Chapter Twenty-Two
Where am I?
Wherever she was, dungeon-like darkness enveloped her. She was freezing, achy, and stiff at the same time. Her lips and the area around them and upward over her nose tingled with a burning sensation.
She didn’t know what day it was. Or what time it was. She’d been unconscious, but for how long? Some vague memory of everything around her going black popped into her mind. And that evil smell.
She couldn’t move her arms. Her hands were bound behind her back. Some sharp object kept jabbing her just below her lowest rib in the back. It hurt and annoyed her. Being annoyed beat being afraid. The room’s musty smell suggested it wasn’t used much.
Her nose wrinkled. She smelled him—faint, but it was his scent.
Rolling from side to side, she discovered she had little room to maneuver. Was she lying on a daybed or an old sofa? The covering didn’t feel like mattress ticking; it was too rough and coarse wherever it scraped against her skin. She jerked her legs, but something held them bound at the ankles. The bindings cut her circulation, paralyzed her legs, making them heavy and numb. Her small movement created a painful tingling in her feet.
Every part of her was cold, making her nose run. Trying to create warmth with movement, she inched herself up and down to see how much length she had. Not much. Just a few inches either way. Her head and feet hit against raised edges. Maybe those boundaries were sofa arms or low head and footboards on a bed. Feeling warmed with her movement, she attempted to avoid whatever jabbed her in the back. Whatever it was, it felt like a knife constantly pricking her back.
A knife? “Where’s my Swiss army knife when I need it,” she muttered as she inched herself upward again. Her actions removed the pressure from her back. Instead, now the constant stabbing assaulted her wrists. She dug her heels deeper into the cushions, shoved again, and hit her head against some type of armrest. Definitely an armrest. Not a bed. Somehow that knowledge made her feel better, safer.
Was she crazy? Was this some stress-induced nightmare and she’d wake soon?
She inched her shoulders up against the armrest. Definitely an old couch. Her numbed fingers clumsily fingered the worn fabric surrounding the broken spring. A spring? Could she use it? Would it have a sharp edge she could use to free herself? She’d think on that. Make something from nothing. Get her independent butt out of trouble. Somehow.
This was no nightmare, but something far worse. Reality. Somehow she was imprisoned, held hostage, abducted. For what reason, she didn’t know, but it wasn’t good. She better figure out how to get herself out of this mess.
More determined, she pulled at the ancient upholstery fabric. Its resistance fueled her anger. With her head elevated, she took stock of the room. Even in the dimmest light, the place was a scary movie setting. Broken pieces of furniture lay strewn about the large space. A window with some broken glass pieces still in place like jagged shark teeth had a bedraggled slice of sheer curtain billowing inward with the strong draft from outside.
The March wind had picked up. Did she hear rain on a roof? God, she hoped so. If this place was as abandoned as it appeared, critters might call it home. Oh, please God, no rats—or anything else that chewed or bit.
When a gust of wind blew droplets of rain into the room, she pitched aside her worry about rats. Hypothermia was the immediate enemy. A jagged slice of lightning slithered across the sky highlighting a huge object, filling one corner furthest from her. Once her eyes adjusted, she thought it might be an enormous TV, out of place in this ramshackle room.
“This jerk must like big toys.” She vaguely remembered seeing a monster truck near Mike’s car in the parking lot. That must have been the creep’s. Big toys for small boys. No, don’t go there. So where was the scumbag now? What time was it? Had anyone missed her yet? Was Mike worried?
Mike? Oh, he’d be worried. More like seriously frantic. He’d miss her before anyone did. She had his car and was supposed to pick him up. She’d not shown up. That would ramp up his worry quotient. By now he’d have done some checking for her and he and Vince were probably looking for her right now.
Well, she couldn’t lie around here and wait to be rescued. She would freeze to death first. Her best plan was to use her own resources to save herself. She’d think of something simple, but brilliant to save herself. If she waited and did nothing, she’d go nuts just lying here, feeling how cold she was. How miserable. How lonely.
How frightened.
“I’m mad,” she yelled into the dim room.
Her voice echoed in the near empty room. “If I had a knife...had a knife, had a knife. Knife?” she chanted to herself as she inched downward slowly, until she reached the torturing spring. She picked at the fabric, no longer from nerves but with a purpose.
Think of something. Someone. Ah...Mike. His liquid-smoke eyes. He looked so rested and happy this morning. Was that this past morning or further back in time? She didn’t know, couldn’t determine an answer.
But she remembered that last morning. She’d been happy, too. Unlike her usual contentment. But really happy, despite the odd stuff going on. Mike had that effect on her. Most all the time. Like no one ever had. Not even the long ago Mike. While she roamed in the recesses of her memory, she picked at the upholstery, not giving in to the present terror.
