Читать книгу The Fourth Monkey: A twisted thriller you won’t be able to put down - Джей Ди Баркер, J.D. Barker - Страница 23
ОглавлениеEmory was going to throw up.
The vomit crept up the back of her throat, thick and vile. She choked it down, cringing at the foul aftertaste.
She took a deep breath, the air catching between sobs.
He had cut off her ear! What the fuck? Why —
The answer came to her in an instant, and she drew in another breath so hard and fast that she whistled before coughing out another sob. The tears welled in her eyes and dripped on her knees. She tried to wipe them from her cheeks, but more came, salty and sharp.
She hiccupped between ragged breaths.
Her body shook with violent spasms. Snot dripped from her nose and mixed with her tears. Just when she thought it was over, her mind would flood with a mix of fear, pain, and anger, and the pattern would start again, lessening only a little each time.
When the fit finally ended, when she was able to reel in a breath and keep it, she found herself sitting in utter silence. Her mind was painfully hollow and quiet, her body sore, muscles aching, her face puffy and red. Her fingers brushed over the handcuffs, searching for some kind of release, hoping they weren’t real handcuffs but the kind you buy in a sex shop or a toy store — her friend Laurie had told her about those, how her boyfriend wanted to use them and she said no way, nohow.
There was no release switch, and the band around her wrist was tight; they weren’t coming off without a key. She could try to pick them, but that would mean finding something to pick them with, and that would mean exploring.
Who was she kidding? She had no clue how to pick a lock.
The handcuffs had an abnormally long chain on them too, at least two feet, the kind you find in prison movies where the bad guy’s hands are shackled to his feet and he’s forced to shuffle down some dark hallway. The cuffs were designed to allow some movement but not much.
She knew of the Four Monkey Killer. Everyone in Chicago did, possibly everyone in the entire world. Not just that he was a serial killer, but the way he first tortured his victims before killing them, mailing body parts back to their families. First an ear, then —
Emory’s free hand went to her eyes. The room was dark, but she could still make out faint outlines. He hadn’t touched her eyes.
Not yet. Maybe he’ll have time when he gets back.
Her heart pounded within her chest.
How long before …
She couldn’t think about it. She just couldn’t.
The idea of someone taking out her eyes, taking them out when she was alive.
Your tongue too, dear. Don’t forget about the tongue. He likes to take that third and mail the little stump of flesh back to Mommy and Daddy. You know, right before he finally —
The voice in her head seemed oddly familiar.
You don’t remember me, dear?
Then she knew, just like that, she knew, and anger swirled.
“You’re not my mother,” Emory said, seething. “My mother is dead.”
Christ. She was going crazy. Talking to herself. Was it the shot? What had he given her? Was she hallucinating? Maybe all of this was just some kind of nasty dream, a bad trip. She might be —
You should try to figure the rough patches all out later, dear. When you have more time? Right now I think you should focus on finding a way out of this place. You know, before he gets back. Don’t you agree?
Emory caught herself nodding.
I only want what’s best for you.
“Stop.”
When you’re safe. Until then … this is a tough spot, Em. I can’t write you a note and get you out of this one. This is way worse than the principal.
“Quiet!”
Silence.
The only sound was that of her own breath and the blood pumping at her ear, warm and throbbing under the bandage.
Where your ear used to be, dear.
“Please don’t. Please be quiet —”
Better that you accept it now. Accept it and move on.
Emory lowered her legs over the side of her makeshift bed. The wheels squeaked as the gurney rolled a few inches before scraping against a wall and stopped. When her feet touched the cold concrete, she almost pulled them back up. Not knowing what was beneath her creeped her out, but remaining still while waiting for her captor to return was not an option she was willing to consider. She had to find a way out.
Her eyes fought the darkness, trying to adjust and pull in the smallest bit of light, but there simply wasn’t enough. She raised her hand to her face, and it was barely visible unless she practically touched her nose.
Emory forced herself to stand, ignoring the dizziness swooning through her head and the pain at her ear. She took a deep breath and held the edge of the gurney for balance just below where her handcuffs were attached, standing still until the nausea left her.
It was so dark. Too dark.
What if you fall, dear? What if you try to walk, trip over something, and fall? Are you sure this is wise? Why don’t you sit back down and figure things out. How would that be?
