waited until now to play it. I’m not sure I believe their timing could be that good, but I’m not ready to surrender yet; I need more proof.
“Sam, I’m usually a patient man. Everyone says that about me. I had this whole thing worked out. It was incredibly elaborate. But you screwed up my timetable when you saw that situation in the trunk at the park a little while ago. I won’t give Rachel the details just yet. I’m not a monster after all.” He chuckles. “Well, some say I am.”
The phone in my pocket vibrates again.
“Answer the phone, Sam,” he says. “Now!”
“Sam, for the next thirty seconds, I’m not going to call you. I’ll be too busy beating your wife.”
Ten seconds later, Rachel’s screams are playing throughout my house. She’s being tortured. I try to drown out her shrieks by focusing on what Creed told me, to hold out as long as possible. I wonder what he could be doing in the attic to help me. Does he have someone on the outside, triangulating the cell signal? Rachel’s screams die down. I hear her whimpering.
“Sam, you’re a stronger man than I am,” the voice says. “If this were my wife, I’d be dying inside. Perhaps when this is all over, you’ll want to reevaluate your relationship.”
The phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it.
“Very well, Sam. It’s only going to get worse.” I hear him sigh, which means everyone in my house hears it too. “Rachel,” he says, “take off your clothes.”
“No,” she says. “Please.”
My fists clench so tightly it feels like my knucklebones are going to burst through the skin. I shut my eyes and wince.
I hear him slap her. She cries out in agony. “That’s right,” he says. “Start with the blouse … good girl. Okay, now the skirt …”
I shift my weight from my right foot to my left and back to my right. I feel like throwing myself through the wall. I’ve got to give Creed as much time as possible to do whatever it is he’s trying to do. But I don’t want this man to hurt my wife.
“Now the bra …”
“Please,” she says.
He hits her again. But this time, it’s not a slap. I think he punched her. It sounds as though she slammed into something and crumbled to the floor. Maybe I’m reading that into whatever happened, imagining the worst, but I’m not imagining her sobs. I hear her whimper, “Please. Don’t hit me again. I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever you want.”
The man’s voice says, “You hear that, Sam? Okay then, Rachel, show me the rest.”
My heart is in my throat. My breath is coming out in short gasps, like a pregnant woman giving a Lamaze birth. Just when I think I’ll get through this part, I hear Rachel’s voice say, “Sam … I’m so sorry.” It’s more than I can bear. The cell phone vibrates in my pocket again, and I answer. “Where are you, Sam?” the man asks. “In the upstairs closet,” I say. “Please. Stop hurting Rachel. Tell your men not to shoot. I’m coming out.” Thirty seconds of silence pass before he comes back on the line. “Okay, Sam, come on out. They won’t hurt you.” “Where’s Rachel?” “We’ll take you to her.” “Promise you’ll leave her alone?” “I’ll promise nothing. But if you cooperate, it’ll go easier for her.”
I push the bookcase open and exit the closet; eight men are standing in a semicircle, pointing rifles at me. I don’t know much about guns, so I can’t give you the makes, model numbers, calibers, or whatever. I can tell you that all the rifles are equipped with silencers, but that’s about it.
Someone orders me to get facedown on the floor with my hands behind my back. I do what they say, and someone else ties a couple of pieces of plastic around my wrists. Then that person—or someone else—plunges a hypodermic needle into my neck.
Chapter 19
I don’t know where I am.
I’m lying on my back on a hard surface, and it’s so dark I can’t see my hand moving in front of my face. I lift my head slightly and try to look around, but I get nothing, like I’m caught in a black hole.
I have a strong sense of breathing stale air, like maybe I’m in some type of enclosure.
I shout, “Rachel!” and listen to the sound my voice makes. It’s muffled, but not extremely so, which tells me at least I’m not in a coffin. I’m in an enclosure of some sort, but thank God it’s not a coffin.
I call her name again but get no response. I raise my arms up, like I’m doing a bench press, and get nothing but air, so I figure there’s probably enough height to sit up. I jerk myself up to a sitting position and raise my arms high above my head. There seems to be plenty of height, so maybe I’m not in an enclosure, though possibly a small room of some sort.
My inner voice says,
I have no way to tell. It’s too dark to see my watch. Hell, we—I could have been here an hour, a day, a week …
No. Not a week. Not even a day. I would have had to pee by now.
If I’d peed in here, surely I’d be able to tell. I sniff the air and touch my clothing. No, I haven’t peed. So I’m guessing I’ve been unconscious a couple of hours—however long it took them to carry me out of my house and transport me to wherever I am.