Eyes closed, she gave herself up to the memory of Mike’s warmth the night they spent in front of her fireplace. Those thoughts warmed her now. Made her feel less alone. Was that what love came down to in the end? Not control or the losing of it? But warmth, intimacy, and togetherness?
That hadn’t been her parents’ model. Even now, with things better in their long-term, but dysfunctional marriage, warmth wasn’t part of their relationship package.
Pat and Jan shared that warmth. Caitlin intuitively knew those two had something very rare, but she had no experience to identify what that special thing was. How had Pat managed to recognize it? They shared the same background.
Pain stabbed her fingers from pulling the fabric, but she kept working at it, thinking of warmth and intimacy and love.
Rachel and Vince had it. Rachel glowed and jacked up her innate warmth whenever Vince was near. It stayed with her long after they parted. Those two hadn’t figured out how to handle it, whatever “it” was, but somehow she figured they would pull it all together soon.
Would she be around to see that happen?
That thought and fear energized her. She plucked with more determination at the fabric, rubbed the calves of her legs against the rough fiber beneath them. That friction brought feeling and some semblance of warmth. With the warmth, drowsiness assaulted her. Fight it off. Don’t sleep. Not safe to sleep.
Battling increasing lethargy, she rambled through the hidden compartments of her mind. Mike, where did he fit? What about his warmth? Guilt assailed her. She mistreated him. Or had. But still he came back.
He had always offered warmth to her. She’d refused it. Older than he, but definitely dumber in the relationship game. That described her. His miracle was he never lost his warmth and caring, despite his personal disasters. He’d encountered his share after she’d refused what he offered so selflessly, tentative and unformed because of his youth and inexperience.
But Mike, dear stubborn man he was, hadn’t forgotten her. Now he stood ready to build whatever fires she’d allow him to foster. Hell, she wished he were here now. She needed fire. He’d keep her warm.
No, she didn’t want him in this danger. Evil roamed here.
Time and its passing held no meaning for her. She measured it by how much upholstery she shredded, not in how many personal revelations she dissected in her mind. Whatever it took to pass the time and keep her sanity, she’d do it. She had baskets full of memories.
What she might not have is time.
Time, that was the point. Mike’s timing had been bad in their first go-around. Now, that element was better for them. But not in this situation for her. Maybe they were doomed to be time-crossed. Another wave of tiredness assaulted her. Don’t give in to it. Stay alert!
Timing had been wrong with her first marriage. To be honest, more than timing was wrong in that fiasco. Ever since then, she had allowed no time for relationships. She needed to grow in her profession. Learn about herself. Feel comfortable with her strengths. Personal relationships weren’t her strong point.
Maybe she had waited for Mike to try again. If he would. Maybe she’d get to tell him soon. Maybe her lifeline had run its course. Damn. Time again. And too many maybes.
But now in this black, foul smelling hole, she recognized the truth and faced it, unvarnished and cloaked in bleak despair. “I always cared for you, Mike, and now, when it’s too late, I know I love you,” she blurted out to the silent hulk in the corner. Would she ever get the chance to repeat her words to him? If she got the chance, could she ever say the word love? Her eyes slid closed. No! Don’t sleep. Fight the tiredness.
She remembered his last words to her. “I’ll hold you in my heart.” Somehow she knew he always had. Maybe the strength in his heart had kept her memory of him alive all these years. Maybe his heart would keep her alive now. In so many ways, she didn’t deserve him.
Damn, she was cold. She remembered Mike’s kisses and wished she had more than kisses to keep her warm. Keep her from thinking about what might happen next. She was so exhausted. How could she be so fractured like this, so drained? She needed to fight. Harder. Not give up.
She felt metal. The fabric had given way. Her discovery kicked away her sleepiness. She readjusted herself on the sofa. With the metal freed of its covering, she began rubbing the broken spring against the bindings at her wrists. A brief jubilation coursed through her, warming her chilled, sluggish blood, temporarily energizing her, pushing her to find a reserve of determination.
“I’ll…get…free…” she sobbed as she labored at shredding the ties at her bleeding wrists. What would she do if she worked herself free? How would she know where to go once she got outside? Her exertions warmed her. The minutes, or were they hours, ticked by—but only in her head. The room remained silent.
At one point, the urge to relieve herself overwhelmed her, but she stayed focused on her bindings and the urge passed. She battled increasing lethargy, trying to keep her mind active and her body warm—even if her warmth was ephemeral.
At the window, lightning pierced the sky. Winds howled and rain fell, some finding the way through the broken window. That dampness increased her chills and the mustiness in the room. She slipped further away, not quite dreamland, more like nightmare.
