Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(4)

She could see faintly. Enough light from three small windows placed high on one wall. Not letting in daylight, but a dim yellow haze. As if a streetlight was outside those windows, permitting an ambient glow.

She used the wash of illumination to determine several things at once: Her hands were bound in front of her with plastic zip ties; she’d been stripped completely naked; and at the moment, at least, she was alone.

Her heart rate accelerated. Her head hurt, her skin prickling with goose bumps, and odds were she’d miss this state of relative safety soon enough. The kind of guy who knocked out his date and removed every stitch of her clothing wasn’t the kind that was going to leave her untouched for long. Even now, he was most likely preparing for the rest of the evening’s festivities. Humming away to himself. Contemplating games he could indulge in with his new toy. Feeling like he was the biggest, baddest asshole in town.

She smiled then. Though once again, it wasn’t a happy expression on her face.

First off, inventory. Basement or garage inevitably meant storage, and as the saying went, one person’s trash was another person’s treasure.

He’d been stupid not to bind her ankles as well. Not as experienced as he thought. Not as clever as he was about to wish he’d been. But then, people saw what they wanted to see. She’d been taken in by his pecs. He’d no doubt assessed her as an easy blonde. Turned out, they were both in for some surprises this evening.

She found a heavy worktable. Raising her bound wrists, she skimmed her fingers across the wooden surface. She identified a thick metal vise built into one corner. Moved on more quickly in search of what she hoped might be an assortment of tools. But no, he wasn’t that stupid and she wasn’t that lucky.

No abandoned sharp objects, pliers, hammer. She searched the room’s perimeter next, almost tripping over a metal can, then reaching out quickly to grab it before it fell. No sense in alerting him to her conscious state any sooner than necessary. Lid steady, nerves still shaky, she forced herself to continue.

The metal can yielded a filled plastic garbage bag. She set it aside in the short term, then paced the remaining two walls. She identified a collection of empty gas cans, as well as two plastic jugs. Based on smell, one gallon jug held the remains of windshield wiper fluid, the other antifreeze. So she was most likely in a garage. Being Boston, probably a detached unit, allowing the bartender even more privacy.

She didn’t dwell on what might happen next, why a man like him required such privacy. For that matter, she refused to get caught up in the stickiness of the floor in the rear corner. Or the smell that was becoming nearly impossible to ignore. An odor that matched the taste of blood on her tongue.

She took the jug of antifreeze and moved it to the bare wooden worktable. His first mistake. Her first victory.

She found a shovel propped up against the wall. With renewed vigor, she placed her plastic bindings against the blade and rubbed vigorously. After a minute or two, she was breathing heavily, sweat stinging her swollen eye. Yet to judge by the feel of the zip tie . . . Nothing. The edge of the spade was too dull, or the plastic too durable. She tried for another moment, then forced herself to abandon the effort.

Zip ties were tough. Frankly, she would’ve preferred metal cuffs. But at least he’d done the courtesy of binding her hands in front of her, where she still had considerable use of them, while not pulling the plastic so tight she lost all feeling in her fingertips.

She could move her feet; she could move her arms.

She could hold herself perfectly still and feel the void, right there. Dark. Comforting. Silent.

Alone in a crowded room, she thought, and for a moment, her body swayed, listening to music only she could hear.

Then she grew serious again. Trash. It was time.

She tore through the thin plastic bag using her fingers. First thing that hit her was the stench. Rotten food, rotted flesh, something worse. She gagged, felt tears well in her eyes and forced down a flood of bile. Now was not the time to be squeamish as she forced her fingers into oozing garbage she could feel but not see. Paper towels. Wet piles of God knows what. Discarded food containers. Takeout. From inside the home, or food he’d brought out here to share with his catch or munch on himself when taking a break from his entertainment. Halfway through the bag she came upon a new batch of rotten, more organic smelling this time. Her fingers moved quicker. Paper-dry petals. Squishy green stems. Flowers. A tossed bouquet. Because in addition to food, he plied his playthings with treats?

More likely, she decided, the last ruse he’d used to lure an unsuspecting victim. Then, in the next instant, it occurred to her: Where there’s a cheap florist’s bouquet . . .

Bound hands moving quickly now. Diving into the foul pile. Digging determinedly through rancid Chinese food and sticky duck sauce. Tossing aside empty coffee cups and more and more gooey flower carcasses. Plastic, she was seeking the feel of a thin plastic packet. Small, square, with a sharp edge . . .

Bang.

The noise came from directly behind her. The sound of a hand, a foot, connecting with a metal garage door. She couldn’t help herself. She froze. Naked. Shivering. Elbow-deep in garbage. And listened to him once again announce his arrival.

Because he wanted her to know he was coming. He wanted her shaking, terrified, curled into a ball, already fearing the worst. That was the kind of man he was.

She smiled.

And this time, it was a happy expression on her face. Because now, in her right hand, she had it: the thin packet of flower food, generously included with most bouquets and exactly what she’d been looking for.