May 28, 4:12 p.m.
“OUR TIME TOGETHER IS limited,” the kidnapper said, “and thanks to your little act of treachery last night, we have already lost more than twenty-four hours.” He glared at Carli like he expected an apology, like she was somehow in the wrong for trying to escape the terrible fate awaiting her. She had been trying not to think about specifics regarding her immediate future, but it was hard not to, given the circumstances of the situation. In any event, it seemed fairly obvious to Carli what her immediate future held in store for her, and the prospect was horrifying.
What were her options? None. Pacifism seemed to be the best choice—the only choice, really—so she vowed to continue her strategy of delaying the inevitable as long as possible. “Why is our time limited?” she asked, surprised at how calm and steady her voice sounded. She didn’t feel calm or steady.
She didn’t really think he would answer, but he surprised her. “Because you don’t belong to me,” he said with a smile. He seemed, in his own twisted way, genuinely to want her to like him. Why else would he bother to explain? “I’m just a middleman. I took you to deliver you to someone else, and the agreement is that the two of us get just one week together before that delivery takes place.”
Carli shivered. She couldn’t help it. She didn’t want to spook the guy, who was clearly more than a little disturbed, by showing her fear and demonstrating weakness, but the matter-of-fact lunacy in his voice was chilling. “What happens after our week together? Where will I go? Who are you going to deliver me to?”
The man shrugged. He was still standing in the exact spot she had first seen him in when the lightning flashed. Carli knew it was only a matter of time before he moved forward and began doing what she knew he was planning, but, for now, he seemed more interested in explaining himself than getting down to business.
“Beats me,” he said. “I think you’re going to end up somewhere in the Middle East eventually, but all I’m really sure about is my end of the agreement. It’s pretty standard every time I deliver a girl. I get her for a week, and then the people who placed the order take possession after that. So, after my seven days are up, I deliver you to a specific location and leave you there. Sometime after that, my colleagues come by and retrieve you. Once delivery is finalized, I receive a nice little wad of cash from my contact and wait for the next order. That’s all I know.”
Hearing what the future held was terrifying, but even more so was the dispassionate way the man outlined it. Carli had learned about sociopathic behavior in a school psychology course last semester, and this man exhibited the classic signs. A subject that had seemed theoretical and remote in a textbook, nothing more than words on a page and questions on a test, had become terrifyingly real.
In one way, though, oddly, she felt comforted by his words. If this crazy man was allowed to hold her here for a week, that meant she had nearly six days left before he carted her off to who-knew-where to face that unthinkable fate. One thing Carli Ferguson knew—one thing of which she was one hundred percent certain—was that her dad would come and save her within a week. He would never rest until he got her back. She didn’t think it, she knew it.
The idea of being sold into slavery was as terrifying as it was hard to imagine, especially if it meant Carli would spend the rest of her life as the property of some Arab sheik in a dusty desert, halfway around the world, but she refused to dwell on the consequences of being taken outside of the United States by some slavery ring. If that happened, she knew she would disappear forever. But it wouldn’t come to that. She refused to believe otherwise.
“You know,” the man said thoughtfully, “I was planning on bringing you upstairs for a shower and some clean clothes before we consummate our special relationship, but I don’t think I can wait that long, despite the fact that you’ve peed your pants, you messy girl. You can clean up after we finish.”
Another blast of thunder shook the house, and the accompanying lightning flash illuminated the I-90 Killer as he strode forward, hands fumbling with his belt buckle. Carli shrank back against the bed’s headboard, acutely aware of the headboard pressing into her back like the bars of a prison cell.
Rain pelted the casement window set high up in the foundation wall, and she could hear the wind whistling and moaning, whipping around and through the shoddy construction of the house. With eyes wide and afraid, she watched him approach. She was breathing heavily, almost panting, her terror now complete and overwhelming.
She listened to the wind roar—it sounded like the approach of a freight train—and wished she was out there in the storm. Or anywhere else.
CHAPTER 53
May 28, 4:12 p.m.
BILL THANKED GOD OR karma, or maybe just plain old luck—it was about time he got some—for the noise of the storm. Between the crashing of the thunder, the keening of the wind whipping through the trees and around the house, and the splattering of the windswept rain against the windows, the racket was practically deafening. It prevented him from hearing anything on the other side of the door that connected the garage to the house as he pressed his ear against it, but he figured the opposite would also be true—the constant noise would mask the sound of his approach as he made his way through the house.