The First Cut (40 page)

She again spat at him and he backhanded her across the face.

Lisa Shipp’s four limbs were chained to the hospital bed. The top was elevated enough for her to see the room.

The DVD continued to play even though he had finished abusing her for the moment. The remote control was just beyond her reach. He’d moved it from its usual spot in a pocket attached to the side of the bed where she could reach it. He subscribed to all the premium channels. She passed the time mostly watching the news for word of herself and any mindless entertainment she could find. Her story had appeared steadily on the local news until a bigger story blew it off. It probably received more press in the
Daily Breeze,
the South Bay’s local newspaper. The public wasn’t much interested in a missing teacher’s aide, part-time student, and reformed drunk.

Watching television not only helped Lisa pass the time, but also helped her keep track of it. There was only artificial light in the basement. A row of narrow windows near the ceiling were plugged with soundproofing mats sealed with caulking. There was a spot above the piano where the seal was warped. A tiny ray of light shone through. When he left her alone with the longer chain on her ankle, she’d stretched as far as she could but was not able to reach the windows. The chain was long enough to allow her access to the bathroom but everything else was out of reach. The bed was bolted to the floor.

She closed her eyes to try to shut out the DVD. He never tired of watching himself torture the police officer he’d eventually murdered. He reenacted the abuse, demanding she take Frankie’s role, saying Frankie’s words along with the DVD. He slapped and punched her as he had Frankie. Lisa learned what was coming based upon the section of the DVD playing. She’d learned to steel herself, to project her mind elsewhere. She meditated. She visualized. Her favorite visualization was an experience she’d had in Alaska where she’d walked on a glacier. Bright blue water flowed between cracks in the feet-thick ice, rushing clear and cold. That was her pain. That was her fear. Rushing beneath the ice. The bright blue, frigid water doused its sting. Rendered it clean. Swept it away, leaving her mind and soul glacier white and pure.

He’d played the murder DVD over and over. The first time she’d watched it, she’d barely made it to the toilet before getting sick. She tried closing her eyes, but he’d held a gun to her head. Her stomach still roiled at the sight.

“Watch,” he ordered, panting, his eyes wide.

The murder excited him. He relived his rage, jumping around, shouting profanities at the recorded images. Excited him sexually, too. After he was spent, he’d lapse into depression. Curled on the floor in front of the flat screen, he’d cry, “Frankie. I love you, Frankie.”

He now lay beside her, nude and snoring, smelling of booze and sweat. A ring of keys dangled from a length of leather fastened around his neck.

His wife was sitting in a recliner across the room.

Pussycat had pulled her legs to her chest and circled her arms around them. She rested her head against her bent knees. Unlike Lisa, she had not attempted to cover herself. The police officer’s uniform Pussycat had been wearing was crumpled on the floor. He’d had them switch off wearing it, making them both assume Frankie’s role. He was obsessed with Frankie.

When he had brought Pussycat with him that day, Lisa was relieved. She’d feared the woman was dead.

Introducing Pussycat into the mix took his sex games to a new level. Pussycat went through the motions like a robot. He had broken her. Lisa took comfort in the knowledge that she was not broken. She had plenty of life left. She’d decided upon a strategy early. She would not fight him. The longer she stayed alive, the greater the odds that something might happen and she’d escape. The only currency she had was time. When her wits failed, she put herself onto that glacier. Cold, blue water, rushing free and clear.

She had kept her pledge even though wine, spirits, and drugs flowed in that gussied up dungeon. It was tough at first to turn down the booze, but she knew it would get easier. Just say no today. She needed every single one of her wits intact.

That afternoon, he and Pussycat had polished off two bottles of red wine, with him drinking most of it. He made a big deal of swirling it in the glass and holding it to the light, announcing it was a Chateau so-and-so from nineteen something. He’d bought a case at auction. A steal at seven thousand dollars. To Lisa, a drunk was a drunk, no matter if they consumed the finest wine or Thunderbird. She was glad to see him drink though, and drink he did. Now he wasn’t so much asleep as passed out. He’d wake up in a while then leave for the club. She’d have at least twelve hours before he came down again.

