Chapter 48
Connie Stempson had already forgotten the feel of the sun. Being a child of California, the sun’s warmth on her skin, the smell of the ocean, and the taste of salt on her lips were as important as breathing. To Connie, graced with an abundance of both beauty and money, time had never had much meaning. Strangely, alone here in the dark, she had developed an unerring sense of time. Before long now a key would rattle in the lock, then the merciful darkness would fade to light.
Almost magically, the sound she was expecting struck her ears and her captor, the man who called himself Priest, stepped into the room. She caught a brief glimpse of the small space beyond and of the ladder that led up to an open trapdoor. Connie shook off the small hope that someone would see that open trapdoor and come for her. Over these last few days it had all become clear: there were no more heroes.
Priest moved around the room silently, except for the click of his Zippo lighter as he lit the thirteen red candles. Always the same ritual. Always the same order.
Connie remembered that, as a child, she’d thought candles were beautiful. Even now she loved them. Each one he lit pushed back the darkness. All except for number thirteen. That one meant her time was up.
As he finished the lighting ritual, Priest turned toward her, his black satin robe open at the chest in a manner intended to be sexy. It was time.
Her training was only in its second week, but Connie prayed that, this time, she would be good enough. The time of apprenticeship was almost used up, and soon, failure to please him would no longer be tolerated.
She sat on the foot of the bed. Except for the sink and toilet, it was the only piece of furniture in her cell. Slowly she unfastened her nylon stockings from the lace garters he had bought her. Priest watched as she pulled them off over her small feet and then slowly began unfastening her black teddy.
Connie tried to imagine Priest as someone else. If she could maintain that thought, she could get through this horror one more time. A worm of loathing slid through her mind despite her best effort to suppress it. Her eyes moved to Priest’s face.
Shit. He had noticed. Shit. Shit.
Priest moved so quickly Connie could not even cry out, his hand closing around her throat, forcing her over, facedown on the bed. He ripped at the teddy, shredding the garment as it tore free. She felt his satin robe slide over her head before she saw it, the thin fabric blocking out most of the light and forcing her breathing to come in ragged, claustrophobic gulps. Then he was on top, violently thrusting himself into her from behind.
“Bitch, you better convince me you like it.”
Connie gathered herself, her low moans and gasps rising in volume as her body rocked back and forth in time with Priest’s humping rhythm. She tightened, her screams of false pleasure forcing his body into spasms of satisfaction as he spent himself. For several long moments he held himself rigid before collapsing atop her.
After a minute, Priest lifted his weight off her, pulling his robe free from Connie’s head. Sliding to the edge of the bed, he leaned down, his lips barely brushing her ear.
“Your training time’s almost up. I brought you a little something to help you focus.” He delicately laid a small, decorative gift bag on the bed beside her. “Go on. Open it.”
As she lay there, curled into a small ball on the bed, so deeply horrified that she couldn’t even cry, Connie stared at the sack. It was the cheap kind you could buy in any drugstore. This one was blue, decorated with pictures of small, multicolored merry-go-round horses. She didn’t want to look inside, but a growing fascination pulled her hand toward it, overcoming the dread that filled her heart.
Connie’s hand reached the handles, but she did not pull it toward her. Instead she rolled up onto her knees, leaning as far away from the thing as possible while still being able to touch it. Unable to bring herself to reach inside the opening, Connie lifted it at arm’s length, carefully dumping the contents on the bed.
Screaming, she struggled backward off the bed, her pistoning legs propelling her across the floor until the corner of the cell stopped her. For several seconds she continued to kick out, trying to push herself farther away from the thing that had fallen onto the sheets. But there was no getting away from what she had seen.
Strung onto an eighteen-inch silver necklace, small, decaying fingers pressed tightly against one another, the fingernail of each lovingly painted with a fresh coat of red nail polish. She had recognized the shade and smell immediately. Summer Fling. The sick son of a bitch had painted those dead fingernails with her nail polish.
Priest grinned. Then, in a reversal of his entry ritual, he donned his robe, snuffed out the candles, and closed the door behind him, once again leaving her alone in the dark.