I was lying on the floor of Marie's altar room, and I had only one thought in my head: However this was going to end, it wouldn't be pretty. Either they'd hack me up for some freakishly scary voodoo ritual like poor Adam, or they'd hack me up to harvest my organs. Both scenarios included far too much hacking for my liking.
The last thing I remembered was unlocking the car door. I suspected I'd been stun-gunned and then injected with some sort of sedative and brought here.
I lifted my head and glanced down at my spread-eagled body, which seemed to have jolted back to life at the hacking possibilities. My hands and feet were tied with thick rope to heavy metal rings embedded in the concrete floor that I hadn't noticed when Brad and I broke in.
I wiggled my fingers and toes to make sure they were still working.
Yep, there was movement.
I tried to circle my hands and feet to get the circulation going again, but the rope dug in tightly, preventing me from moving them.
I glanced around. The room was pretty much the same as when we'd been there before. Candles were burning, creating eerie shadows dancing off the walls. The door was closed, and I suspected it would be locked.
Steel door, me tied to metal rings in the floor = not much chance of escaping. I was in human-sacrificing, zombie-inducing territory now.
Oh, fuckerama!
I listened for sounds of Marie or Andrew upstairs, but the only thing I could hear was the banging of my pulse in my ears and a hissing sound.
What was that noise? A gas leak? I took a giant sniff. No, I couldn't smell gas.
That was when a humongous snake poked his head from around the back of the altar and stuck his tongue out at me, closely followed by another hiss.
Okay, now the stakes had got even higher. Steel door, me tied to metal rings in the floor, and a massive angry snake who looked like he'd overdone it on the steroids = no fucking possible chance of escaping.
I know I said I didn't mind snakes, but that was before I was stuck in a room with one that was looking at me like I was dinner.
It slithered toward me in a horrible, slithery, snakey way, tongue doing that disconcerting flicking thing in my direction.
My breath caught in a big lump in my throat.
"Nice snake," I croaked out. I know, I know, it couldn't understand me, but I figured if I spoke to it soothing tones it might not want to take a huge bite out of me, poison me slowly with its venom, and then swallow me whole (or crush me to death and swallow me whole. I wasn't really sure whether it was a constrictor or not, and I didn't particularly want to get close enough to find out). So talking to it in soothing tones was the best thing I could come up with under the circumstances. "Please tell me you've already had dinner," I cooed softly as it got closer.
If it had, the snake wasn't telling. When it was an inch from my stomach, I squeezed my eyes shut, my heartbeat doing an out-of-time tap dance.
I felt it sliding on my stomach and tensed my muscles involuntarily. Maybe that was a bad move. I was sure I'd watched a TV program once about snakes that said if they detected movement, it meant they were more likely to strike. Uh-oh, too late, I'd already moved. I was probably going to wet myself in a minute, too. What did that do to a snake?
I opened my eyes, pressing my back harder into the concrete floor, as if somehow I could get away from it. Highly unlikely since it was now slithering all over me, its head veering dangerously close to my head.
"Er…nice snakey-wakey."
The snake looked up at me, moving its head from side to side as it studied me with those beady black eyes.
While I seemed to have its attention, I thought I'd carry on. At least if it was listening to me, it wouldn't be taking a chunk out of me or squeezing me to death. "You don't want to eat me. I'm not very tasty, at all. I'd taste yuck. Definitely
not
anything like chicken. Chicken's much better for snakes. I read that in the
Snake Owner's Manual
. Have you tried a nice, juicy, plump chicken lately? I'm sure your mum sacrifices them all the time. Why not wait for one of those instead? There's not much meat on me. I'd only be a quick mouthful and then you'd be hungry again. Nice snake."
It carried on staring at me, but at least the head bobbing had stopped. Was that good or bad?
"You'd actually get indigestion and irritable bowel for weeks if you ate me." Did snakes even have bowels? Oh well, no time to think about that now. "On National Geographic channel once there was a snake that actually died from eating an antelope because it was too big." I nodded at the snake for emphasis. "Oh, yes. It actually died. Plus, I eat far too much junk food. Just think of all those preservatives and E numbers. You'd pickle your insides in seconds. So think about that before you get any ideas about scoffing me. I'd get stuck and then you'd be pickled and die. Definitely not a win-win situation for either of us, is it?"
