Garage Sale Stalker (Garage Sale Mysteries) (18 page)

CHAPTER 38

H
er exertion
cleaning the
basement and relief at still being alive honed Jennifer’s appetite. With no idea when or if she might eat again, she wolfed down the food and refilled the plastic bottle at the basement sink, praying the water was potable. She drank in great gulps.

Newly fortified, though still anxious, she stood at the bottom of the stairs and pressed the buzzer.

The door at the top of the stairs opened almost immediately.

“Come,” he ordered, as one might command a dog.

She crept up the stairs. His bulk no longer filled the doorway and, reaching the top, she tried to quell an irrational surge of hope. Emerging alive from that dreaded dungeon, even if only temporarily, was an unimaginable victory.

Head submissively lowered to avoid eye contact, she stood at the top of the stairs, determined to play out the role of cowed servant. This ruse parlayed into a ticket out of the basement and with a world of luck, maybe,
somehow
, a ticket to freedom.

“The kitchen,” he barked. “Clean it. Over there,” he pointed to an adjacent anti-room. “Do the laundry. The dog guards you every minute. Don’t leave these two rooms. Finish and buzz.” He stepped through the door, back into the hall, and locked the kitchen door behind him.

She blinked into sunshine spilling through the window above the sink. What an appealing contrast to the bleak artificial light in the cellar below! But the window meant more than welcome sunlight. It framed a view of the outdoors she’d doubted ever seeing again, and somewhere beyond lay those she loved… and
hom
e
.

She leaned forward over the sink to increase her field of vision and memorize what she saw outside. This was the same house, all right: the yard, the barn, the sheds scattered outside beneath several large shade trees. This was still McLean! A long field stretched far behind the house, bordered in the far distance by another stand of trees, but no sign of her car or the black pickup truck. How she wished she’d paid closer attention to details when she originally drove in here, never dreaming such information might affect her departure.

The clock above the sink read noon. Looking through cupboards, she found a box of tea bags and longed for a cup of that hot, soothing beverage to calm her nerves. What could it hurt? She extracted a bag, filled the teakettle with enough water for a single cup and turned on the burner.

Behind a modern table and four chairs at one end of the eat-in kitchen were three tall side-by-side windows with the center window unscreened. Outside, the glass panes spread a wide angle of the same back yard barn-and-shed view. Were these big windows painted shut? If not, were they on a security system like those at her house? No visible wires or plastic pads! If caught, could she excuse lifting a sash as part of cleaning if an alarm sounded?

With a cloth and some glass cleaner in hand to camouflage her true intent, she carefully opened the lock atop the center window’s lower sash and lifted slightly. When no alarm sounded, she edged it up another few inches. Suddenly a heart-stopping, high-pitched shriek pierced the air!

Oh god, a bugged window! Prickles of adrenalin moved over her skin as her ears followed the sound… not from a window alarm but from the
teakettle
. Jamming the window down but with no time to relock it, she rushed toward the stove as two frightening events unfolded.

The dog’s toenails clicked a staccato trill across the vinyl floor as he careened snarling from the laundry room into the kitchen, his fangs glinting and his metal tags jingling that sound she hated. Simultaneously, the door crashed open and the man loomed, glaring furiously at her quaking finger pointed toward the whistling teakettle.

“No!”
he shouted, whether to her or the dog, she couldn’t know. “Water at the sink only!” He glared, his jaw and neck veins working. She cowered, praying he wouldn’t notice the unlocked window as his glance swept the room for irregularities. She tensed for the ensuing pain. Staring dumbly at the floor, she felt his electric energy as he shaped his next move. Would he strike her? Throw her down the basement stairs? Cut her? Blind her? Rape her?

She hunched vulnerably before him, trembling with fear. Seconds passed as she steeled herself for violent retaliation, the wait for that terrible pain creating its own grisly torture.

But minutes passed and nothing happened. Did he prefer storing this situation’s rage to extend her agony later? Did he think once his hands touched her, he couldn’t stop himself until he beat her to death? Did he not want that satisfying termination just yet?

