blinked, realizing she was fast losing control of the situation. “The trigger’s something else,” she said, licking her lips and feeling slightly faint. “From way back in the past.”
When she didn’t go on, he said, “I’m listening.”
“No . . . No . . .” She shook her head. She wasn’t going there with him. Deciding it was time to return to safer subjects, she asked, “What’s your real name? I can’t keep calling you Auggie.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too . . . personal.”
“Somehow I think the worry about ‘too personal’ is way over,” he said dryly.
“Then give me your last name. Something.”
“Planning on sending me a Christmas card?”
She gritted her teeth. “It’s pretty convenient that you lost your wallet.”
“Convenient,” he repeated, annoyed, as he got to his feet.
His size alarmed her a little and though she refused to retreat another step, she couldn’t help leaning back, away from him. Lips tight, she kept a steady grip on the .38. He was tall and lean and muscular, and damnably good-looking. And dangerous, she decided.
She didn’t like him one bit. “I thought you had to use the restroom.”
“I’m heading that way.” With that he strode out of the room, Liv on his heels. When he entered the bathroom, he tried to shut the door. She held it open with one hand. “Fine,” he said through his teeth, turning to the toilet and slamming up the lid.
She kept her eyes staring at the profile of his face as she held the gun on him. It was silly. Stupid. Of no importance, in the larger scheme of things, but she kept her gaze averted anyway. She was running on reaction rather than logic. Had been since the massacre at Zuma.
She heard the toilet flush and the sound of him zipping up. Then he moved to the sink and washed his hands. Finally, he turned to look at her, lifting his palms, as if for inspection. “All done.”
She stepped back and waved the gun to indicate he should walk ahead of her, back toward the kitchen.
“I could have overpowered you,” he pointed out.
“But you didn’t.”
“If that gun’s loaded, one of us could get hurt.”
“It’s loaded.”
He paused, gazing at her speculatively. “Maybe. So, tie me up again. Do whatcha gotta do.” He walked into the kitchen, but suddenly grabbed up his chair and started striding back toward her.
She stopped short at the table. “What are you doing?” she demanded, rattled.
“I’d like to watch TV. And the TV’s in my bedroom.” He stepped around her.
Hurriedly, she grabbed up the twine on the counter, then race-walked after him, standing by as he set the chair down in the bedroom and picked up the remote. She stood over him as he sat down, feeling like an idiot. “I don’t like this,” she said.
“I’m having the time of my life,” he muttered.
“I don’t know how long this is going to take. But I’m committed now. I’m just—not sure what to do next.”
“Contact the police,” he said again. “Would you mind moving? You’re in the way.”
She automatically sidestepped. “They won’t believe me.”
“What happened that made you a cop hater?” he asked.
“I’m not a cop hater,” she said. “They’ve just never shown the least interest in helping me. They’re just another wall.” She hesitated, then lifted the twine and ordered, “Put your arms around the back of the chair.”
He sighed, set the remote on the bed and got to his feet again. “Save yourself some effort and tie me to the bedpost. I’m not sleeping in that chair tonight.”
His highhanded manner irked her; he seemed intent on making her feel like he was in control. If it was some kind of psychological tactic to keep her off balance, it was a good one.
He sat on the edge of the bed, pulled off his shoes, then leaned back, draping his arms over the back of the headboard. “This is gonna be a pain,” he said in a long-suffering tone.
She lashed his wrists to the bedposts. It was an older double bed that appeared to have seen better days, but it served the purpose. He was ahead of her in his thinking, she realized.
One of the
Law & Order
franchises was on the television. The one with Vincent D’Onofrio where he played a character who understood and dug into a criminal’s fractured psyche.
“Just like you, the police will think the murders are because of Kurt Upjohn,” Liv said as she checked the strength of her ministrations; the twine was taut and tight. “People think Zuma’s involved with the military because of their video war games. Mr. Upjohn likes the rumors. Keeps interest in his product.”
“But they aren’t true.” Auggie’s blue eyes were watching her as she perched at the end of the bed. The show ended and she picked up the remote and lifted her brows, but he shook his head. “I’m over it,” he said.
“They’re just rumors,” she answered his earlier comment.
“And you would know.”
“What happened today wasn’t about Kurt Upjohn. But if it were,” she said, when it looked like he was about to object, “it would more likely have something to do with his personal life, than professional. His son, Aaron, was working there, and now he’s . . .” She pressed her lips together, then said, forcing herself, “Dead.”
He didn’t look convinced. “Okay, we’ll put Upjohn aside for the moment. What about the others? Could the shooting have anything to do with them?”
“This is about me,” she insisted quietly. “Whoever shot them . . . they were looking for me.”
“Just . . . okay. Could you just take a moment and consider another angle?”
“This is why I can’t go to the police,” she said tiredly.
“You could use a little perspective,” he insisted.
She wanted to scream at him, take all her pain and frustration out on him. Instead, she said firmly, “None of this has to do with Aaron Dirkus. He’s too . . . disorganized and . . . unfocused.”
“Maybe you don’t know him as well as you think you do.”
“I
didn’t
know him well at all. But I knew that much about him.”
“He could have been into drugs,” he suggested. “Or, something that got him caught up with the wrong people.”
“No. Aaron smoked some weed, but that’s it. Nothing else.”