“Cops have guns,” I pointed out.
“And those things can take a bullet to the heart and survive it.”
Was he insane?
“That’s crazy,” I scoffed.
Suddenly, his face was an inch from mine.
But he didn’t move.
Or I didn’t see him move.
Even so, there he was.
Right there.
I sucked in a breath.
He spoke.
“You need to take a breath. That doesn’t work, you need to take another one. Then you need to feel it. Feel it. And you know exactly what I’m talkin’ about. When you feel it, you’ll know this shit isn’t crazy. This shit is something else. I don’t know what the fuck it is. I just know you’re not gonna get dead because of it, seein’ as I’ve waited three lifetimes for you, and now that I’ve got you, I’m keepin’ you.”
I stared into his eyes, unblinking, not speaking, my heart racing, his words freaking…me…out.
“I’m gonna go,” he finished. “You shower. I want their stench gone by the time I get back.”
Then he did just that. He went, pulling the big steel door open like it was made of flimsy plywood and slamming it behind him.
I stared at the door.
I’ve waited three lifetimes for you.
What did that mean?
I’m keepin’ you.
I knew what that meant and I didn’t like it one bit.
Then it hit me that I was sitting on an unmade bed in the basement room occupied by a crazy, murderous man who could move as fast as lightning and tear apart humans and animals in the blink of an eye.
That was when I burst from the bed and ran to the door.
I pulled on it, putting all my weight into it, but it didn’t budge.
“Shit,” I hissed and tried again.
No go.
“Goddamn it!” I yelled and whirled, taking in the room.
It was not small, not large. It had cement floors. Down one wall, in the far corner, I could see a shower cordoned off by glass block. No shower curtain. Next to that, a swaybacked, claw-foot tub, which, if I wasn’t in my current circumstances, I would have thought was pretty cool. On either side of that, against the wall, narrow wire shelves holding towels and toiletries, not many of either, most of the shelves bare. A sink next to that, exposed piping under it, a utilitarian medicine cabinet over it. Next to that, glass block walls on both sides of a toilet. No door. No privacy. He either lived alone or his company didn’t mind sharing a variety of intimacies.
I turned and saw stacked milk crates lining another wall, most of them with the openings pointed out, the top ones with the openings facing the ceiling. Jeans, sweaters, tees, boots, running shoes, Henleys, thermals, all stuffed into the ones on their sides, a passing try at folding them—a poor passing try. Belts, socks, underwear shoved into the ones on top.
I looked across the way and saw a small kitchenette against the wall opposite the bathroom area. Not much counter space and what there was was taken up with a coffeemaker, a toaster, a microwave, and a dish drainer. Clean dishes in the drainer. Shelves over the sink with food and a variety of mismatched tableware. An old, bulbous-fronted, white fridge to one side, a narrow stove to the other.
Beyond that, two wooden hutches, their front door handles linked with chain and locked with padlocks. Secrets behind those doors, and in my current situation, I wasn’t a big fan of secrets.
On the opposite wall to the milk crates, the bed I was on, shoved against the wall. Iron. Old. Unattractive. Though, the mattresses were good. The sheets light blue. The comforter rust colored. Lots of pillows. A standing lamp at the headboard, a nightstand beside it.
By the kitchenette, an ugly, old, round metal table with three chairs, none of them matching.
Rounding this out, a comfortable-looking-but-nevertheless-ratty armchair, a small round table beside it, a standing lamp next to the table, and sitting dead center in the room, the lamp’s plug attached to an extension cord that snaked to the wall. A trip hazard if there ever was one.
But whatever. I wasn’t going to be around long enough to trip.
I scanned the space and noted there were no rock concert posters on the walls. No calendars depicting Camaros or scantily clad babes draped over Porsches. No racks filled with weapons. No insane manifestos written in precise, tiny handwriting on every inch of wall. All of this how I would guess that guy would decorate.
There also weren’t any books. No stereo. No CDs. Not even a TV.
But there were two long, narrow garden-level windows, bars on the inside, blacked out.
If I was correct, these windows faced the street.
It was late; it had to be after one in the morning.
But I had to try.
I ran to the kitchenette, heaved myself up to my knees on the counter, and reached to the window.
I tried to find a latch to open it, but there wasn’t one. I looked to the other and saw it didn’t have one either.
Foiled again!
Not giving up, I commenced pounding on it and shouting, “Help! Help! I’m held captive in here! Basement room off the alley under the Dumpster! If you can hear me, please help me! Call the police! My name is Delilah Johnson! Help me! Please!”
I kept pounding and shouting and heard nothing. I did this for a while, until my voice started to get scratchy and my hand began to hurt.
I kept doing it until I heard the door behind me start to scrape open.
I stopped pounding and shouting, jumped from the countertop, and frantically searched around me. I pulled open a drawer in one of the two cabinets on either side of the sink and grabbed a steak knife.
It wasn’t much, but it was something.
I whirled toward the door and froze when I saw who was walking in.