“Door,” he screamed to the dog as it spun around and scrambled to that post. When she looked up, the man was gone and the kitchen door once more shut and locked.

Cursing her idiocy with the teakettle, her heart pounded from that horrific close call even though this perilous experience bought a vital piece of information. The doors might be bugged, but that window was not! No alarm and no screen. A possible way
out!

To avoid angering him further, the teakettle incident warned her to be more cautious than ever. On the other hand, she must escape, which wasn’t cautious at all! How could she do both?

Vigorously polishing the table, she surreptitiously re-locked the opened window fastener. At that moment she realized that having no person in the room didn’t mean she wasn’t observed. Stores sold plenty of hidden camera technology, so anyone with money, determination and skill could install them, or pay professionals to do so. Maybe he even was such a professional. Who knew what his background included? Trying not to be obvious, she moved around the kitchen toward the sink, searching for a camera lens, but finding none.

Back at the sink, she washed the dishes and opened drawers to find a weapon. No sharp kitchen knives and even the silverware knives were gone. He was a step ahead of her.

She looked out the smaller window over the sink, at the barn and sheds, wondering about outdoor lighting at night. Her own driveway had motion-activated floodlights over the garage. Was the worn light fixture on the barn operated by a switch, photocell or motion-sensor? It didn’t look new or like hers at home, but maybe a different model. If motion floods existed outside above the back door, they’d affect a night getaway—the likeliest time, while he slept—by triggering a back yard brilliant with light when cover of darkness was crucial.

Finished at the sink, she entered the laundry room. A pull shade covered most of the window in the door’s upper half. If she could press her face against the glass and look up she’d learn if floodlights existed in the eaves above. But as she approached the door, the dog leaped to his feet and growled a warning, his alert eyes focused single-mindedly upon her.

She stopped in her tracks, looked away and moved the laundry around atop the machine. But when she edged a tiny step in the outside door’s direction, the dog growled a decibel higher and drew back his lips in a low snarl revealing his teeth.

No way!

CHAPTER 39

J
ennifer stepped back
from
the dog, turned to the washing machine and added detergent and the laundry: the usual men’s socks, shirts, T-shirts, pajamas, underwear, handkerchiefs, and trousers, plus sheets and towels. This volume of dirty laundry required two loads. Unexpected in an old house, the washer and dryer looked
new
. Multiple hangers crowded the adjacent wall-mounted rack; beside it sat an iron and folded ironing board. In the right situation, several of these might become weapons.

From the corner of her eye, she confirmed that the dog watched her every move. What had he been trained to do? Bark if he saw a weapon in her hand? Bite if she reached for the door knob? Knock her to the floor and rip out her throat? The teakettle whistle certainly sent him into orbit!

The dog barricaded any escape attempt through the back door. What could she do to neutralize him? Stab him, poison him, trap him? Befriend him? She flinched at the last idea… because of her dog phobia in general and this menacing brute in particular.

Returning to the kitchen, Jennifer peered into the oven: a real mess! Steeling herself for the filthy task, she put the racks in the sink, sprayed oven cleaner inside the oven and closed its door. Studying the can, she knew this would be an excellent weapon if sprayed into face and eyes. But could she get away while it disabled her captor? No, because of the dog! Could she spray the dog, too? The dog was the key! Even if she miraculously eluded the man, the dog would find her and finish her. Still, she left the oven cleaning canister on the counter… just in case!

The surprisingly well-stocked refrigerator needed cleaning also. Maybe some food here for the dog? She saw several pounds of raw ground beef stuffed into a plastic bag, the original packaging gone. She gouged out a bite-size chunk of the hamburger meat and squeezed the remainder in the bag smooth again. Sticking the small ball of meat on the end of a fork, she crept back to the laundry room. Again, the low growl as she entered.

