B00CCYP714 EBOK (4 page)

It probably had something to do with what Maybelline said, standing before the judge. “How else am I gonna feed my grandkids? Ain’t nobody hirin’ an ex-con. The only bi’ness makin’ money is dealin’ dope. And I ain’t messin’ with no hard stuff. Folks is depressed. I’m savin’ the gov’ment from payin’ these doctors to pump ‘em full of pills. ‘Stead of worryin’ ‘bout me liftin’ people’s spirits with a little weed, y’all ought to fix the economy.”

It was funny then, but now Rainey faced the added guilt of placing Mackie in his current position. Had she heeded his warning, he would not be a wounded hostage, and she would not be rushing to his side, praying she could bring them all out safely.

She added to her last statement, “I know it’s my fault, Wiley. Now, help me fix this.”

“Well, all right then. You bring it on to the house. We got some work to do.”

Rainey could see the blue emergency lights flashing on the overpass as she approached. “Keep her calm and tell her I’m coming.” She paused, and then added, “You tell Maybelline I said this, and I mean you tell her as soon as you hang up with me. Tell her Billy Bell always did right by her and his daughter will, too, but she can’t let anything happen to Mackie. If it does, I’ll shoot her myself.”

A laptop glowed out of the darkness. Voices came out of small speakers on the desk in the corner, the sound a garbled reverberation against her eardrums. Opening her swollen eyes, Bladen peered through the tiny slits she was barely able to create. No longer hanging from her wrists, for which she was grateful, her head and hands now protruded from the holes of a medieval pillory. He constructed the device by hand, he told her, lovingly sanding the hinged, thick wooden planks that now securely locked her in place. He left her standing there, naked, and unable to move, but at least he was gone.

Not long ago, he forced her into a shower stall to wash her blood and his body fluids from her skin. He snatched the stiff brush from her hands, when he deemed she wasn’t scrubbing hard enough. He was in the process of rubbing her skin raw and repeating to her what a “dirty bitch” she was, when he suddenly stopped, handcuffed her to a metal bar attached to the tiled wall, and exited the room. He left her there long past the hot water turning icy cold. Bladen didn’t care. She stood fast under the freezing spray, shivering, but determined to wash the last few hours away.

The shower was in a small bathroom adjacent to the maniac’s chamber of homemade and “collectible” horrors. He was quite versed in the art of torture. He enjoyed telling Bladen the history of each device, its origin and uses, while he demonstrated how it worked on her. He was particularly fond of one ancient horror.

“Now, I’m going to show you the pièce de résistance of my collection,” he had said, his yellow contact lenses seeming to glow behind the black leather mask.

She could see only his eyes and mouth, but it was enough to distinguish his ghoulish expression of delight. He was squatting on the floor in front of her while she was tied face down to the ladder rack that he was especially proud of. He had meticulously reconstructed it from medieval drawings, he explained.

“You’re the first one to get to use this museum quality reproduction of mine. Sadly, my last guest departed before it was completed. I’ll always remember you were the first,” he said, as if they had just shared a ride in his new car. He wiped tears away from one of Bladen’s cheeks. “Sorry about the whip, but you have to learn. Have you learned, Bladen?”

Bladen had learned. She learned to respond quickly and with the right answer. “Yes, sir,” trembled from her lips.

“And what have you learned?”

Bladen looked him in the eyes, because that’s what he had instructed her to do. She took a shaky breath and repeated verbatim what he taught her, careful not to make a mistake. Mistakes caused pain.

“I will do what you say, when you say it. I will take my punishment and learn to like it. You are the master.”

“Good girl,” he said, smiling. Then he held up a pear-shaped metal object with an ornamental key protruding from one end. The pear part appeared to be pewter inlaid with brass vines and flowers. “This is it. Isn’t she beautiful?” He paused for Bladen’s answer and when it did not come quickly enough, he reminded her of the rules with a backhand across her face. “I asked you a question.”

Bladen watched the saliva and blood drip from her mouth and puddle with her fallen tears on the floor beneath her, as she answered, “Yes, it’s beautiful.”

“This is a reproduction. Most of the real ones are in museums or rich men’s private collections, but this one is very accurately rendered. Do you want to know what she does?”