Emory ignored the voice and tentatively reached out, her left hand stretching into the blackness, her fingers groping. When they found nothing, she took a step toward the top of the gurney, toward the wall it rested against. Right hand on the gurney, left hand reaching. One step, then another, then a —
Her fingers found the wall, and she nearly jumped back. The rough surface felt damp and grimy. Cautiously running her hand across the wall, she found a groove and traced the edge with the tip of her finger, following horizontally until she found another groove, this one vertical. The pattern repeated about a foot down. Rectangles.
Cinder blocks.
You know, where there’s one wall, there’s usually another. Sometimes there’s a door or a window or two. Perhaps a walk of the perimeter is in order? Figure out just what kind of mess you’ve gotten yourself into? You’re tied to that pesky gurney, though — not really fit for travel.
Emory tugged on the gurney until the frame moved, rolling an inch or so on squeaky wheels. She squeezed the rail. Just holding the metal frame, holding on to something, made her feel a little safer. It was silly, she knew that, but —
It’s a crutch. Isn’t that the word?
“Fuck you,” she muttered.
With her left hand on the wall and her right dragging the gurney, she inched along, her feet shuffling. She counted as she went, attempting to map out the space in her mind’s eye. She took twelve steps before finding the first corner. Emory estimated the first wall to be about ten feet long.
She continued along the second wall. More cinder block. She ran her fingers up and down the wall in search of a light switch, a door, anything, but she found none; only more block.
Emory stopped for a second, her head turning up. She couldn’t help but wonder — how high could this room be? Was there a ceiling?
Of course there’s a ceiling, dear. Serial killers are smart; you’re not the first girl to attend his rodeo. He’s taken how many girls? Five? Six? He’s probably got the routine down to a science at this point. I’m sure this room is sealed up tight. You should keep exploring, though. I like this. Much better than sitting around waiting for him to come back. That’s a fool’s game. This has purpose. This shows initiative.
She continued around the room. The gurney fought again as she turned the corner, and she pulled the frame toward her with an angry yank.
Hey. I just thought of something. What if he’s watching you? What if he’s got cameras?
“It’s too dark.”
Infrared cameras can see in the dark plain as day. He’s probably got his feet up on a desk somewhere, watching Emory TV, a big, fat grin on his face. Naked girl in box. Naked girl trying to get out of box. The last girl took thirty minutes to venture this far around the room. This one is on a tear — she got there in twenty. How exciting. How entertaining.
Emory stopped moving and stared into the blackness. “Are you there? Are you … watching me?”
Silence.
“Hello?”
Perhaps he’s shy?
“Shut up.”
I bet he’s got his pants around his ankles and his pecker out with a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door. Emory TV After Dark is on, and the party is just getting started. This one’s a keeper. Did you see how high she jumped?
“Now I know you’re not my mother; she would never say that,” Emory said.
Well, I think he’s watching. Why else would he take your clothes? Men are perverts, dear. The whole lot of them. The earlier you realize that, the better.
Emory turned in a slow circle and peered into the darkness, her head tilted up. “There’s no camera in here. I’d see the little red light.”
Right. Because all cameras have little red lights. Flashing little red lights you can spot from a mile away. I know if I were a camera manufacturer, I’d never consider building one without the little red flashing light. I’m sure there’s an oversight committee that checks each of them to be sure —
“Will you shut the fuck up?” Emory shouted. Then her face flushed. She was fucking arguing with herself.
All I’m saying is not all cameras have little red lights, that’s all. No need to get huffy.
Emory let out a frustrated breath and reached back for the wall. In her mind’s eye, she pictured the room as a giant square. She had checked two walls without finding the door. That left two more.
She began to inch across the third wall with the gurney in tow, her fingers following the now familiar cinder block pattern, drawing a path through the thick dust. No door.
One wall left.
She pulled at the gurney, more angry now than scared, counting off the steps. When she reached twelve and her fingers found the corner, she stopped. Where was the door? Had she missed it? Four corners, four left turns. She knew she had traveled full circle. She had traveled full circle, right?
Was it possible the room didn’t have a door?
Well, that seems like a horrible design. Who builds a room without a door? I bet you skipped right past the opening.
“I didn’t miss it. There’s no door.”
Then how did you get in?
High above her, a click echoed over the walls. Music screeched down at her so loud, it felt as if someone had jammed knives into her ears. She slammed her hands against the sides of her head, and a lightning bolt of pain shot through her as her left hand impacted the tender flesh where her ear had been. The handcuff cut into her other wrist. She bent forward and cried out in pain. She couldn’t block out the music, though — a song she had heard before. Mick Jagger howling about the devil.
