Page 46 of A Talent for Murder

Twenty minutes passed. Most of the passersby didn’t give Ethan a second look, but one old woman stared at him a little as she shuffled down the street using a cane. He stared back until she looked away. His mind, as it always did and always had, conjured up a sudden image. In this one he ripped the cane out of the woman’s gnarled hands and pushed its rubber tip down her throat, pinning her to the ground until she choked. The image spread through him like a shot of whiskey and he was calm again, thinking about Lily and how long she was going to sit on that fucking bench.

When she eventually stood up, he thought she might turn to her right—it was where most of the town’s parking spots were located—but instead she began walking away from town, cutting down a side street. Ethan lost sight of her. He got out of the car and crossed Main Street, then turned down the side street Lily had taken. She was up ahead, walking with purpose. It was a short street and Ethan could see that it ended at the road he’d taken to get to the town center after passing by the Kintner household. She was walking home.

He walked briskly back to the Kia, marveling again at his luck. Part of him wondered if he should just run her down in the street, make her a victim of a hit-and-run. But, no, he did want to spend some time with her in Tohickon before killing her. He felt he deserved that, like buying a painting he couldn’t quite afford as a special treat.

Chapter25

I had a faint memory of being walked through a cool misty night, my legs like jelly, a strong arm around my waist. Then there was a house that smelled of mildew and rot and there was a staircase that led down and then I was on some sort of cot and everything went dark again.

When I woke and opened my eyes I was on my side, staring at a wall that had been painted maroon. My body hurt and my mouth felt as though it were coated in glue. I didn’t know where I was, but I remembered who had taken me there. I was surprised to find myself alive.

Moving my head made my stomach lurch and bile rise up in the back of my throat. I stayed still a little longer, until the feeling passed. I blinked rapidly because my eyes were dry, then I tried slight movements with my limbs, assessing my situation. I was still in the clothes I’d been wearing when I’d been on my walk: my green corduroys and white Irish sweater, plus my windbreaker, zipped almost all the way up to my throat. I could feel the zipper teeth against my neck. I moved my toes and my feet and could tell that my shoes were still on. There was another sensation as well, something cold and sharp around my right ankle, which meant I was most likely chained to the bed, or to the wall. I took deep breaths, in through my nose and out through my mouth, and then swiveled my head around a little more. The nausea had mostly passed, and now I was aware of how much my head and neck ached. I stretched my body out, listening to the crackle and pop of my back, then turned over onto my back, the cuff around my ankle cutting into my skin.

“You’re awake,” came a voice from a few feet away, and I was startled, only because I had felt that I was alone in whatever room this was. I turned my head to look at Ethan, sitting on a wooden chair about five feet away. The room spun some more and I squeezed my eyes shut.

“There’s a bucket right below you if you need to throw up,” Ethan said. “Or just go ahead and throw up on yourself if you’d like. I don’t care.”

I opened my eyes and the room stayed still. Ethan was sitting cross-legged, wearing dark jeans and a black hoodie. He had a to-go cup of coffee in his right hand that rested on his knee. There was another cup of coffee down by his feet.

“How do you feel?” he said, as though we were old friends, like maybe I’d had too much to drink at his house the night before and crashed in his guest room.

“Nauseous,” I said.

“Yeah, well, I hit you with a tranq dart. Do you remember that?”

“Yes.”

“I’m surprised it didn’t kill you, that dosage, but I’m glad you’re still with us. It’s nice to see you again, Lily.”

I closed my eyes, wondering if I should just keep them that way. I didn’t particularly feel prepared for a genial conversation with Ethan. But something told me it was an opportunity, so I said, “Is that coffee for me?” Then I opened my eyes again.

“This one?” He looked down at the coffee on the floor. “It is, if you’re up for it.”

“Got any Advil as well?”

“That I don’t have, I’m afraid. Depending on how long I keep you here, though, maybe I can get some next time I’m out.”

“That would be swell.”

“Are you up for the coffee now?” He bent down and put his hand around the cup. It was one of those generic Greek diner to-go cups adorned with the words we are happy to serve you.

“Let me see,” I said, and swung my legs off the side of the cot, sitting upright, the room swimming. I spied the bucket on the floor and picked it up. I retched a little, but nothing came up. Still, I held on to it, and looked at the room we were in. It was a finished basement that looked as though no one had lived there in about ten years. There were patches of black mildew along one wall and the drop ceiling was covered with a network of water stains. But the electricity was working, two fluorescent lights filling the room with a sickly white light. I held on to the bucket—a small metal trash bin, really—and wondered if throwing it at Ethan would be a good idea. But if I was going to get out of this, it wasn’t going to be through fighting my way out.

“I think it was a man cave of some kind,” Ethan said, his head swiveling, and I was confused for a moment, before I realized he was talking about the basement. I looked where he was looking and saw a bar area backed by an enormous mirror, engraved with the logo of the Philadelphia Eagles. “Can you imagine being a suburban husband who has to create a subterranean space to get away from his wife and kids?”

“Can you imagine being a serial killer?” I said.

Ethan lit up like I’d just told him how good he looked for his age. “Oh, I knew there was a reason I kept you alive,” he said.

“Whose house is this?”

“It’s mine. I own it, even though the name on the deed is Brad Anderson. There are no other houses around, not for at least a half a mile. I’m just telling you this so you don’t get ideas about escaping or screaming your lungs out down here. You’re at my mercy. The sooner you realize that, the better we’ll get along.”

I looked down at the chain that was shackled to my leg. It was hard to tell from the angle, but it looked as though it was about five feet along and it was secured to some kind of bracket screwed into the floor. Next to the bracket was a bedpan.

“Do you need to go?” Ethan said. “I can leave for a moment if you’d like me to.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “How long are you planning on keeping me here?”

---