Bladen needed no reminder this time. She said, “Yes, please tell me.”

“Good, a girl who likes to learn. This, Bladen, is called the Pear of Anguish. No one knows its exact origins. The first mention of the Pear dates to 1639, from a French publication entitled
General Inventory of the History of Thieves
. Credit for the Pear’s invention was assigned to a robber who lived during the reign of Henry IV, ruler of France from 1589 to 1610. There were many styles and sizes, all designed to do the same thing.”

He began to turn the ornamental key, which caused the four metal leaves forming the pear shape to open slowly. His excitement grew as the leaves expanded and he continued to describe the Pear’s uses.

“See, if you were a heretic, blasphemer, or liar, you’d have this inserted in your mouth. As the screw turns, the Pear expands, breaking teeth, ripping the insides of your mouth. It’s a bloody mess. If you were a faggot, this gets pushed up your ass. If it’s opened wide enough, you’ll think twice about sticking a dick up there again—that is, if you live through it.”

He began to close the Pear, now grinning at Bladen, whose wide eyes betrayed that she knew what was coming, but he told her anyway. He delighted in her fear, and what he said next terrified her even more than she already was.

“And for witches and bitches, this was inserted in their cunts.”

Bladen knew she must not resist. Things were so much worse when she did, but fear overtook her. She began to fight the restraints, screaming at the top of her lungs, even though she knew no one could hear her. If her previous shrieks of torment had not roused help, then no one was coming to her rescue. Still she cried and begged, “Please, God, no.”

He stood up, his sadistic laughter following him, as he said, “Don’t worry, Bladen. I’m not going to use this on your pussy. I have better things for that.” The whip came down hard across her already brutalized buttocks, as he rolled the ends of the rack closer together, forcing her rear into the air. “Spread your ass.”

Bladen screamed and writhed to no avail. The whip came down again, with his command, “I said spread those sweet ass cheeks. Now, bitch!”

Later, standing under the cold water, she was trying to forget what happened next, and all that happened before in the short time she had been his captive. Bladen tried to focus on survival, but part of her did not really want to live through this nightmare. She was looking around the small bathroom for a way to end her suffering, before he had a chance to hurt her again, when he came back to retrieve her.

“Seems our girl Rainey is on the move. She’s got a hostage situation. It’s on the news. I need to put you away for a bit, but I’ll be back.”

As he spoke, he locked her, cold and soaked to the bone, in his prized pillory. His tone was tender, while his subject matter was not.

“I’d put a shirt on you, but they tend to stick to the lash wounds. Hurts a hell of a lot more when you open them up removing the shirt. You’ll dry soon and I’ll leave the heat on. It’ll help keep you from going into shock.”

He cupped his hand under Bladen’s chin, lifting her eyes to his. She saw the sadistic smirk. He wasn’t concerned about causing her pain. He rejoiced in it. This nice guy act was just part of the psychological trauma he was inflicting with the physical torture.

“You get some rest now. When I come back, we’re going to work with my Shrew’s Fiddle design. It has a few kinks I need to work out. I’m sure you’ll do nicely for a fitting dummy.”

 The pillory faced away from the lone exit door. Bladen had been able to identify it in the brief moments she wasn’t focused on living through the experience. She could not see what lay beyond the door when it was opened. He turned off the lights, just as he closed and locked her escape route behind him. When she heard the deadbolt slide into place, Bladen realized she no longer carried the slightest dread of the dark. It was not the imaginary evil in the darkness of her childhood that she should fear, but the malevolent fantasies of real men played out under the glare of a bare light bulb.

“Stay focused. Stay engaged,” Bladen mumbled.

In his haste to leave, her captor left the laptop open, proof to Bladen that he was capable of mistakes, especially if Rainey Bell was involved. She filed that away for future reference. She could only see the glow of the screen, but she could hear the voices clearer now. It was some kind of news broadcast, and it was Bladen’s only company. On one hand, it reminded her that the world continued to turn and no one knew she was missing yet, but it offered a distraction from the hell she was in. Whatever worked, whatever would keep the memories of the agony and torment away, that’s what she needed to do. There was a reason her mind was trying to bury those moments, and Bladen was going to let it. She concentrated on the sound of the reporter’s voice and let it take her to the happenings on a little side street in Durham.