Lisa had helped herself to the cheese, fruit, and crackers he’d brought down. He never starved her, but that could change. She looked at Pussycat and wondered if she had enough marbles left to attempt an escape. Watching Pussycat hold herself, staring into space, she had her doubts. Pussycat clearly hadn’t been any use to Frankie. Lisa knew she was on drugs.

Her stare roused Pussycat from her reverie. She met Lisa’s eyes, rubbed her hands down her arms and shivered. Her mouth formed the words “It’s cold.”

Lisa didn’t know if she vocalized them because of the sound that blared from the DVD.

Pussycat stood and put on the police uniform, sitting to roll up the pant legs.

Lisa raised her hand from where it was chained to the top corner of the bed frame. The pillow supporting his head lay across her other arm that was chained to the bed’s opposite corner. Her fingers there had gone numb.

She pointed at the television screen and mouthed “Turn it down.” She pointed in the direction she wanted the volume to go.

Pussycat walked to the bed and grabbed the remote. She took in her husband, made a face, and clicked off the DVD. “He’s out. He’s not going to wake up.” She still kept her voice low.

Lisa whispered, “We have to get out of here. He’s going to kill us.” She couldn’t guess his plans for his wife, but thought it best to scare her.

Pussycat’s eyes welled.

“Go call the police. Do it, before he wakes up.”

“I can’t. He locked us in. What do you think those keys are around his neck? You think I’m sitting here for my health?”

“Didn’t you know I was down here?”

“Of course I knew.”

“Why haven’t you called the police? He’s going to kill you, too. You’re a fool if you think he’s not.”

“Hey, missy, he’s kept me locked up in my rooms upstairs ever since you’ve been here. He nailed the windows shut and took the phones. Please don’t treat me like an idiot. I know he’ll get rid of me, too. He’ll make it look like a suicide. I know him better than you do. He thinks of everything. There’s no hope for us.”

Pussycat broke down. Still mindful of her makeup, she drew her fingertips beneath her eyes, trying to avoid smearing her mascara.

“Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that. As long as we’re alive, there’s hope. We have to hold it together or else we’ll be lost for sure.” Lisa rose onto one elbow, her other arm pinned beneath his head. “Doesn’t he have a phone down here?”

Pussycat walked to a table across the room, reached to the floor, and picked up the end of a phone cord. She waved it at Lisa and hissed, “Of course he has a phone. He took it. I told you, he thinks of everything.”

“No one thinks of everything. There’s no such thing as a perfect crime.”

Lisa looked around and her eyes fell upon his clothes that he’d tossed onto a chair. “Does he carry a cell phone?”

Pussycat’s eyes widened. She went to the chair and rummaged through his clothes pockets, beaming when she produced the prize. She turned it on, both of them wincing while the start up tones played, keeping their eyes on him.

Pussycat’s smile faded when she looked at the display. “No signal. I told you. He thinks of everything. He’s always making lists and keeping track. It’s a game for him. He reads up on the law. Knows what the police can and can’t do. He loves those forensic shows. All that autopsy stuff…” Her face became grim.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“What’s on your mind?”

Pussycat looked away and twirled a lock of hair. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Tell me.” Lisa’s voice was louder than she intended and his snoring stopped.

They both froze and stared at him. After a couple of breaths, the wet sawing resumed.

“I’ll mess you up with him, Pussycat. I swear I will. Don’t screw with me.”

“It’s just…He’s so careful about not leaving evidence. He made Frankie cut and scrub her nails and wash her hair before he killed her. Then when he touched her, he wore a cap over his hair and rubber gloves. He didn’t want to leave any piece of himself behind.”

“That’s why he shaved my pubic hair.”

“I don’t know about that. That’s just his thing.” Pussycat fell silent and bit her lip.

“Okay. So?”

Pussycat sighed. “So, what I’m trying to say is, he always used condoms with Frankie.”

Lisa collapsed onto the bed. He’d never used a condom with her. She knew what it meant. “He left Frankie Lynde’s body in plain sight. That’s why he took pains to remove all traces of himself. But he’s going to make sure no one ever finds a trace of me.”

Lisa started to cry. She’d vowed to stay strong, not to waver, but the thought of her parents and brother waiting for word of her that would never come was overwhelming. At least Frankie Lynde’s family had a body. At least they knew.