She loathed nearing the animal, but she
had
to try. If the dog barked, signaling the man to rush in to find her with the meat in her hand, she’d be done for. Back to the basement or far worse! Was it worth the try, and if she
did
try, what was the best way to go about it? Perhaps a variation of Pavlov’s famous experiment? The dog would need to connect her with a sound she made and the food she offered. But what sound? She clicked her tongue and very slowly placed the meat fork on the floor between the dryer and the dog so he couldn’t reach it without getting up.

At first he ignored it, but then his nostrils twitched as he caught the scent. The animal stared directly at the meat and sniffed the air again. No question, he recognized food! She’d read that guard dogs could be specifically trained to
attack
a stranger offering food or to bark this alert to their master.

Was food rationing a cruel part of the dog’s training? If so, could that work in her favor? The animal’s ribs showed through his scarred hide. Not emaciated, like many Fairfax County Animal Shelter foundlings that friends volunteering there described to her, but neither was he well-fed.

Clicking her tongue, she bent down slowly, picked up the meat fork and removed it… to build his anticipation. The animal watched, sensing danger. After a moment, she replaced the fork on the floor. The dog licked his lips, stared at the meat and changed position but didn’t get up. The third time the dog leaned toward the meat but pulled back. Who says the third time is the charm?

A fourth time she pushed the fork closer to him, clicking her sound. He did not leave his post but stared at the meat, shifted his position slightly closer and extended his head toward the meat. Edging nearer, she lifted the hamburger until it was directly between them, reinforcing the animal’s connection with her, the sound she made and the anticipated food. Nudging it to within inches of his mouth, she held her breath as the dog pushed his muzzle forward, moistened his lips and jerked the meat from the fork. “Good dog,” she crooned.

Whew! She leaned against the washer for support. This could so easily have gone the other way. Had the dog barked, sealing her fate, at this very moment the man would be standing over her to kill her. She sighed in relief. So far so good!

Not knowledgeable about dog training, she
did
know something about children, having raised five of her own. Some parenting hinged upon encouragement and positive reinforcement. Other methods stressed strictness and punishment. If animal training were similar, she could guess which this scarred dog had experienced.

Facing her task once more, she realized wryly that cleaning a kitchen is second nature to one who’s tackled that task thousands of times. In between the scouring, wiping, drying, scrubbing, polishing, sweeping and laundry, she managed to feed the dog, using her same technique,
four
more times. The smaller mound of ground beef in the refrigerator presented another risk, but with luck he wouldn’t notice.

Putting the first laundry load into the dryer, she added the remaining clothes to a second washer load. After tackling the onerous oven cleaning job, she folded the dry garments atop the laundry machines.

Jennifer saw no telephone in the kitchen. Did this mean he had no phones or few phones or cell phones? A hard wired phone for her 9-1-1 call was too much to ask! The kitchen clock read 2:30 p.m. If accurate, and if her calculations were correct, she’d been captive about twenty-two hours.

Glancing around the kitchen one last time, she pressed the buzzer. The door opened quickly and the man whisked past her to inspect the kitchen. Then he collected the hangers with his clean shirts and trousers from the laundry room.

“Bring that,” he indicated the stack of folded laundry, “and follow me.”

Obediently, she did; toward what, she knew not...

CHAPTER 40

T
hey moved qui
ckly down
a hallway, along which she counted five closed doors. He opened all three doors on the left side of the hall and said, “The vacuum cleaner is here,” he pointed to the linen closet behind the first door. “Put the laundry in there,” he indicated the bedroom through the third door. “And then clean the bedroom after you finish the bathroom,” he gestured toward the middle open door.

The man’s sharp whistle startled her, foretelling the immediate appearance of the dog, who watched her intently. She fought the urge to recoil as the large animal moved nearer. “Guard,” he commanded the animal. To Jennifer,
“Don’t
close the doors while you’re working. The dog will keep you in sight at all times. Press the buzzer when you’re through.”

“I am also an experienced cook,” she volunteered, eyes submissively downcast.

Staring at the floor, she couldn’t read his expression but thought he hesitated a moment before walking to the end of the hall, entering a room on the hallway’s right side and closing its door after him.

