“Get back on your knees. Go forward; now take a hard right.” I direct him around the dining area next to the kitchen. I throw in a few circles, to disorient him. Once he starts moving more cautiously I decide he’s dizzy enough, and I put him in an ornate dining room chair. I unplug a lamp, cut the cord with the Swiss Army knife, and use that to tie his ankles to the chair.
Rummaging around the kitchen, I find very little to eat. This is a vacation home, no doubt about it. I come across some straws in the utensil drawer, and an idea strikes me.
“Would you like some water?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says.
I set him up with a big glass of water and a straw, so he can drink with his arms tied behind his back. It’s satisfying, seeing him blindfolded and bound; he looks helpless. Neutered.
A small jar of peanut butter and a glass of water look like the best option I have, and I move my meal over to the dining room table. I press the barrel against his head, so he can feel the gun.
“This is pointed at you at all times. You got that?”
“Yes.”
I sit down, gun beside me, and start to spoon up some peanut butter. It’s good protein. The water doesn’t even have parasites in it. Win-win. Deep underneath the crazy, there’s a murmur of protest. Why am I sitting at a table with this man? Why am I talking to him? This is insane. This is wrong. All the same, it’s not something I can stop.
“So, our game of bullshit.” I swallow a big bite of peanut butter. “Where’s my phone?”
“I crushed it with a rock and threw it away.”
“Why?”
“Too many calls from Caleb. Got on my nerves.”
This stops me cold. I remember my moment out in the woods, suddenly certain that Caleb had figured out I was in trouble. “Caleb knows,” I say matter-of-factly, but inside there is a jumble of emotion. My connection to Caleb, his connection to me, is more alive and more powerful than I realized.
“I crushed your phone with a rock and threw it into a ravine.”
It’s not a direct commentary on what I just said, but it’s close enough. I believe he’s telling the truth, and I move on. Talking about Caleb makes me feel vulnerable.
“Why was I wearing boots? Where did you abduct me from? I have no memory of it.”
“You were in your horse’s stall, changing the bandage on its hoof.”
“His.”
“What?”
“His hoof. Tucker is not an it. He is a him. Go on.”
“You were bent over, changing the bandage. I tried to chloroform you. You struggled. I wound up hitting you on the head.”
So I did fight after all. That’s good. “Was there blood left behind?”
“I put the cotton on your head, soaked up the blood. Little bit got on the shavings, but I stirred it up. Put the rest of the stuff away. Used the vet wrap on you. I know what you’re asking, and the answer is everything looked normal. No one is searching for you.”
If he used the vet wrap on me and the cotton batting on my head, that means Tucker’s hoof was left unwrapped, which means Mom knows something’s amiss. If I’m right, and I’m pretty sure I am, people are looking for me.
I ask, “Was there anyone else at the barn?”
“No, it was very early. You didn’t trust the other people at the barn to wrap the hoof properly, so you decided to do it yourself before going out of town.”
“How the hell do you know that?” Not even I knew that. My brain holds no recollection of even thinking those things, although it does sound like me.
“You told Caleb this at the Denny’s.”
That’s right. We grabbed coffee the other day.
“You were there?”
“Yes.”
I search my memory, but I can recall no other diners at the Denny’s that day. I can’t even remember what our waitress looked like.
“Were you sitting next to me?”
“I was at the counter. You’re easy to overhear.” He can’t help himself from adding, “You’re loud. Unladylike.”
A shiver curls down my spine. I’d sat there in the booth at -Denny’s, sharing a cup of coffee with a friend, with absolutely no clue that a few feet away this creature was condemning me to death because I talk too loudly.
Quiet is interrupted by a slurp on his straw. He’s finished his giant cup of water.
“You want more water? You must be dehydrated.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I fetch him more water. He falls to like he’s been in a desert.
“So, how long have you been following me?”
“On and off for months.”
“Months?” I’m blown away by this; disbelief obscures anger or fear or any other normal emotion.
“I’d promised to stay clean, but you needed this too much.”
It’s a weird thing to be told, but I think he’s being honest, and I want to stay true to the rules of the game. I’ll only punish him if he lies. Thing is, I want him to lie. I want the opportunity to punish him. I want him to be afraid of me.
There’s a pause as I eat peanut butter and he drinks water and I think of something else I want to ask him. Preferably something that will freak him out. Something occurs to me, and I decide to put it forward as a statement, not a question, just in case I’m right.
“You’ve murdered six girls.”
The blindfold shifts, like he raised his eyebrows. “What?”
“You’ve murdered six girls. Isn’t that correct?”