Maybe this scumbag decided to leave her here and disappear. Could she be so lucky? She knew once she freed herself she’d find her way to safety. Her sense of direction never failed her. It didn’t matter if she were in the high rise canyons of the Chicago Loop or the deep woods in Northern Wisconsin. She unerringly knew north from south.
Like a magnet. Like Mike to her. Like her to Mike. Yes, good dream, not a nightmare.
Her wrists felt more sticky and wet every once in a while. Sharp pricks told her she had jabbed her skin often enough to draw blood. Its coppery scent tainted the stew of odors in the air. The back of her skirt was absorbing some of the blood. She pictured the deep rusty red against the professional gray. A modern abstract of fear, determination, death. She’d never wear this suit again. Or this color.
And she’d cheat death.
Her hands and feet, even her legs, shoulders and arms now protested their lack of blood flow. She’d maintained her cramped position too long. That broken spring better free her soon. She jiggled her wrists, hoping as much to prompt circulation as to test the strength of her bonds. They felt looser, but her arms screamed in protest at her movement. Tears of pain coursed down her cheeks.
“Dear Lord, help me get out of here, please,” she mumbled to herself.
Once more she glanced out the window. Nothing had changed. Outside was still dark and menacing. If she slept for a few minutes, she’d get re-energized. Another lightning flash left eerie shadows upon the disordered room. She tested her wrists again. Felt the bindings give more than when she tested them the last time.
“I’m going to survive, but I need rest. Energy. Finding my bearings will be easier then.” She pledged these promises to herself for luck.
Exhaustion weighed her down. Her adrenalin skittered away like the lightning in the sky and she closed her eyes. Just a few winks, before she found a way out of here.
“Lord, strengthen me,” she prayed as an exhausted sleep took her away. From discomfort, uncertainty, fear.
****
A disgusting smell tickled her nostrils. Someone watching her invaded her dream, one in which she and Mike snuggled, all warm and showering each other with kisses. She moaned.
“Okay bitch, ’bout time you woke up,” a cigarette-harshened voice snorted at her.
Caitlin jerked alert at the guttural speech, and the noxious smell—overpowering now in the warmer air. Her eyes flew open to gaze at the window. She couldn’t have been sleeping long. The sky seemed almost the same light intensity as before.
“What time is it? What day?”
He snickered. “Shit, the almighty know-it-all Caitlin Donnelly don’t know what day it is. Hot damn, I musta made some powerful impression on you.” He leered at her, his peeled back lips revealed nicotine-stained teeth.
She remembered the doll. He sent that disgusting thing to her. She shuddered, angry that she let her fear show. How could she hide that? Get her control back? “I’m cold.”
“Nothin’ fazes you, does it, bitch?” He kicked at the leg of the sofa.
Thank God. He believed she wasn’t afraid. As sure as she was that she knew her name, she knew she’d die fast and awful if he sensed her fear. He lived off other people’s fear. “You won’t gain anything by keeping me here.”
“Shit, bitch, I know that. I got what I want—right there in that suitcase.” He pointed to a low table near the far wall.
Caitlin noticed a new object in the room. “What’s that?”
“Money, bitch. More than I’ll need in my lifetime. I pulled off the plan. Nobody thought I’d do it. Nobody thought I could think. Got the goods out last night. All by myself. Got me good money for it, too. Impressed the right people. That’s what I did. But I’ll skip outta the country now. Won’t stay around to get Stein’s bonus.”
Caitlin froze. “You know about Stein?”
“Hell yeah. Tony Muro told me. Probably thought he’d keep me in line that way, but I decided to get the hell outta Southport and Northland Marine. After I got what was comin’ to me—and then some.” Lunging forward, the reeking man knelt beside her and fingered her mussed hair.
“Kept some of the good stuff and replaced it with baking soda. I was thinkin’ again…” His evil sneer rivaled his smell as he tapped his forehead. His laughter disgusted her even more than his touching her hair. Or inhaling his breath.
Not caring that she said nothing, he snickered and leered, using a dirty finger to yank at the snarls in her hair. “And who’ll take the fall for my quick thinkin’? The banty rooster! That sweet-smellin’ bastard deserves all the shit that’ll come his pansy-ass way.” He looked at her and licked his lips.
“My last order was ta handle you—any way I wanted. I been lookin’ forward to this, bitch. I just ain’t decided ’xactly what to do.” He touched her hair again. From the look on his face, it appeared to fascinate him.
“You know, don’t you, that if you harm me, you’ll never get to spend that money?” The strength of her voice buoyed her spirit.
“Wanna bet, little lady? I ain’t never had no red-headed bitch before. And no dumb shit cop’s putting me back in the slammer again.”