A dead-end at one end of the hall prevented escape and the animal, only a few feet away, blocked the other. The old fear gripped her at close proximity to any unpredictable dog, never mind one with specific instructions to guard—or maybe—
kill
her. The dog returned her stare, as if daring her to try a wrong move. She must face it; she hadn’t won him over at all!

Struggling for positive focus, she turned to her work. Maybe she’d find clues about the man in the bathroom medicine cabinet like a prescription revealing his name. But first she closed the door enough to elicit a warning growl from the dog. Gratefully she used the toilet. So much better than the bucket in the basement.

Besides the toilet, the bathroom had a claw-foot tub next to a large sink set into a dresser-size cabinet with storage drawers and doors. At the end of the room, a fixed window with a high-transom above it framed two rectangles of daylight. The small, high opening wasn’t a way out, but the pole that operated the transom looked like a potential weapon.

Brown towels hung neatly on the racks, a brown shower mat draped over the side of the tub and several matching brown rugs lay across the floor. Brown, she thought, was about as understated as you can get. A brush and a comb lay atop the toilet tank.

Reaching toward the medicine cabinet, she gasped suddenly, confronted by the shock in the mirror above the sink! A woman’s haggard face—ringed by a tangle of disheveled, dirty hair—stared back at her. She nodded to be certain the awful mirrored face moved when hers did. Could this be her actual reflection? Far worse than any early-morning, no make-up visage she’d faced at home. The purplish circles under her eyes, their haunted look, the drawn mouth, cheeks smudged with dirt and that mop of dull, clumped hair surrounding her face…she looked like a war refugee.

Hypnotized, she gazed in disbelief at this pathetic stranger. Her hand grabbed the comb atop the toilet tank and she watched in the mirror as the comb rose in her fingers and attempted to work through a few strands of her matted hair. Rinsing her cleaning rag, she dabbed at the sticky bump on the back of her head. The cloth’s resulting rust-colored smear confirmed dried blood. She stared dumbly at her reflected apparition as both her hands lifted to force the comb through the snarls.

Her eyes wandered from the mirror down to her clothes, the same ones she’d worn two days, slept in last night and cleaned house in today. What could she expect but the dirty, rumpled slacks and stained shirt that encased her body? Leaning forward over the sink, she finished combing her hair and splashed cold water on her face to jar her back to reality. Rinsing the rag, she washed her face with warm water and soap. Never had this simple act felt so redeeming, as if she were cleaning away a foreign mask to uncover the real Jennifer hidden beneath.

But now the “real Jennifer” must move forward. Hurrying, she cleaned the bathroom, removed strands of her hair from his comb, washed it and placed it back beside the brush.

With a last brave look in the mirror, she opened the medicine cabinet to reveal an electric razor and small hotel-size shampoo bottles. In the under-sink cabinet were more towels, toilet paper and bar soap. Had he sanitized this room on purpose or did he live like a monk? Except for her own frightening reflection in the mirror, she’d learned nothing new.

Returning to the hall, where the dog jumped to attention, she grabbed the vacuum cleaner and pushed it ahead of her into the bedroom. The animal moved quickly into the room’s open doorway while she glanced around for a phone or hidden camera. If this were his bedroom, perhaps she’d discover something about her captor here.

Immediately recognizing her lamp on the bedside table, she felt surprise. Her daughters said he bought it at their garage sale but seeing it here, something of hers in his house, struck her as incongruous and disheartening.

Making up the queen-size bed with the sheets she’d laundered, she covered them with the rumpled comforter lying on the floor. Moving to the two windows, she lifted each shade and peered out. Like the kitchen, one faced the back of the house, but from here she could see the other side of the barn, where pieces of long-abandoned farm equipment rusted in the sunshine. She also had a better view of the long field with a wood of tall trees at the opposite end, the field itself overgrown with saplings and bushes. The second window looked out on the yard at the end of the house, where a sprawling thicket blanketed the area from the house to a dense stand of trees thirty feet away. In which direction should she head if ever she could get away?

