Authors: Max China
Why would you have one of those in your house?
She soon became aware she wasn't the only woman held captive. There were others, but they never spoke until he was out. When the mouse-squeak of a step on the stairs was followed by the sound of the front door closing shortly after, the voice of the 'Urger' would start.
Stella couldn't make out exactly what she was saying, but she seemed to be encouraging the other woman to talk to her, and she would ignore her. The Urger would persist until eventually, warned to be quiet. There was no conversational flow. One would urge, the other would warn. The voices came from above her.
He clearly kept them separated from each other. She imagined from the muffled level of sound that there were at least two doors between her and them. She decided to take a chance and called out into the void beyond the curtain. "Hello . . . Can anybody hear me?"
She waited for an answer; the silence hung for what seemed an eternity. She called out again, louder this time. "Can
anybody
hear me?"
The Urger's voice whispered cautiously. Although barely audible, her words were unmistakable. "Who's there?"
"Shush!" The Warner's voice insisted.
The front door slammed, cutting the tentative exchange short.
He was back!
Chapter 143
Without a word, Martin stripped off and went straight into the shower. A few minutes later, he emerged with a towel around his waist and a devilish glint in his eye. "Here, Cath, look at this."
She stared at the protrusion; her expression remained impassive, but the apprehension she felt filled with her with dread. She said nothing.
"Jesus, this is the first time since…" he said, removing the towel. "Look at that!"
She'd known it was only a matter of time. He brushed past her and returned to the bathroom where he removed a key from the pocket of his discarded jeans. Her eyes followed him. He stopped at Eilise's door and unlocked it.
She knew she had to do something. "Martin, it's been such a long time . . ." She took him in her hand, stroking.
He shoved her to one side. "Get out of my way; I've kept her waiting for long enough!"
She leapt onto his back wrapping her arms and legs around him. He stumbled one, two, three steps, and then regained his balance. He twisted around and launched backwards, crashing her against the wall. The collision knocked the wind out of her, but she hung on. He reached back over his head and grabbed her hair. Her nails dug deep into his hand as she tried to release his grip. With his free hand, he opened the door and pitched forwards at the waist, almost taking her scalp off as he threw her over his shoulder into the void. As she fell, she grasped in vain at the pole.
He thought he heard a sound behind him, hesitating; he listened intently at Eilise's door and then relocked it. He stooped to where his jeans lay, replaced the key in the pocket, and then drew the belt out from the waistband. In three strides, he crossed the room, wrapped himself around the polished steel pole and slid down after Cathy.
The sudden unlatching sound of a door opening reached Stella's ears. Low grunts of exertion, followed by the cry of a woman in pain, the rustling of clothes and the scrape of feet dragging across the floor above.
"No Martin!" The intensity of the voice startled Stella. She held her breath, afraid of what might happen next.
Something thudded onto the crash mats. Stella gasped at the sight.
A woman laid there, crumpled, her back towards Stella. She whimpered pitifully.
Stella pressed flatter on the floor and lifted the edge of the curtain. A grating sound, metal on metal rasped down the pole. A pair of booted feet dropped into view and landed square on the crash mat.
Stella withdrew, terrified he would see her.
"You know what you're going to get now, don't you!"
She whimpered louder.
"Martin, please," she implored, "I was jealous. I'm sorry. Oh, Martin my leg. It really hurts…" Her vowels sounded as if her tongue were a large pebble.
Maybe he'd hit her there.
He grabbed the back of her top and ripped it from her.
"No -
please
don't!" Her voice cracked, and no longer restrained, she cried openly.
Stella peered under the curtain and bit her lip. Long angry scars criss-crossed the woman's back. A belt buckle dangled into view. Suspended, it turned slowly until it revealed the grotesque effigy emblazoned on the other side of it. A screaming skull wreathed by laurels that created an air of menace almost as unbearable as the pain about to be inflicted. He paused, and seeming to consider which end to strike with.
She stood slowly, terrified he might hear. With one hand over her mouth, she stifled the sound of her ragged breathing. The silence, impossibly stretched, broke. The belt cut through the air. Swoosh – crack. The woman cried out.
Stella backed away; eyes squeezed shut. She knew that she should do something. At least
say
something, but the fear that she'd be next sapped her courage.
Swoosh - crack! Swoosh - crack!
With every vicious strike against her bare flesh, the woman cried out and wailed in dread expectation of the next.
Stella had retreated, slid to her haunches against the wall. Knees drawn up, hands over ears, she prayed for the nightmare to end. A vision of her father came to mind.
What he would have done, faced with such a situation?
Her eyes opened. She rose, approached the curtain and spoke loud, her voice filled with authority. "For God's sake - leave her alone!"
For the second time in as many minutes, menacing silence reigned. Her bladder puckered with fear, threatening her resolve.
The curtain swished back, and Martin's dead black eyes bored into hers, his face flushed and contorted with hatred. Defiant, she stared back. A droplet of urine moistened her pants. About to fall apart, she wrestled with the voices in her head and finding one strong enough, spat at him through the bars. "Well what are you going to do -
Kill
me?"
He moved with deliberate slowness to the cabinet that housed the key to her cell. Inserting it into the lock, he turned it.
"Yes - but first I'm going to give you something to remember me by."
He swung open the gate.
Stella had backed herself into a corner, if she could feint left and quickly go right, duck under his reach … she might just have a chance to escape. She prayed the lower door wasn't locked.
