That brought on a vague recollection of Donovan telling me something about a parka. But I wasn’t even sure that had really happened.
I waited until I had had enough of sitting in the bathroom and decided to risk going back into the bedroom. Hand shaking, I unlocked the door and opened it the barest crack.
The room seemed to be empty. Parrish had left a light on. Without leaving the bathroom doorway, I bent to look under the bed-no Parrish. I left the bathroom door open and crept into the room.
The dead bolt on the bedroom door was a double-key type-there was no key in the lock on my side. That didn’t mean Parrish wasn’t still in the room-he could have locked it from this side and kept the key with him. There was a large wardrobe at one end of the room, and I made myself open its doors.
Parrish did not jump out at me. There was no one hiding in the wardrobe. I exhaled in relief.
Clothing hung from hangers-two additional sets of clothing, essentially copies of what I had on. But no parka-though if I’d only imagined Donovan mentioning the word to me, it was an odd thing to have dreamed up on my own. No, I believed in that memory. He’d said something about a parka, and said it several times. Unfortunately, when I tried to put that particular puzzle together, there were way too many missing pieces.
A duffel bag sat next to my shoes on the bottom shelf. They looked as if they had been cleaned, which struck me as odd. At least they were my own shoes. They had laces. I wondered if the laces were strong enough to allow me to hang myself if things got really bad.
I hated the thought as soon as it occurred to me, but what came to mind next were horrific images I had seen not many years before-photographs Parrish had taken of one of his tortured victims. Perhaps now was the time to deny Parrish what must seem to him like a long-promised treat. Do it now, while I had the strength and freedom of movement to carry it out.
I shook myself, like a dog throwing off water. Fear was one thing, despair another.
I opened the duffel bag and saw some socks and underwear inside, including a set of long underwear. I was momentarily creeped out by the idea of wearing underwear someone else had picked out for me, then decided that, on the long list of things I should be getting upset about, that one didn’t rank very high. A pair of winter gloves were at the bottom of the bag. So given that and the possibility of the parka, there were obviously plans that I would be taken outside at some point, and not as a corpse. At least, not to begin with.
As I thought again about the parka, a memory came to me, of Donovan saying not to let “them” take the parka from me.
Them.
More than one.
Of course. I knew Parrish had had help with his prison escape. Was Kai Loudon here? Had Donovan been the ambulance driver?
But the word “them” suggested an otherness. Was Donovan saying he was not part of what was going on here? What was going on here?
Thinking of Donovan only made me feel more confused. I felt furious with him for tricking me, drugging me, bringing me here, and… participating in whatever might have happened after that. But somehow, perhaps with the help of the drug, he had managed to plant the suggestion that he was not allied with Parrish.
How could that be true? He damned well was a part of it.
I rubbed my aching head and went back to work on my search.
The room was windowless, something that would have made my claustrophobia raise my level of anxiety if it could have gone any higher.
I told myself that the last time someone had kept me captive in a small room, I had been in far worse shape and wasn’t given the dignity of access to an actual bathroom.
Even with that stretch for optimism, I couldn’t reach it, and for a few moments I struggled not to get flat-out hysterical.
You can fall apart later.
The only way I could keep that promise to myself was to live. So I went back into the bathroom, washed my face, took a few deep, slow breaths, and decided to get on with exploring my little prison.
The door to the bathroom also had a double lock. That meant that I could be locked out of the bathroom but also that I could prevent entry into the bedroom from the bathroom-at least as long as the door held.
I moved toward the door at the far side of the bathroom and turned the lock tab on the knob. That didn’t mean I could open it, if it was designed like the lock on the other bathroom door. I took a deep breath and tried the knob. It turned in my hand. Unlocked. I carefully released it without opening the door.
If Nick Parrish was on the other side, I sure as hell didn’t want to open it. And he would never be so careless as to leave me in an unlocked room. My next thought was that anyone could make a mistake, so maybe this was my chance to get the hell away.
I shut off the lights in my room and the bathroom, except for the night-light, let my eyes grow accustomed to the darkness again, then placed myself in a position that would allow me to slam the door shut again if need be. I cautiously opened it a few inches.
Except for a soft glow coming from the dimmed display of a clock radio, the room was dark. I waited, listened, then turned the bathroom light on again.
Although it was slightly larger than my room, this one was also windowless. Some part of my mind noted a comfortable looking chair, a dresser, a throw rug-even that the clock radio said it was 4:11 A.M. But most of my attention was drawn across the room, to a frail woman who lay on a hospital bed. Her hair was dark and straight, and I thought she might be in her mid-forties, or maybe a little younger.
Her blue eyes were open, staring upward.
I moved to the side of the bed, until she could see me clearly.
“Violet Loudon?” I whispered.
She blinked, several times. She paused, and blinked again.
During the second round, I finally realized what I was seeing: Morse code.
“I’m sorry,” I said, still keeping my voice to a whisper. “Would you repeat that?”
This time, the answer was clear:
– .-… -…-…- -
Yes, I am.
“I’m Irene,” I said.
Yes, I know.
There was a pause, then she spoke again to me, clearly and silently:
Please kill me.
THIRTY-THREE
Although I had contemplated something similar for myself only a few minutes earlier, I said, “I’m sorry, I can’t. I’ll try to get us out of here.”
She blinked again. You are a fool.
Well, nice to meet you, too, I thought but kept it to myself. Still, even that momentary flash of anger felt better than the pure panic I had been experiencing until then.
I tapped into my anger toward Parrish, but I didn’t stay angry at Violet. She had spent several years almost completely paralyzed and utterly subject to the tender mercies of Kai Loudon, so I figured I could cut her some slack. I began to wonder, when her neighbors had said she had been mean to her son, what exactly that meant.
Do not tell them.
She couldn’t have known I was thinking about her neighbors, so I said, “Them? Parrish and your son?”
Yes.
“Don’t tell them you want to die?” I asked, still whispering.
They know that. Not about Morse. Secret.
“You’ve spent years like this and haven’t let anyone know that you can communicate?”
Her mouth formed a lopsided smile, briefly. Anyone? Who did I see? Only women about to die.
“He brought them into your room?”
Bound. Gagged. Doomed.
I straightened and tried to take that in. After a moment, I said, “I can understand keeping secrets from Kai. But why not let the doctors or nurses know?”