Moving around the Spartan room, she quietly slid open every drawer and examined the contents as she dusted and vacuumed. She’d use the putting-away-your-laundry excuse if he caught her doing so. She felt around the neatly stacked but sparse clothing, socks, handkerchiefs, belts, pajamas and underwear in the dresser drawers, finding no new clues. On top of the dresser sat a magnifying glass and an electric clock-radio, the alarm hand set for 6:00, presumably his morning wake-up call. Good for her to know.

In the closet hung a dress shirt, casual shirts, trousers, work clothes and one suit. She checked all pockets, discovering only a wadded Kleenex, a pocket comb and some coins. The room had no wall decorations, framed photos, books, magazines or jewelry. Not even a jar of pennies or something under the bed, where one could usually count on a stray sock.

Looking around to see if she’d missed anything, she realized she’d forgotten the second night stand. While dusting the lamp and shade, she inched the drawer open. Inside lay a framed photograph of two little boys, a different background and grainier, but unquestionably the same serious-faced boys pictured in the hatbox downstairs. He must be one of the two, but which? She recalled before-and-after photos of missing children on milk cartons where artists projected their appearance today. Would adding years to one of these little faces equal the man across the hall?

Her time was running out! She scrutinized the faded photograph again, grabbed the magnifying glass from the dresser, turned on the night table lamp and studied the picture under the light.

The photo captured two unhappy boys sitting on a high-backed wooden bench, their hands in their laps except for the older boy’s left arm placed protectively around the younger one’s shoulder. Unhappy or frightened, stunned or resigned, strain showed in their eyes. Jennifer searched for any obvious identifier—a birth mark, a scar, a deformity— to compare against her captor. And do it fast, for if he appeared at the door and found her like this, she was toast!

Her eyes moved to their hands. Closing in with the magnifying glass brought two surprising discoveries. The fingers hung loose on the bigger boy’s left hand draped over the smaller boy’s shoulder, but she saw only three fingers and a thumb. Was his little finger folded up behind his hand? She tried folding her own little finger back, but her adjacent finger curled also. Unlike her simulation, the boy’s fingers lay relaxed. He had no little finger! Next, she looked at the smaller boy’s hands, spread open on his knees. On his left hand she saw a dark line several inches long. A scar, the scab of a burn from a metal rod or a birth mark? Each boy’s left hand! So if she glimpsed her captor’s left hand, she’d know!

Something else about the photo stirred in the back of her mind. Pushing the magnifying glass closer, she searched for background details, seeking something familiar. But what? Then she saw it and focused the magnifying glass. Behind the boys was a v-shaped nick in the bench’s top board. These boys huddled on the bench in the confinement box, the very same box where the boys’ mother had been imprisoned, according to the hatbox letter! And Tina. And Jennifer herself.

And who knew how many others?

No sooner did she stuff the photo back into the drawer and turn off the lamp than the man abruptly appeared at the door. Holding her breath, she covered the magnifying glass with her cleaning rag and continued laboriously dusting the lamp and table top. Turning, she appeared to dust the dresser, slipping the magnifying glass subtly from the cloth back onto the dresser as she moved past.

“Finished, Sir!” she said, looking not at his face but carefully at his hands, both thrust deep into his trouser pockets.

Her mind reeled. What if this ended her tasks? Should she stall for time? Had she idiotically misread the situation by thinking swift efficiency would earn more work when cleaning fast actually lessened the time he’d need a servant? Moreover, given the remote chance he allowed her to clean the whole house, if not already dispensable, she would be then!

He glanced around the room then jerked his head, “Follow me!” The man snapped his fingers, causing the dog to follow them so closely that she felt its hot animal breath against the back of her slacks as they moved along the hallway.

Jennifer tried to prepare herself for any eventuality: to clean another room, to desperately run for her life, to grab any object and aggressively defend herself? She simply had no idea what to expect next…