Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(57)

On the other hand, addicts, sniffers, and the like have perfected mixing chloroform with other drugs to produce a much more powerful cocktail. If my abductor has access to the Internet or spends any amount of time in a nightclub, God only knows what he could’ve learned.

Which leads me to an even more basic question: How is he getting in? So far, I’ve found evidence of two single windows on what I believe is the exterior wall, plus the larger pane of glass, the one-way mirror, on the opposite wall.

But there has to be a door, of course. Every room has a door.

I focus my eyes in the gloom. Trying to identify a thin seam of lighter dark framing a doorway.

But no matter how much I squint and strain, I see nothing. Evil Kidnapper’s blackout capabilities are very good.

Fine, the Helen Keller method it is.

I crawl toward the wall with the viewing window first. If the two single windows are on an exterior wall, then basic architecture makes this the longest interior wall, which, in my mind, makes it the most likely to have a door. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced this wall must abut a hallway, hence the viewing window. He stands in the hall, staring in.

I stand up gingerly once I hit drywall. It feels strange to stand, and it occurs to me I’ve spent most of my time on my hands and knees, crawling around in the dark. Falling back into bad behaviors, I realize, making myself small. But there’s no reason in this space I can’t stand and walk. For that matter, some yoga and light calisthenics would be a good idea. I’m fed. I’m hydrated. I should also work on remaining strong.

I find the black-painted trim of the viewing window easily enough. It’s nearly as long as the full stretch of my open arms. But, upon further inspection, it’s not mounted in the middle of the wall, as you might expect. No, it’s off to one side, leaving plenty of wall space to the left for a door.

I shuffle sideways, fingers skimming over the drywall. I wonder if he’s standing on the other side of the viewing window right now. Intrigued by my efforts? Nervous?

There are so many kinds of predators in the world. Those who require submissive victims.

And those who like it when you fight back.

The obvious sign of a door would be a doorknob. Definitely no such luck. So I sway side to side, slipping my fingers across the wall in broad horizontal strokes, determined to feel the slight hiccup that would indicate the edge of a door. But nothing, nothing, nothing.

I pause, consider the room design again. I’d pictured the two single windows as being part of an external wall. Say, the front of a house. Which would mean this room is positioned as a long rectangle in the home.

But what if the two single windows are actually on the side of the house? Meaning the room isn’t a horizontal dash, but a tall I. That would put the viewing window on a wall most likely adjacent to another room—a viewing room to go with the viewing window?—while one of the narrower walls would be most likely to open to a corridor.

I shift counterclockwise, moving from the long wall to the skinnier one. Again, my fingers span from side to side, looking for a protruding doorknob, a narrow ridge. And then . . .

I find it. No doorknob, but definitely a seam in the wall. Which I can trace up to the top of my fingertips, then down to the floor. And across. Yes, a door. Fit flush into the black-painted walls with no protruding knob or metal locking mechanism to make it stand out.

How does he open it then? A knob on his side? But surely he’d want it secured as well? Maybe he has bolts mounted on the outside of the door that he can manually work, then pull the door open and walk through.

I know in the next moment what I’m going to do.

I return to my mattress. Turn it so it faces not the viewing room but the door. I take a seat, and with my body as a shield to block my motions, I feel gingerly for the ripped edge of the mattress, my stash of wooden shards. I pull out two, feeling instant relief, which I refuse to show on my face. He’s not the only one who can keep someone in the dark.

I position my makeshift weapons along the length of my thigh. Then I reach down for the hem of my ridiculously stupid satin nightie and begin to tear. One long strip. Not easy to do, as the satin is happy to rip up but not across. Through sheer stubbornness I eventually win.

Then I have it. Two soft pine wooden stakes as weapons.

A strip of cloth tied around my mouth and nose to block (maybe, doubtfully) any kind of nefarious sleeping gas.

And a plan.

I take a seat, butt on mattress, shards tucked beneath my leg, out of sight, and water bottle on my lap.

I stare directly in the direction of where I know the door has to be.

And, fingers wrapped around my weapon, I wait.


*

I THINK I DOZED OFF AGAIN. The effect of total darkness? Disorientation from the kidnapping? Drugs in my water?

But this time, I catch the telltale rasp of a metal bolt sliding back. I told my subconscious what to listen for, setting it like an alarm, and it didn’t let me down. I force myself to remain still, not lifting my head, not giving any sign of consciousness. It’s possible there’s more than one predator. I’ve read several cases of kidnappers who work in pairs. Now is not the time to be stupid.

My bound hands press the two long, skinny pine shards into one larger, heavier unit. While my homemade satin mask wicks the moisture from my mouth and delivers the scent of musty cloth.

Slowly, the door eases open. Shades of black, I realize. No brightly lit corridor to suddenly flood my room with slashing rays of light and rouse me from slumber. No, this is a stealth job, all the way. As the shadowy figure moves from the darkened hallway to the even more impenetrable gloom of my space.