It was then our back door opened. Mother stepped out into the light and beckoned him inside.
Mr. Carter stood there for a moment, glaring at Mother. His face as red as a stop sign, his brow all crunched up and sweaty. His hands were balled in tight fists. At first I thought he would hit her, but he didn’t.
Mother peered over his shoulder, her eyes locking with mine for a moment before turning back to him. “It’s a one-time offer. Now or never.” She twirled a finger around a lock of blond hair, then slid it down the side of her neck, a grin playing at her lips.
“Are you kidding me?”
Mother turned back into the kitchen and nodded. “Come on.”
He watched her disappear through the doorway, then turned back to his wife. “Consider this part one of the lesson. When I’m done here, I’ll be home to teach you part two.” He snorted as if he had made the joke of all jokes, then walked into our house, slamming the door behind him.
Mrs. Carter sobbed.
I was but a boy, and I had no idea how to comfort a crying woman, nor did I have any desire to. Instead, I raced back around the house to Mother’s window and hopped back up on my bucket. I found the room empty.
From somewhere within the house, I heard a horrible scream. It had not come from Mother.
Emory was going to throw up.
The vomit crept up the back of her throat, thick and vile. She choked it down, cringing at the foul aftertaste.
She took a deep breath, the air catching between sobs.
He had cut off her ear! What the fuck? Why —
The answer came to her in an instant, and she drew in another breath so hard and fast that she whistled before coughing out another sob. The tears welled in her eyes and dripped on her knees. She tried to wipe them from her cheeks, but more came, salty and sharp.
She hiccupped between ragged breaths.
Her body shook with violent spasms. Snot dripped from her nose and mixed with her tears. Just when she thought it was over, her mind would flood with a mix of fear, pain, and anger, and the pattern would start again, lessening only a little each time.
When the fit finally ended, when she was able to reel in a breath and keep it, she found herself sitting in utter silence. Her mind was painfully hollow and quiet, her body sore, muscles aching, her face puffy and red. Her fingers brushed over the handcuffs, searching for some kind of release, hoping they weren’t real handcuffs but the kind you buy in a sex shop or a toy store — her friend Laurie had told her about those, how her boyfriend wanted to use them and she said no way, nohow.
There was no release switch, and the band around her wrist was tight; they weren’t coming off without a key. She could try to pick them, but that would mean finding something to pick them with, and that would mean exploring.
Who was she kidding? She had no clue how to pick a lock.
The handcuffs had an abnormally long chain on them too, at least two feet, the kind you find in prison movies where the bad guy’s hands are shackled to his feet and he’s forced to shuffle down some dark hallway. The cuffs were designed to allow some movement but not much.
She knew of the Four Monkey Killer. Everyone in Chicago did, possibly everyone in the entire world. Not just that he was a serial killer, but the way he first tortured his victims before killing them, mailing body parts back to their families. First an ear, then —
Emory’s free hand went to her eyes. The room was dark, but she could still make out faint outlines. He hadn’t touched her eyes.
Not yet. Maybe he’ll have time when he gets back.
Her heart pounded within her chest.
How long before …
She couldn’t think about it. She just couldn’t.
The idea of someone taking out her eyes, taking them out when she was alive.
Your tongue too, dear. Don’t forget about the tongue. He likes to take that third and mail the little stump of flesh back to Mommy and Daddy. You know, right before he finally —
The voice in her head seemed oddly familiar.
You don’t remember me, dear?
Then she knew, just like that, she knew, and anger swirled.
“You’re not my mother,” Emory said, seething. “My mother is dead.”
Christ. She was going crazy. Talking to herself. Was it the shot? What had he given her? Was she hallucinating? Maybe all of this was just some kind of nasty dream, a bad trip. She might be —
You should try to figure the rough patches all out later, dear. When you have more time? Right now I think you should focus on finding a way out of this place. You know, before he gets back. Don’t you agree?
Emory caught herself nodding.
I only want what’s best for you.
“Stop.”
When you’re safe. Until then … this is a tough spot, Em. I can’t write you a note and get you out of this one. This is way worse than the principal.
“Quiet!”
Silence.
The only sound was that of her own breath and the blood pumping at her ear, warm and throbbing under the bandage.
Where your ear used to be, dear.
“Please don’t. Please be quiet —”
Better that you accept it now. Accept it and move on.
Emory lowered her legs over the side of her makeshift bed. The wheels squeaked as the gurney rolled a few inches before scraping against a wall and stopped. When her feet touched the cold concrete, she almost pulled them back up. Not knowing what was beneath her creeped her out, but remaining still while waiting for her captor to return was not an option she was willing to consider. She had to find a way out.
Her eyes fought the darkness, trying to adjust and pull in the smallest bit of light, but there simply wasn’t enough. She raised her hand to her face, and it was barely visible unless she practically touched her nose.
Emory forced herself to stand, ignoring the dizziness swooning through her head and the pain at her ear. She took a deep breath and held the edge of the gurney for balance just below where her handcuffs were attached, standing still until the nausea left her.
It was so dark. Too dark.
What if you fall, dear? What if you try to walk, trip over something, and fall? Are you sure this is wise? Why don’t you sit back down and figure things out. How would that be?
Emory ignored the voice and tentatively reached out, her left hand stretching into the blackness, her fingers groping. When they found nothing, she took a step toward the top of the gurney, toward the wall it rested against. Right hand on the gurney, left hand reaching. One step, then another, then a —
Her fingers found the wall, and she nearly jumped back. The rough surface felt damp and grimy. Cautiously running her hand across the wall, she found a groove and traced the edge with the tip of her finger, following horizontally until she found another groove, this one vertical. The pattern repeated about a foot down.