#

Rainey followed the Highway Patrol escort, as the cruiser turned off Holloway Street into the Albright neighborhood, near downtown Durham. It would not have been hard to find Maybelline’s house, even if Rainey hadn’t known the way. News media vans and SUVs lined the approaching narrow side streets. Over-anxious reporters stood in the beams of glaring white lights, glancing over their shoulders at Maybelline’s house a block away, and then turning back to the cameras with concerned, alarmed expressions to alert the public of “danger.” In Rainey’s experience, most of what the media did not know in a situation such as this, they simply guessed and hoped to be the one outlet to get it right. The Connecticut school shooting coverage was a prime example of imagination and speculation run wild.

Rainey hoped Katie wasn’t watching from home, but knew she was. She would be on high alert until Rainey returned. It would then be several hours before she calmed down, but Katie was becoming better at accepting what Rainey did for a living was sometimes dangerous. Nevertheless, it took careful management of the details on Rainey’s part to keep the peace. There were still things Katie did not need to know. Katie agreed to those conditions, with the stipulation that she would be informed if they were in immediate peril. Of some of the day-to-day danger Rainey faced, Katie was willing to remain blissfully unaware, but when the serial killers and stalkers came out of the woodwork, the details mattered. Rainey agreed and the concessions on both their parts seemed to be working.

Thoughts of Katie disappeared, as a reporter recognized Rainey’s car and ran toward it. The bright white light of the closely-following camera blinded her momentarily. She could hear the shouted questions begin before an officer directing traffic waved her through the barricade. Blue and red emergency lights flashed and reflected back from windows filled with the inquisitive faces of neighbors peeking out through the blinds or openly gawking. Rainey parked behind some city patrol units, near Mackie’s Escalade and Junior’s Expedition. When she exited the Charger, ballistics vest in hand, the reporter continued to shout questions from behind the barrier.

“Rainey Bell, you’ve been called to the scene because you bonded out this dangerous criminal and now your partner has been shot. Is that true?”

She turned to face the reporter, smiling a silent, “No comment,” which Katie always told her looked more like a smirked ‘Kiss my ass’, before going in search of Wiley Trainer.

A uniformed officer beckoned, “Come with me.”

Rainey thought she knew him, but she met so many cops. This one’s name and how they were acquainted escaped her. The name of the next cop that spoke to her—Detective Rex King—was emblazoned in her mind forever. How could she forget the man who swore he’d see her rot in prison for conspiracy in the murder of Dalton Chambers? A Grand Jury investigation produced no bill of indictment, but doubt still lingered among some in law enforcement. Rainey might very well know something about the attack and subsequent death of the serial killer who tried to arrange her demise from death row, but she would go to her grave with it. Bullying and speculation by an overzealous homicide detective would not sway her from that stance. Only two people knew the truth of her involvement in the case, Rainey and her friend, sometimes employer and personal lawyer, Molly Kincaid. Well, one other person knew the whole truth, but Rainey suspected that person would rather remain silent or suffer the consequences.

“Are you armed, Bell?” Detective King’s nasally, obnoxious, superior tone arrived before he emerged from the crowd of law enforcement personnel gathered in front of Maybelline’s house.

Rainey always thought the detective’s parents had high expectations for a son they named King twice. If they were hoping for a physical specimen of manhood, they most certainly were disappointed. Rex was a scrawny, pale man, with constant sinus drainage from allergies, and poor eyesight. Rainey was surprised he could pass the firearms qualification test. If his parents were shooting for a little man with an ego the size of China, then they definitely hit the mark. Rainey had been forced to work with him after being hired to consult with the missing women’s task force, of which Rex was a member. She considered him a good detective, just a lousy human being. To say they could barely tolerate each other’s presence would be an understatement. Their mutual animosity was not lost on those forced to work with them.

King continued to approach Rainey, hand out, demanding her weapon. “I’m sure the answer to my question is that you are, so hand it over. We don’t need you involved in any more questionable shootings.”