A shiver ran down Jenna’s spine. “Only to end up in the hands of a madman.”
Forty-Two
The cold crept in through the cracks in the walls and Ava shivered as she paced barefoot across the creaky wooden floor. An emptiness had replaced the anger raging against Preacher. There was no way out. She had become his prisoner. She smothered a distraught sob. It was as if a void of hopelessness had seeped inside her and set up camp. She glared at the camera. On the other side of the locked door, Preacher would be watching her every move. It was as if his eyes had burned into her skin as she’d taken a shower. She’d bathed wearing her underwear and then dressed hiding under a towel. He hadn’t said a word to her but she could hear him breathing through the speakers. He made her skin crawl.
She’d dried her hair and rubbed the fragrant body lotion he’d supplied into her skin before waiting to be allowed back into the bedroom. This was another new rule. She went into the bathroom and the door locked behind her. When she’d finished, he expected her to ask him to open the door. She had to admit, apart from being his prisoner, Preacher had catered to her needs but now things had changed. Like when she’d first arrived, she’d become a rat in an experiment. Do the deed and get the reward. She’d showered as he’d asked and when she left the bathroom, he’d left a
meal for her.
His rules had been simple enough:
No crying, screaming or hammering on doors.
Keep clean and change clothes daily.
Use the body lotion.
Do not attempt to escape.
All simple rules that guaranteed food and light until she realized he planned to kill her. He’d murdered Zoe, she had no doubt—and was Isabella alive, still locked in the cellar? She hadn’t heard her and Preacher hadn’t mentioned her at all. When his voice came over the speakers, she turned and looked at the camera. He called her Delores again as if in his deluded mind, she was someone else. She refused to allow him to see how miserable she felt and lifted her chin. “What is it now?”
“The tattoos, what meaning do they have to you?” Preacher’s voice was conversational. “Why did you select those designs?”
Ava wrinkled her nose and turned away. She didn’t want to cooperate but if she planned to survive another night, she needed to eat. “They mean different things to me. The poppy on the back of my hand, is to remember a friend who died of a heroin overdose. The bluebird on my shoulder is to remind me of the times I was happy as a kid.”
“Would you like to come and sit in the kitchen with me and tell me about being happy?” Preacher sighed. “I have never had that feeling before and it sounds nice.”
Ava swallowed the fear in her throat. If she could gain his trust, she might be able to escape. He couldn’t stay home all the time and as he’d often provided them with fresh bread, he’d have to make trips to the local store. Heart threatening to leap from her chest, she nodded. “Sure, I’d like that, thank you.”
“Tell me you won’t break my rules.” Preacher sounded excited. “I want you to promise me.”
Ava would do anything to get out of the room. “Sure, I promise.”
Moments later the door opened and Preacher stood there with a Glock sticking out of the belt around his jeans. Ava swallowed hard. Before her stood a tall, lean, but muscular man. She took a hesitant step toward the door but he moved like lightning, clasping her wrist and spinning her back against his chest. His forearm pressed against her windpipe. In sheer panic she squirmed. “What are you doing?”
“I’m being careful.” Preacher’s voice held a smile. “I have knives in the kitchen but they’re for my use only.”
Ava sagged against his chest. She had no chance against him and going along with him might keep her alive for another day. “Okay.”
Panting with fear, she looked around as he walked her backward down a narrow hallway and into a kitchen. The place was rustic, and old mixed with new seemed to be his decorating style of choice. The kitchen was surprisingly clean and somewhere nearby a dryer tumbled clothes. The room smelled of fresh laundry and heat radiated from a wood stove. A large scrubbed wooden table took up most of the room. At one end sat two metal rings with handcuffs attached. Opposite the table a TV screen hung on the wall.
“Sit at the table.” He edged her forward. “I’m going to cuff you so you don’t try to escape and then we’ll talk some.”
Ava tried to keep the tremble out of her voice. “I’m not going to try and escape again. Like you said, I’d die outside in this weather.” She sat and spread her arms wide allowing him to cuff her.
She heard him chuckle and then he showed her a hunting knife. She swallowed the scream threatening to spill out of her mouth and said nothing. If he wanted her terrified, he’d won but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her frightened. She’d read about men like him on a power trip. They fed off fear and she’d die before she cowered before him. “Nice knife. Is it new?”
He answered her by slicing the top of her PJs from wrist to neck and by the time he’d finished she sat in her underwear. Trembling, Ava grit her teeth and looked him straight in the eye. “I thought you didn’t want me for sex?”
“I don’t. I want to admire your skin is all.” Preacher bent and sniffed her then traced her poppy tattoo with his tongue. He lifted his gaze and stared at her, his face only a few inches away from hers. “I’m saving you for something special.”
Ice-cold fingers of terror walked down Ava’s spine. He was so close she could smell what he’d eaten for breakfast. She didn’t turn her head away. He’d said that to scare her and was waiting for her to react. She’d studied criminal psychology for a year before dropping out and remembered reading something about not being able to reason with a psychopath. I must think about every word I say. This guy was beyond creepy and his dead eyes held not one ounce of compassion. To him she’d become someone he could dominate—an object. She wanted to pull away, struggle and cry out, but that’s what he’d expect from her.
She swallowed hard. In the past, she’d been able to talk her way out of bad situations and now would be no different. “That sounds like fun.” She stared into his eyes. “I see you like my ink? Do you have any tattoos?”
“No.” Preacher sat down beside her and looked at his hands as if stymied by her reply. “I just like them for my art.”
The image of Zoe’s pale hand slid into her mind and realization swamped Ava in a tsunami of horror. Her knees shook and she squeezed her legs together. “I love art. How did you get started?”