Chapter Twenty-Five
“Black’s not my color.”
“Didn’t ask yer opinions,” Ivan snarled and hit her hard enough she bit her tongue.
Think. No more smart remarks. Caitlin placed her free hands under her butt. The prickling sensation of returning circulation proved bittersweet with a different pain. What could she do to stall, gain time to think, make a plan? He looked like he had no plans to leave.
She flexed her fingers, one at a time, using her weight to maintain the painful flexion.
Wriggling her shoulders, she rotated her neck in a circle. Every bone and muscle fiber in her body screamed in agony. Each torment reminded her to make a plan—soon.
Ivan sprawled spread-eagled on a mouse-eaten overstuffed chair, its contents spewing puff balls of cotton. Despite their hurtful tingling, she continued to rub her hands against the fabric of the sofa and her skirt. Focusing on the pain helped her to ignore his odor, his nearness sitting opposite her, chuckling and leering with alternating ghastly facial expressions. He eyed her with unblinking eyes as he scraped his grimy nails with an enormous knife.
How had she fallen into this B-grade horror movie?
Think!
Had she ever been this afraid? Fearful of a known adversary. In her childhood? But that was long ago. What did she do then? She continued rubbing her fingers, urging them to usefulness while ignoring, as much as possible, Ivan’s presence, his flinty eyes, dark like Mike’s but hard and cobra-dead. Unlike Mike’s. His eyes smoldered with life.
Think, dammit! She had to get herself out of this mess. The Calvary might not show up.
Act! Like she didn’t give a damn.
That’s what she’d done as a child. Presented a disinterested, bored face to the world and all her childhood tormentors. Back then. She’d spent hours in front of mirrors practicing disdain. Acting as if she cared for nothing and masking her feelings and desires, should she discover anything worth caring about, got her through hard times in a household dominated by an alcoholic father.
She’d survived that experience with those skills. She’d overcome a bad marriage, again dominated by an alcoholic, abusive husband who expected complete submission all the time. He never allowed her to have what she wanted should she slip and show interest in something. Like education. Well, she survived that. Go back to the old skills, her inner self chided, those behaviors proved useful. She flexed her fingers, stretched her shoulders, and glared at her captor.
“Your name’s Ivan, isn’t it?” Her facial muscles ached from her steely control. Curbing her scream thrust her voice into Lauren Bacall huskiness.
Ivan’s flinty eyes blinked. Once, twice. “Made an impression on you, huh? Never seen you in shippin’, just that peacock Metz.”
“I know all Northland’s employees, even if I have no contact with them.” Bad response, she chastised herself and watched him wince. Did he need to feel appreciated? Probably nothing so complicated, but what did she have to lose?
“However, you’ve been a good worker so I made a special point of learning who you are.” Did it work? Did she see hesitation? A flicker of interest? No, nothing but lust.
“I was especially impressed with the extra work you put in during the wild-cat strike and the walk-out in shipping. Mike Rafferty told me you single-handedly saved a great deal of stock from damage and loss.”
Ivan chuckled at her comment. She relaxed, just a bit, maintaining an actress’s false face of interest. Would he respond to a ploy? She waited.
“Rafferty, huh? He’s yer boyfriend now?” Wary as a caged animal Ivan assessed her while she considered her response.
Taking a deep breath, she exhaled slowly and answered. “We went to college together years ago. Now, we work together.” She scrutinized his face and read his body language. He appeared less tense. She hoped she appeared so, even if she wasn’t. Acting, that’s what it was, trying to survive. Was he doing the same thing?
“Shit, bitch,” Ivan’s raspy voice held an edge of danger. “I been watchin’ him. You, too. If you two ain’t screwin’ like rabbits, hell, yer thinkin’ about it. Makes me think you might be lonely.” His hand ambled down to his crotch. He groped himself, never taking his eyes from her.
Using the last of her will power not to follow his hand’s path, she stared him down, waiting for his next action, like a person watching a coiled rattlesnake.
