An Honest Lie(73)
His tone was friendly and light, the threats buried under Bible verses and zealous concerns about her well-being. Last he’d seen her, she’d been just a young girl, and now here he was, reading about her on the internet. She was famous! Hopefully, one day, they’d be able to catch up. The last part had given her nightmares for a week. If Rainy had shown that letter to the police, they would have cocked an eyebrow at her and asked what the problem was. You had to know his language, understand the euphemisms he so often used to dig out what he was really saying:
Hello, I’m still watching you.
She’d moved after that, subletting an apartment from a friend so her name wasn’t attached to an address. The letters came to the galleries instead. Rainy would get calls saying a letter had arrived for her. It wasn’t completely unheard of to receive correspondence through a gallery, thank God. Rainy would take a cab to go pick them up and carry them home unopened.
To prep herself to read them, she’d get very, very drunk. Most of them said the same thing: Taured marveling over her accomplishments, Taured saying he prayed for her, Taured saying he hoped to one day see her again. He ended the letters with: Till He returns, Taured.
She’d only started thinking about getting out of New York when she met Grant, flirting with the possibilities of a move to the Caribbean or perhaps Europe. The farther away, the better, and her art provided enough money for her to live well.
Grant had changed the course of her life, luring her to cold, rainy Washington instead. It had all happened so fast. And why? Because he loved her art? She had plenty of people who fawned over her, calling her gifted. But what mattered to Rainy was the way Grant accepted her for who she was in the moment.
Now, she stood in front of the room, her hand held to the door as if she were feeling for a heartbeat. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, she slid the keycard into the slot, and a second later, the lock opened with a satisfying click. Was he here, somewhere just out of sight, watching her? You are so fucking stupid, she thought before pushing the door open and walking inside. Rainy stood, staring around at the empty room and contemplating the man who called himself Paul. He worked here. The room faced the service alley that ran alongside the hotel, a bleak stretch of tar bordered by a parking lot. She doubted these rooms were used by guests unless it was an emergency. To prove it, she walked over to the minibar and cracked open the door to the fridge. It was bare inside and smelled funny.
Next to the bed on the nightstand was a hotel glass filled with a milky-looking liquid. And propped against it was a typed note that said: Drink me. Rainy considered the liquid, holding it up to the light, and then smelling it. So was he the Cheshire Cat or the White Rabbit, and what was supposed to happen when she fell into his world? She knew he wouldn’t kill her...not right away. He would want to stretch out the experience, really play with his toys. She didn’t care, though, not enough to stop herself from tipping the glass to her lips and taking a few gulping sips; the taste was bitter. Psychological warfare had been Taured’s specialty and Rainy had learned the rhythm and beat of it. If she didn’t come, he was going to kill Braithe. She sat on the bed after she’d swallowed the last bit and waited to feel something.
She was awake. The room opened itself to her sideways, her face pressed against cold concrete. She licked her lips, which felt stiff and dry, and tried to sit up, but her limbs felt weighted. No, they weren’t weighted but restricted: she was tied up. She’d been in the hotel room, and now she was in what looked like a very large, industrial-size kitchen. She could see the large metal doors of a fridge to her right, draped in plastic that been half pulled off. On her left were what looked like more fridges, only these had narrow doors. She wriggled her wrists and realized they were bound by handcuffs.
“Paul...” It was more of a wheeze than a shout. Rainy barely got his name out before she started coughing. As she spoke, she saw brown work boots walking toward her from the far end of the room. They stopped abruptly, close to her face. If she stuck out her tongue, she’d taste the toe of his right shoe. Tilting her head up toward the light and the owner of the boots, she got her first look at his face, her eyes waterlogged from coughing.
Paul was long-faced, with skin the color and texture of sweaty American cheese. He had a nose for days: a nose you couldn’t miss. How disappointed she was in Quick Mart Susan and her weak description. His hair was tucked under a beanie, but she could see the oily black strands of it curling at his neck. His face told a different story: a wiry beard hid the bottom half of his face, a tangle of reddish brown. She’d pin him right under thirty, but she couldn’t be sure in this dim light. There was a meanness to his mouth, lips that didn’t curve up or down but slashed a straight line under his beard. She couldn’t see his eyes until he bent down to haul her into a sitting position. They were blue and very clear, like a Nevada sky staring back at her. How could something so evil have such beautiful eyes? Who was he? He was so familiar.
Her neck felt like it was made of cooked pasta. Her head bobbed on her shoulder and she got a good whiff of him. She could smell the fry oil on his skin, the grime of the kitchen. She was grasping at something...what was it? He was a cook...or maybe a server—he could even be the manager, she thought. Unblinking, he studied her face as she studied his. The vein in his temple was throbbing. Rainy could see it, fat and swollen beneath his skin like an earthworm. She kept the barest hint of a smile on her lips but said nothing.