The Lonely Mile(42)

And every second she delayed was one second closer to the moment when she would look up from her dirty, disgusting bed and see her dad. That’s what she told herself because that’s what she knew to be true.

She was marginally surprised when her captor actually agreed to her request. She had been certain he would snicker and tear her clothes off, doing the things he wanted to do without regard for her desires. After all, he had kidnapped her in order to do these things, why would he suddenly consider her comfort?

But he had agreed. He actually seemed to believe this elaborate fantasy he had constructed where the two of them were some bizarre, modern-day Romeo and Juliet, holding hands, partnered together against the rest of the world. That was fine with Carli. Maybe she could continue to use his insane fantasy against him.

He had unlocked the cuff from the bedpost and led her to the basement stairs, supporting her by the elbow like some twisted suitor, like some undead freak straight out of a Roger Corman movie.

She tried to pretend not to mind. She tried to pretend the feel of his hand on her body didn’t make her skin crawl, that it was not the worst, most horrifying thing she had ever experienced. She needed to focus on the positive: Her diversion was working. It was working! He was bringing her to the bathroom to clean up, which meant he was not raping her. Yet.

And every minute that passed where he wasn’t raping her brought her one minute closer to being rescued by her dad. She believed it. She had to believe it.

They reached the partly closed wooden door at the top of the stairs, and the I-90 Killer nudged it open with the toe of his shoe. “So, you said your name is Martin?” she asked, hopefully in a voice that sounded calm and sincere, trying to keep him occupied, trying to show an interest and feed into his crazy, romantic fantasy.

“That’s right,” he said. She hoped by making a connection with him she would somehow humanize herself to him, maybe make herself a little less disposable. She knew it was unlikely. Carli had seen plenty of news reports over the last three-and-a-half years about the I-90 Killer. He had kidnapped, raped and, the authorities believed, murdered over a dozen girls, and those were just the ones they knew about. How do you humanize yourself to an inhuman monster?

She allowed herself the illusion of hope, that, perhaps, he had made up a name and not used his real one. Because if he had told her his real name, it could mean only one thing—he would never release her, never allow her to describe him to the police or tell them his name or in any way implicate him. He would use her, and then, when his bizarre fantasy began to bore him, he would send her off to her “final destination,” as he had put it. Undoubtedly, that meant killing her and dumping her body into a shallow grave as he had presumably done so many times in the past.

But her delaying tactics were working. She told herself to focus on that. They were working. Take it one second at a time, because every second that passed brought her one second closer to rescue. She took a deep, shaky breath and walked through the door and into the madman’s house.

The kitchen was even worse than she remembered. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink. A layer of grime covered the kitchen floor, which looked like it hadn’t seen the business end of a mop since before Carli was born. Dozens of empty, frozen dinner boxes littered the kitchen, some resting inside a grimy trash barrel but most scattered around the floor in the vicinity of the trash container, as if Martin couldn’t be bothered to take the time to aim properly. It looked as though a bomb had gone off at the box factory and their stock had come floating down in a random pattern, like snowflakes during a blizzard, into the kitchen.

This guy was a pig. Carli didn’t know why that should surprise her. She already knew he was a kidnapper, a rapist, and a murderer, so why would she expect him to be some sort of Martha Stewart where housework was concerned? Martin led her across the room toward a dimly lit hallway, which terminated at the front door. To the left was a staircase, and to the right, Carli couldn’t tell. Maybe the bathroom. It would make sense, since that was where she had requested he take her.

She didn’t know what she expected would happen when she reached the bathroom. She would pee, then wash up, taking as much time as possible. But then she would be right back at square one, trapped in a decrepit house with a love-struck psycho waiting to rape her.

She tried to think. What could her next move be? “Gee, honey, I want to wash up before we make beautiful music together,” was a start, but then what? Come on, Carli, think! But it’s so hard to think straight when you’re scared to death.

As hard as she tried, she couldn’t get past the horrifying visualizations of what might be in store for her. It was kind of funny, in a sickly, ironic way. Carli Ferguson was a virgin. She’d had a couple of opportunities to go all the way, but neither of the two guys had been special enough. She wanted her first time to be something more than nervous fumbling in the back seat of some minivan.

And now, the thought that not only would her first time not be special, but it would be a rape committed by a thirty-something murdering pervert was causing Carli’s brain to seize up. Then she passed the crazy psycho’s kitchen table and everything crystallized in an instant. She almost couldn’t believe her eyes. Nestled among three, dirty plates caked with some sort of hard-packed glop that looked like it might have once been spaghetti sauce, a couple of dirty glasses, some silverware and, ew, a Penthouse magazine—what was a Penthouse magazine doing on the kitchen table?—was a single, unwashed steak knife.