Pussycat went to the bed and stroked Lisa’s hair. “Don’t cry, Lisa. Please don’t cry. We’ll figure something out.”

“I wish that gun was loaded. I’d shoot him in the head. I won’t even kill a spider in my house, but I could kill him. I swear to God I could.”

He snorted and his snoring stopped.

The women both stared at each other, eyes wide. After what seemed like eternity, the snoring resumed.

Lisa lay her head back down. Her eyes fell on the remnants of the cheese and crackers on a table across the room. She gasped. “The cheese knife. Go get it. Get it and stab him in the heart.”

Pussycat hesitantly walked to the table.

“Go on!”

She picked up her pace, as if she might lose her nerve. She snatched up the knife from the cutting board.

“It’s not very big.”

“It’s big enough to pierce his heart.”

She inched toward her husband, slowly moving closer until she stood beside him.

His snoring was deep and even. His mouth sagged open and his cheeks had a pink flush.

“You do it,” Pussycat said.

“The chains don’t reach. I could only stab him in the side. It wouldn’t kill him right away. Then we’d be done for. It has to be one stroke. Right through the heart.”

“Okay.”

Lisa held her breath as Pussycat grabbed the knife handle between both hands and raised her arms above his chest. She’d dreamed of this. Planned what she would do if she ever had the chance. The moment was here.

Pussycat wavered as she looked at his face, at the fringe of dark eyelashes. Her hands trembled.

“Do it,” Lisa growled. “You said he was going to kill you.”

Pussycat’s trembling grew worse. She veered from the bed, dropping the knife onto the carpet.

“What’s wrong with you? You’re an idiot.”

Pussycat whirled to face her. “Hey, you’re not the one standing here thinking about stabbing a man in cold blood. He’s still a human being. And be careful who you’re calling an idiot. I’m the only friend you’ve got.”

“Okay. I’m sorry. You’re right. I don’t know if I could do it, either.”

“Damn straight, you don’t know.” Pussycat retrieved the knife from the floor and returned it to the cutting board. “I’m sick of people thinking I’m stupid because of the way I look. Get over it already.”

“I said I’m sorry. I am.”

Pussycat dropped onto the chair.

“Think he’ll wake if we try to get the keys?” Lisa asked.

“Yes.”

“He’s hardly budged the whole time we’ve been talking.”

“Talking is one thing. Touching him is something else. He’s ticklish. Why else do you think he put the keys around his neck?”

“I can cut the leather with the knife.”

“He’ll wake up.”

“Take the phone by the windows. The seal isn’t good there, above the piano. I can see daylight. Maybe you’ll get a signal.”

Pussycat picked up the cell phone, threw her husband’s clothes from the chair, and carried it to the wall. She climbed on top, looked at the phone’s display, and shook her head.

She clawed at the rubber seal around the thick mat, sliding her fingers beneath. She pulled it up and a bright ray of sunlight shone in.

Lisa nearly cried when the light hit her face.

Pussycat took the phone from her pocket, looked at the display, and nodded excitedly. “Three bars.” She punched in 9-1…

Lisa yelped and darted her free hand over his face. The sunlight bathed him as well, right in the eyes. He was stirring.

“Pussycat,” Lisa warned. “The light.”

John Lesley staggered to his feet, and flung himself headlong at his wife, knocking her off the chair and onto the piano. She hit the keys and then the floor, hard. The phone flew across the room. He picked it up and cleared the number she’d started to dial.

“You want to make a call, huh? You want to make a call?”

He ground the phone against the side of her face and mouth, breaking the skin on her lips.

“Make your call. Go ahead.”

He smacked her in the head with it.

She curled into a ball and whimpered, shielding her head with her hands and tucking her elbows tight, warding against a kick.

“And you…” He sprang toward the bed and grabbed Lisa’s throat between his hands. “You put her up to it, didn’t you?”

Lisa writhed against the restraints that bound her wrists and ankles, bowing her body.

“You’re the fucking survivor.” He kept squeezing.

Lisa’s eyes bulged and her face turned purple.

Pussycat tucked her head between her hands against the floor and moaned.

“Keeping her sobriety vows. Praying. I heard you. Where’s your God now, huh?”

Lisa went limp.

Pussycat wailed, the sound feral.