Ivan was far more dangerous.
She licked her dry lips. They probably blended into her even paler face. A lipless face. Her death mask. He would get off on death masks. A vise tightened around her heart, radiating pain throughout her chest. Her temples throbbed and her head hurt like a bomb had shattered inside it.
Counting to three, she spoke in her best detached manner. “Mike spoke highly of you when he put a commendation into your personnel file, because of your valuable help that night.”
“Ain’t needin’ no personnel file. Not anymore. Quit changin’ the topic. When I called Rafferty—”
“You talked with him? When?” Bad move; too eager. She wasn’t as good at this as she used to be. Ivan squinted at her, leaning forward. “What I mean is…” she trailed off.
“What’cha mean is, he’s more interestin’ than me. Well, he’s damn worried about you.” His dead eyes turned greedy. “Willin’ to pay money even. Laughed at him, I did. Don’t need no money. I tol’ him.” He reached out and snatched her hair. “Tol’ him I ain’t never had a redhead before. You’d be my bonus.” His idea made him laugh. Its sound wasn’t humorous.
His grime-imbedded fingers laced themselves through her snarls. “Called me a bastard,” Ivan snarled and jerked her hair.
She didn’t wince. “Most people say I’m not a redhead. My color is too dark, more russet.”
“It’s close enough; I ain’t picky.”
“Did your mother have red hair? Is that why you like the color?” Think of anything to get him off this track. Mothers were always good for distraction.
“Shit, how’d I know? She left me in a box under a railroad track in some shit-kickin’ west Texas town.”
“Were you adopted, then?” As she said it, she wondered who would want him, even as a child. Had he ever had a lovable feature? For her sake, right now, she hoped someone had.
“Yeah, by a real Godfearin’ childless couple. Beat the hell outta me every day whether I needed it or not. Got out of there when I was twelve, a big twelve and I’ve been on my own since.”
She shuddered. Were all childhoods strewn with problems? She flexed her fingers again, looked down at her ankles, bound with the heavy rope. “Could you untie these and let me move around just a bit. After all, where could I go with you here?” She tried for pitiful and submissive in tone and body language.
Ivan appeared to think the request through. He scratched his whisker-stubbled chin as if that would help him make a decision. She gloated that he took some time to think about her request. Was he controllable? He cupped a knife sheath attached to his belt.
Lightning fast, he flashed his knife in front of her. She remembered that knife.
“I kin cut these ropes and I kin cut you up if you try any smart crap.” He slipped the steel against her skin, blade extended outward. Her bonds fell apart like butter sliced with a hot knife.
“Always keep my knife sharp.” He pressed the tip against the thin skin of her ankle, near the bluish vein skimming over the bone. A trickle of blood oozed to the surface.
“Is that a warning?” She never felt the knife’s prick as it mixed with the zapping, prickling pain when her blood circulation surged to her toes. She closed her eyes.
Don’t cry. Show nothing.
“If you need one.” His eyes widened as he watched her. “Hurts, don’t it?” He motioned with his knife to her feet, her toes swelling with the returning circulation.
“Some.” She bent to rub her calves and massage her feet. Ivan returned his knife to its sheaf. The formidable weapon worked as an extension of his body.
“Don’t move!” he yelled to her.
Startled, she looked up to see him bending down. “I’m not going anywhere. Everything’s numb.”
His grimy hands yanked her shoes from her feet, slid up over her ankles and stopped at her calves. His tongue flicked out and licked the long bones at the front of her calves. What would he do next?
“Numb? Not fer long, redheaded lady.” His hands rubbed her calves, but his lack of skill and callused hands provided a new kind of torture.
Was he taunting her or trying to help? Most certainly not the latter when she felt another brutal flexion of her calf muscles.
“Don’t!” she blurted out. “I mean, please, that makes my legs hurt worse.” Smirking at her, Ivan continued, more aggressive this time. His breath fouled her legs.
“Please, let me do it.” His touch disgusted her, making her fight off waves of nausea.
