The captive women in the hallway glanced furtively at Naomi as they shuffled in silence toward the living room in the strange house. Their eyes were dark and hollow. Some of them didn’t wear makeup anymore and their appearance frightened Naomi. It was getting worse every day, ever since Kate McTiernan had managed to escape somehow.
Casanova had brought a new girl to the house. Anna Miller. Anna was breaking the house rules, just as Kate McTiernan had done. Naomi had heard the woman’s cries for help and Casanova might have heard them, too. It was difficult to figure out when he would be away. He kept very odd hours.
Lately, Casanova was leaving them without any contact for longer and longer periods. He wasn’t going to let them go. That was one of his lies. Naomi knew it was getting dangerous for all the women.
Naomi sensed something desperate in the air. She could hear cries of alarm up ahead, and she tried to calm her own mounting fears and panic. She had lived in the projects of Washington. She’d seen horror before. Two of her friends had been murdered by the time she was sixteen.
Then she heard him. His voice was strange and high-pitched. He was a madman. “Come right in, ladies. Don’t be shy. Don’t stop in the doorway! Come in, come in. Join the party, the swinging soiree.”
Casanova was yelling above the testosterone rock ’n’ roll that blared through the halls. Naomi closed her eyes for a brief moment. She tried to collect herself. I don’t want to see this, whatever it is, but I have to.
She finally entered the room. Her body began to shake. What she saw was worse than anything she remembered from the projects. She had to push her fist into her mouth to keep from screaming out.
A long, slender body twirled in lazy circles from the ceiling beams. The woman was naked except for silver-blue stockings running up her long legs. A blue high-heeled shoe dangled from one foot. The other shoe had dropped to the floor and lay on its side.
The girl’s lips were already purplish-blue, and her tongue protruded sideways from them. The eyes were stretched wide with terror and pain. It must be Anna, Naomi thought. A girl had been calling out for help. She’d broken the house rules. She said her name was Anna Miller. Poor Anna. Whoever you were before he kidnapped you.
Casanova turned off the music and spoke calmly from behind his mask; he talked as if nothing much had happened. “Her name is Anna Miller, and she did this to herself. Do you all understand what I’m saying? She was plotting through the walls, talking about escaping. There is no escape from here!”
Naomi shuddered. No, there is no escape from hell, she thought. She looked at Green Eyes and nodded her head. Yes, they had to take a chance, and soon.
CHAPTER 77
THE GENTLEMAN stopped to play the game in Stoneman Lake, Arizona. It was a beautiful morning for it. It was crisp and cool and the smell of a wood fire was in the air.
He was parked in woods among the boulders, just off the rural road. No one could see him. He sat there and thought about the way this should go down as he watched a cozy, white-shingled family house through hooded lids. He could actually feel the beast taking over. The transformation. The strange passion that accompanied it. Jekyll and Hyde.
He saw a man leave the house and get into a silver Ford Aerostar. The husband seemed in a hurry, probably late for work. The wife was alone now, maybe still in bed. Her name was Juliette Montgomery.
At a little past eight, he carried an empty gas container up to the house. If anybody happened to see him, no problem. He needed fuel for his rented car.
No one saw him. Probably nobody around for miles.
The Gentleman climbed the front porch steps. He paused for a moment, then gently turned the doorknob. He found it amazing that people didn’t lock their doors in Stoneman Lake.
God, he loved this… lived for it… his times as Mr. Hyde.
Juliette was making breakfast for herself. He could hear her half humming, half singing as he made his way across the living room. The aroma and the crackling sound of bacon frying made him think of his family’s house in Asheville.
His father had been the original gentleman. Ar
my colonel and proud and arrogant about it. Inflexible asshole who was never pleased about anything his son did. Big fan of the thick leather belt to instill discipline. Liked to scream at the top of his lungs as he beat the shit out of him. Raised the perfect son. High school standout scholar and athlete. Phi Beta Kappa undergrad. High honors in Duke medical school. Human monster.
He watched Juliette Montgomery from the doorway that led into her spotlessly clean kitchen. The window shades were up and the room was flooded with sunlight. She was still singing… an old Jimi Hendrix song called “Castles Made of Sand.” Unexpected tune from the pretty lady.
He loved watching her like this—when she thought she was alone. Singing something she’d probably be embarrassed to in front of him. Carefully laying out her three strips of bacon on a paper towel that came close to matching the beige-and-brown kitchen wallpaper.
Juliette wore a sheer white cottony negligee that fluttered around her thighs as she moved between the stove and table. She was in her mid-twenties. Long dancer’s legs. Nicely tanned. Bare feet on the kitchen linoleum. Auburn hair she’d bothered to brush before coming down to make her breakfast.
A set of knives in a butcher-block holder sat on the counter. He took out the cleaver. The knife made a soft ringing noise as it lightly struck a stainless steel pot on the counter.
She turned at the sound. Very lovely in profile. Freshly scrubbed, radiant. Juliette liked herself, too. He could tell that she did.
“Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”
The words came out in small gasps. Her face was as pale as her negligee.
Now move fast, he told himself.