He was almost on her.
Time to make that choice, Stella. Look at his eyes, look the way you want him to think you'll go and then go in the opposite direction…
With both avenues cut off by his direct approach, her only remaining chance was to dive beneath the spread of his arms. She took a deep breath.
Barely perceptible, a high squeak came from beyond the door. He heard it and stopped, listened with head tilted.
Someone is on the stairs!
He dashed for the cupboard door; the flayed woman grabbed at his ankle, and he stumbled. She wrapped both hands around his shin and held on fast. He lashed out at her with his free leg.
"Let go, Cath!" he yelled.
Still she held on. He dispatched her with a grunt, rabbit punching her behind the ear. She exhaled and rolled over unconscious.
Without exiting the cupboard, he listened intently. No one was on the stairs, and the front door remained shut. Satisfied nothing was amiss, he returned to Stella. A snarl tightened the skin across his face, and the broken bones of his nose showed white beneath the skin, black eyes blazing with the only emotion that ever touched them. Rage.
"Now you're going to pay," he said, grabbing onto her arm so tightly, she thought it would break. His grip stopped the circulation to her fingers, and they felt cold and numb. She fought back, tried to snatch away. He rewarded her with the same punch that he'd dealt Cath. Stella tried not to let the lights go out, fought against losing consciousness and lost.
Stella opened her eyes. On her knees unable to move, he'd tied her arms by the wrists behind her back, secured them to her heels and left her half slumped against the sofa. She realised with horror that he'd undressed her, and she tried to focus on how she felt
down there
. She couldn't feel anything.
He hasn't raped me.
Her elation lasted for the only briefest moment; it was a temporary reprieve. It was coming.
He re-entered the room holding a syringe; he tapped the air bubbles to the top, shooting them out. He knelt beside her. She thought about her father once more.
That happy holiday…
She smiled vaguely.
"What did I tell you? You've been looking forward to this now, haven't you?"
He pushed the needle into her. The drug rushed through her veins with a power that shut her down systematically. She knew instinctively he'd given her too much, but she no longer cared. She was resigned to her fate. No one was coming for her. She closed her eyes and prayed for sweet release, hoping she'd feel no pain. She smiled.
The half-smile was still on her lips when he tied the stocking gag tightly around her face.
Chapter 144
Miller suddenly realised what day it was – Friday the thirteenth. Although not normally superstitious, he felt wary. The sky darkened as he pulled into the car park beside the café, a single splat of water struck the windshield so hard that it jarred him from his thoughts. The aqueous explosion was a mere precursor to what would come next. The wind rose up out of nowhere, whipping up a machine gun burst of similar sized drops that pounded the car and ricocheted off in all directions.
He couldn't recall another time he'd experienced rain like it apart from the time Kirk had given him a lift many years before.
Kennedy! The last time I saw him it rained like this.
Whichever way he turned in his investigations into Stella's kidnapping he couldn't tune in, and he couldn't focus. The awareness that trickled in through dreams, the shadowy perceptions - had all left him. All signals were jammed.
His car door suddenly opened, and a soaking wet Kennedy got in.
Miller clutched at his chest. "You nearly gave me a heart attack! We're going to have to stop meeting like this, John."
"Yes, I've been trying to reach you for a few days - couldn't get through," he chuckled. "Listen, I know where Stella is."
Miller turned his full attention to the DCI, "Where?"
"We don't have much time. Come on, drive. I'll show you where."
Miller crunched out of the car park.
"Turn left," he said.
"Where am I heading?"
"Grays."
Once on the main road Miller put his foot down. For the first time since she'd vanished, he felt connected to her. She was alive, but in great danger.
With Stella securely bound and gagged upstairs, Boyle decided to check on Cathy. She was still unconscious. Turning to go back up, he reached the bottom step and froze.
The bolts on the inside face of the door are drawn back!
Puzzled, he knew he'd secured them when he returned earlier.
He climbed the stairs, pausing on the loose step, shifting his weight.
That squeak from just now . . . it cannot be.
He sped up the remaining treads and checked Eilise's door.
Locked!
"Eliza, are you in there? Answer me." Met with silence, he unlocked the door feverishly. He howled in disbelief when he saw that she'd gone. He thundered across the floor looking everywhere for her. Cathy mercifully remained unconscious, Stella, hovering on the brink of another world, imagined she heard him cursing and growling. The thread she'd floated away on tautened. She stopped, held in limbo.
Something is happening
. . . she didn't want to die. Hand over imaginary hand she began clawing her way back.
Martin was in Eilise's room. She'd been unable to escape with her bags; he'd rifled through her meagre possessions before, but he had no reason to look beyond what was in front of him. This time he tipped everything out onto the floor and began sifting through everything, examining her clothes, turning out pockets on a hunch. He was amazed at how little she possessed; even for a runaway. She'd obviously packed only what she needed. He held up a pair of patchwork jeans that were clearly too small for her.
What did she need these for?
His hands crumpled over every inch of them, and then turning them inside out; he found that a secret pocket had been stitched in using an old silken scarf. He felt something under his fingers, and defined the edges before tearing the lining away to reveal the contents. A note, folded in half, written on the smallest piece of paper possible, revealed a name and address. He scratched his head and pondered.
Why hide it? If you lost your jeans and wanted them back, you'd put the address in an obvious place
. . . The answer dawned on him quite suddenly.
I know where you're going, and I'm coming to get you back.