Stay calm. Control yourself. Her lungs were lumps of lead, but her chest was about to explode.
“You one of them?” Ivan casually but brutally wrenched her calf muscle sideways.
“One of what? Who?” She didn’t whimper and barely winced at the hurt he inflicted.
Ivan grimaced at her unresponsiveness, jeering at her and her discomfort. “Maybe you never had a real man. How’s that Rafferty? He had any redheads before?” Ivan continued his brutal version of a massage. An evil grin rode his face.
Caitlin’s tense and tortured muscles told him too much. Despite her weakness, she struggled against crying out. Any show of weakness would feed his evil. “I’m not repeating what I told you.”
Rigid as a mannequin, wishing his hands gone, she considered how to remove them. The lank, greasy-haired head with its eyes bent to the floor was on a level with her knees. Was she strong enough to push him away? Run for the doorway?
“Don’ even think about it, bitch.” Hard eyes glared up at her. “I’m not takin’ you numb. You goin’ ta feel me. I want me a comparison.”
“Why are you doing this? What have I done to you?” The mewling weakness in her voice appalled her. Remnants of ill-conceived escape plans flashed through her brain. Keep him talking! Mike, where are you?
“Ya got in my way, lady. People dumped on me so I’ll get even. But you add to my collection.”
She froze at his words. Collection? How had she gotten in his way? Northland Marine and its troubles seemed a universe away.
“Collection? Of what?”
He laughed and hunkered back on the heels of his work boots. Slowly, he rose from the floor, rubbed his back, and sauntered toward the door. “Don’t try nothin’ smart.”
The door slammed and he was gone.
She scanned the room, tried to stand, but fell forward toward the scarred table. She flung out her hands to break her fall, and landed on the floor, her temple grazing the edge of the table. Dizziness, trains roaring in her ears, flashes of bright yellow, red, green flickered behind her eyelids. A trickle of wetness crawled down her cheek, over her jaw, puddling near her collar bone. When she opened her eyes, work boots filled her field of vision.
“Bitch! I tol’ you not to try anything.” He reached down, grabbed her by the armpits, and pulled her up.
“I wasn’t trying anything. I…just wanted to stand.” She looked up at Ivan, too close to her for comfort. But what’s comfort any longer? His slap shoved her head backward, jarring her teeth. Another, more intense backhand followed. Another, and after a moment, a fist. She never opened her eyes. No way would she give him the satisfaction of seeing pain and fear in her eyes.
“Don’ lie. You were tryin’ to escape.” Ivan held her up with one hand clutching the front of her suit jacket and blouse.
“How could I do that? I can’t even stand,” she mewled, hating her weakness, but sure he enjoyed it.
Laughing, he threw her onto the sofa, discarded like yesterday’s trash. He kicked at her feet, legs and stomach with his steel-toed shoes. She protected her head with her hands.
At that moment a rumbling, vibrating noise coming from outside distracted him. He edged toward the window. Using the distraction, she curled herself into a fetal ball. On the floor in front of her lay a manila envelope. She reached for it, but it lay just beyond her grasp.
Ivan spotted her action, moved away from the window, and retrieved the envelope. “Helicopters. Hated them suckers in that hellhole Afghanistan. The noise always brought me trouble. It’s flyin’ low now, hoverin’. Probably scoutin’ for us.” He opened the envelope and pulled out its contents. “Think yer time’s just run out, redhead. I gotta be gettin’ away soon.”
Yanking her hair, he jerked her upward and spread snapshots in her lap. “Take a look at my collection.” His collection? A blonde, a brunette, a silver-haired woman, an Asian, a black woman. Several photos of each. Each pose more grisly. Each photo well-thumbed.
“But I’ll finish this collection…with you. Then I can start again.” He moved like a stalking mountain cat, slow, leering while he licked his thin lips under his scraggly moustache. A cat anticipating a fine meal.
She heard the helicopters, moving away, their rumbling beat further off in the distance. Time had run out.