Its tongue flicked in and out.
I was just about to carry on in more detail about why I was bad for the snake's intestinal health when I heard the heavy trap door unlock and creak open.
Andrew made his way down the stairs, a mocking smile on his face.
Okay, I take back what I said before about him being good looking. Now he just looked evil and, well, a bit manic, actually. Especially since he was wearing a top hat and a black cloak, and had paint all over his face. The white paint covered most of his face, and the black paint had been put on in circles around his eyes and on his nose and lips, just like in my dream. The whole effect made his face look like a skull. A chillingly scary skull.
He walked down the stairs and stood over me, grinning. At least, I think he was grinning. It was a bit hard to tell since he'd also painted black lines curling upwards from the corner of his lips, like the Joker in
Batman
.
"I see you've met Monty," he said.
"Monty?" I glared at him.
"Monty Python." He threw back his head and cackled.
Yeah. Hilarious.
"I wouldn't try out for an audition at the Comedy Club if I were you."
He stopped laughing abruptly and narrowed his eyes. "What do you think of our ritual altar?" He swept an arm around, proudly displaying his sick little room.
"Well, the ambiance leaves something to be desired. Have you thought about getting
Changing Rooms
in to do a makeover? And, I have to ask, don't you ever watch Fashion TV? Top hats and cloaks are so un-trendy and out this season. A very bad fashion faux pas." I eyed his hat as Monty slithered off me and disappeared back toward the altar."
"You've got a big mouth, Ms. Fox, and a lot of attitude."
Like I hadn't heard that one before! "Did you ever hear the joke about the wide-mouth frog? It had a much bigger mouth than me."
He ignored me. "Your big mouth has got in the way of my business
and
my pleasure."
"Does that mean I'm off your Christmas card list? Shame," I said.
I wasn't sure which part he considered business and which was pleasure. Murdering people for voodoo rituals or murdering them for their organs. Either way, he was pretty sick in the head. And if I could put my so-called big mouth to use, maybe I could keep him talking long enough to come up with some sort of plan to get out of there.
"So, anyway," I carried on, "this wide-mouth frog is in the zoo and he goes round asking all the animals what they like to eat." I babbled away, not pausing for a breath in case he tried to shut me up. Or kill me. "He goes up to this lion and says, 'Hello, lion, I'm a wide-mouth frog and I eat flies, what do you eat?' and the lion says, 'I eat buffalo.' And then he hops off to a zebra, hoppety, hoppety hop, and—"
"Shut up!" He scowled at me.
"But I haven't got to the punch line yet. You're going to miss the good bit."
He walked toward the altar, picking candles up and placing them all around me.
"I'm allergic to candle wax. It brings me out in hives," I said. "Plus, leaving candles unattended is such a hazard, you know. Didn't you see that advert on TV by the fire department where that—"
"It won't matter if you're allergic to them. You'll be dead soon," he said, and let out a throaty chuckle.
"What are you going to do? Sacrifice me or rip out my organs?" I asked, even though I didn't really want to hear the answer.
"Both."
I took a hard swallow. Gee, lucky old me. I was going to die twice.
"So whose idea was it to start the transplant tourism business and kill those poor girls?" I asked. If I was going to die, at least I'd die knowing some answers. "Yours or one of your other cronies at the Holbrook Clinic?"
"Mine." He did the Joker grin at me as he mixed up some red, gloopy concoction in a pestle and mortar. "And it was incredibly easy, too. Those girls were so stupid. They never suspected a thing when I sent them to the clinic for their abortions. Anyway, it was their own fault. If they hadn't got themselves into trouble, they wouldn't have needed my assistance." He rubbed the paste all over my face and down my arms and legs.
I arched my body away from him as best I could, but it was no use. I wasn't going anywhere. "Yes, but your
assistance
wasn't supposed to mean killing them," I spat.
He ignored that and carried on. "And it was all going so well, too, until that reporter started asking questions."
"Liza. She has a name, you know."
"Yes, her. Of course, I had to shut her up. And then, of course, Chantal started."
"And you killed her, too?"
