“Nathan?” she whispered. She had to talk him out of this.
“Shut up,” he said, but the shape of him was all wrong. He was shorter, had thin arms. This wasn’t her rapist from California. This was a new rapist.
“Please,” she said.
“Please what?” he said. “What do you want me to do? Say it!”
Her breathing came in ragged gasps and her heart battered the inside of her chest. When his hand reached her crotch, without any agency from her, her arms and legs began flailing wildly, as if restraints had just popped off of her. Her left hand caught the man in the nose.
“Ow!” he howled. “What are you doing?”
The absurdity of this question made her freeze again momentarily.
“That wasn’t part of the deal!” the man yelled.
Nessa’s door flew open and Isabeau stood there, all five foot ten inches of her, with a slim purple knife in her hand.
“Get off her, motherfucker,” Isabeau said. “Or this knife is going right into your back.”
The ski--masked asshole looked back over his shoulder, and Nessa took the opportunity to wind up and punch him right in the balls. He pitched over, gasping, clutching his crotch and groaning.
Nessa scrambled to get the nightstand drawer open and reached for the Walther PK380. It wasn’t there, of course. The cops had it.
“What is this?” the man wheezed. “Some sort of femi--nazi ambush? This is false advertising!”
With the knife still in her hand, Isabeau bounded over to the bed and yanked the guy’s ski mask off. Nessa switched on the bedside lamp, temporarily blinded by the light. She focused on her attacker. He had glossy black hair, smooth pink skin, and blue eyes.
She’d never seen him before.
What had she expected? That it was Otto? Detective Dirksen?
She gripped her chest, her hands suddenly freezing cold, panic rising inside her. She swallowed, willing her heartbeat to slow, but her heart ignored her and went on thundering.
“Call 911, Isabeau,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound quite as terrified as she felt.
“But this is what you wanted!” the man said, his voice pitched high with hysteria.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Isabeau said.
“Am I at the wrong place?” he said, still clutching his crotch.
His eyebrows were several millimeters higher than Nessa would have thought possible. The pain and fear that contorted his face made her own abate to an almost tolerable level.
“Who are you?” she demanded, her voice sounding strong in her own ears.
“Is this part of the thing?” the man asked.
“What thing? What are you talking about?”
“The ad! Your ad! If I’d known it was supposed to be a threesome, or that you had weapons, I wouldn’t have—-”
Isabeau stared at Nessa, then at the guy. “Okay, shitbird,” she said. “I want you to tell us exactly what ad you’re talking about. Where you saw it. What it said. Et cetera.”
The poor guy’s voice shook so badly Nessa could hardly understand him. “It was online, on that site Fantasy Island. The ad said that you—-” he inclined his head toward Nessa “—-had a fantasy about being rrrr . . . rrrr . . . raped in your bed in the middle of the night.”
So Nathan had sent someone to do his dirty work for him.
“I knew this was too good to be true,” the guy said. “I knew it.”
Nessa grabbed her phone and stumbled out into the hall, closing the door behind her, confident that Isabeau could handle this guy. Nessa dialed 911. While she explained to the operator what was happening, she kept her eye on Daltrey’s door.
When she opened her own bedroom door and slipped inside, Isabeau was still interrogating the would--be rapist, brandishing her knife at him with one hand and holding an unfolded piece of paper in the other.
“Here, Nessa,” she said.
Nessa took the paper from her and tried to read it while her attacker blubbered in the background.
Have you always fantasized about raping someone? I’ve always fantasized about being raped. We should get together. Come to my house at three A.M. some morning (but don’t tell me when!) and let’s make our dreams come true. Nessa Donati, County Road 8, off John Brown Road.
The header indeed said FantasyIslandXXX.com on top and was dated yesterday.
“And you expect me to believe that you saw this ad online?” Nessa said. “That you didn’t just type it up and print it out as an excuse or whatever to attack someone in her sleep?”
The man was crying now. “Oh, God, I didn’t know it wasn’t real. I’m so sorry.”
Nessa was clobbered with an intense, almost overwhelming craving for a shot. Right now.
“Hey, scumbag,” Isabeau said. “How did you get in the house? Slit a screen? Break down the back door?”
“No,” he said.
“How’d you get in, then?”
He reached for his pocket, and Isabeau raised her knife at him.
He whimpered. “I need to show you,” he said. “I’m getting something out of my pocket, okay? Take it easy!”
He pulled out a brand--new shiny house key.
“Where did you get that?”
“I got it in my post office box. The return address was this house.”