Just Like Home(51)
Vera tiptoes closer.
The man’s arms and legs are tethered to four rings, thick metal rings sunk into the cement floor, rings that for some reason make Vera think of cowboys tying up horses. The tethers, she sees as she gets closer, are plastic-covered bike locks. One is blue and one is purple and two are green. The one she uses to lock her own bicycle up to the rack in front of the diner downtown is blue too. She thinks Brandon’s might be red but she can’t quite remember.
The man strains and thrashes, his elbows slipping in the pooled blood beneath him. The bike chains don’t rattle because they’re wrapped in that semi-clear plastic. They just thud dully, and the thudding is barely audible over the muffled sound of him trying to scream.
Vera tiptoes up to him and holds a finger to her lips. The man meets her eyes. He’s panting heavily through his nose, the sound of his breath thick and mucousy because he’s been crying. Vera taps her finger to her lips again, raising her eyebrows meaningfully.
The man falls silent. He nods, his eyes so wide that they almost look lidless.
Vera sets the flashlight down on the floor. The beam throws the man’s shadow high and dark onto the wall behind him. She tiptoes closer to him, careful to keep her feet away from the blood. There’s not so much blood as she’d first thought, not a big spreading puddle. There’s only a little, really.
Vera leans over the man and uses two fingers to pluck at the brown cotton that hangs from his mouth.
He makes a gurgling sound. She pauses. When he’s quiet again, she pulls at the cotton again. It slides out of his mouth like a magician’s trick-scarves, unraveling for so much longer than it looks like it should be able to. When it’s almost all the way out, the man gags and coughs, retches, turns his head. A thin stream of green liquid spills from his mouth.
“Gross,” Vera whispers.
The man spits bile at the floor. Vera flinches, even though none of it lands on her.
“You have to help,” the man says. “He keeps the keys on him. I think he lives here, I think—”
“Shhh,” Vera says. “You have to be quiet.”
“I’m not the first,” the man whispers frantically. “He has a whole setup down here, he’s done this before. He has a routine, a schedule, he’s organized. And he’s crazy, he thinks he has to get something out of me, I don’t know—I’m chained up over a drain so the smell doesn’t—”
“Hsst,” Vera hisses, harsh this time. “Be quiet! Do you want to get me caught?”
The man’s mouth snaps shut. The smell of his bile is sharp in a way that makes Vera’s mouth water unpleasantly. She pulls the collar of her shirt up over her nose, then crouches down to wipe at the man’s face with the wad of stained cotton. It helps a little.
She stays where she is, crouched next to the man on the floor, studying his face. He has a doll-like smile because of the holes in his cheeks, which look wet instead of scabby. They must be fresh, from tonight, or maybe last night. His moustache curls down over his top lip; it’s black with gummed-up old blood. His bottom lip has a hole too. His eyes seem fine, although one of them is inflamed and weeping.
She isn’t sure if she wants to see the rest of him. He’s naked, but the flashlight is on the floor, so Vera can mostly only see the broad expanse of his side in her peripheral vision. She’s curious about what the rest of him looks like—the quick sweep of her flashlight gave her an impression of loose meat and mottled purple skin—but the thought of looking over his pale, naked body from this close-up makes her stomach twitch.
She decides not to look. Not this time.
“What’s your name?” she whispers.
The man’s eyes flash bright with desperate hope. “Arnold,” he hisses back. His voice is tight with pain. “My name is Arnold, can you help me? Please, you can get me out of here. You can help me. There are cable-cutters in the toolbench—” He cuts himself off with a shudder, closing his eyes. His jaw trembles, flecks of saliva catching on his newly pierced bottom lip.
He does not want to talk about the tool bench and what’s inside it. Vera decides not to make him talk about it. She doesn’t want him to throw up again, and besides, she’s been down here too long already. Her skin feels alive and electric and she listens every second for the sound of the doorknob at the top of the stairs turning.
“It’s okay,” she says, still whispering. She fidgets with the cotton gag. “You don’t have to talk about it.”
“You have to cut me loose, sweetheart,” Arnold says, his whisper breaking into fully voiced speech. “You have to cut me loose and help me get out of here. I promise—I promise no one will be mad at you,” he adds. “You’ll be a big hero if you just go into the … the toolbench, and get cable-cutters, and cut me free.”
“You have to be quiet,” she says. He nods frantically. She frowns. “I’ll get in big trouble. I’m not supposed to be down here.”
“You won’t,” he hisses. “You won’t get in trouble, I’ll make sure of it, we’ll get out of here together, please, you have to—”
“Shh!” Vera looks behind her, up to the staircase, the back of her neck prickling with warning. She isn’t sure if she heard a footstep or if it was just the house settling. That fixes it: she has to get out of here. “I told you, you have to be quiet,” she says. “Anyhow, I can’t let you go. Dad would be upset.”