He stood back to admire his body paint handiwork. "Let's just say Chantal is in limbo at the moment." He gave me a smile. A big, fat, creepy smile. Think Hannibal Lecter's smile and you'd be near the mark.
Limbo? What did that mean? Had he or Marie turned her into a zombie until they were ready to use her organs? "Where is she?"
"What does it matter?" He waved a dismissive hand. "She'll be gone soon, too, just like the others." He narrowed his eyes again. "Just like you. If you hadn't started looking for them, none of this would've happened."
"Oops, so sorry about the inconvenience for you."
Marie came down the stairs then, dressed pretty much like Andrew. Same black cloak, same painty face that did nothing to hide her wrinkles, minus the top hat.
She crossed her arms and stared at me. "Did you like the doll?"
"Yeah, it was fab. I think you got the hair a bit wrong, though," I said.
She glanced at my hair. "I think not."
"Well, probably being stun-gunned doesn't do much for my curls. Has it gone frizzy?" I asked, trying to delay the inevitable.
"Shut up about your hair," Andrew said, his nostrils flaring with anger.
"But I only washed it this morning," I protested.
Marie reached into her cloak and pulled out a knife. A big, serrated, and very sharp-looking knife. Had my dream really been some kind of premonition? Even if it had, there was no way I was going to wake up and be saved this time. No one knew where I was.
I fought the urge to throw up.
"Are you ready?" she said to Andrew.
He nodded.
They both bent down either side of me. Andrew closed his eyes and threw his head back. Marie did her weird-gurgling-in-the-depths-of-her-throat thing, and her eyes rolled back into their sockets. Then she started chanting some weird gobbledygook.
Omigod! This was it. I was going to die. I heard my breathing get faster and faster. I stifled a scream, not wanting to give them the benefit of knowing I was shitting myself.
They say when you're about to die your life flashes before your eyes but that wasn't what happened. Instead, I saw my obituary, like I was reading it in the newspaper:
Amber Fox. Died much too young. Never quite managed to get in her five a day. Never flossed. Had crazy hair. Talked too much. Loved lie-ins but rarely got the chance because she was too busy catching bad guys. Worried too much about taking the plunge in her love life and never got married. Still had an overdue library book. She had no children but was survived by her faithful cat, Marmalade.
Marie raised the knife in the air above my chest, looking too similar to the Grim Reaper for my liking.
I clenched my eyes shut. I definitely didn't want to see it coming.
Holding my breath, I waited for a stabbing pain to rip into my heart.
In my mind I saw Brad lying in the hospital bed. There was no chance of us getting married and living happily ever after now. No chance of making little Amber-Brad babies. No chance of holding him again. No chance of seeing Mum and Dad and Suzy. And what about Marmalade? Would Brad still be alive to feed him? How would Marmalade cope without me? How would Brad cope? Would they miss me?
Then I heard the door burst open and I opened my eyes.
Romeo and a bunch of police officers came storming down the stairs, guns drawn. Dad brought up the rear.
I let out a gasping breath of relief.
"Put the knife down." Romeo aimed his gun at Marie.
She glanced at Andrew, then back to Romeo again, weighing up what to do.
Andrew shook his head.
"Put it down," Romeo repeated.
She scowled and threw the knife on the floor. "I never get to have any fun."
One police officer cuffed her hands behind her back and another one did the same to Andrew.
"Well, that was fun. We must do that again some time," I shouted to Marie and Andrew as the officers led them up the stairs.
Romeo and Dad rushed toward me, untying my hands and legs.
"Are you okay?" Dad's face wrinkled with concern.
"I am now."
"Did they hurt you?" Romeo asked, looking equally concerned.
"No. You got here just in time," I gasped. "How did you know where I was, anyway?"
"When we left, your mum was worried about you not eating anything so she went home to make a sandwich for you," Dad said. "I was just bringing it to the hospital when I saw something weird going on in the car park. I was driving around, trying to get a car-parking space, and I saw what I thought was a domestic going on at the other side. But by the time I finally got round there, I saw it was Andrew bundling you into his car. Then another car pulled out in front of me and slowed me down, so I lost Andrew's car when I tried to follow you. I drove around, seeing if I could spot it, and phoned Romeo to try and find out possible addresses where you could be."