“You must be hungry,” he said. “It is almost three-thirty.”
She wondered instantly whether it was three-thirty in the morning or three-thirty in the afternoon, and then she wondered how long he had been standing there, watching her silently.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
There was a faint foreign accent to his speech; she suspected his first language was German. In response to his question, she shook her head from side to side. She was violently hungry, but she dared not eat anything he might offer her.
“Well, then,” he said.
She listened. She could not hear him breathing. She did not know whether he had left the room or not. She waited.
“I will have something to eat,” he said.
Again there was silence. Not a board creaked, not a footfall sounded. She assumed he had left the room, but she did not know for certain. In a while she smelled the aroma of coffee perking. She listened more intently, detected sounds she associated with bacon crisping in a pan, heard a click that might have been a toaster popping, and then a sound she identified positively as that of a refrigerator door being opened and then closed again not a moment later. There was another click, and then a hum, and then a man’s voice saying, “… in the low thirties, dropping to below freezing tonight. The present temperature here on Hall Avenue is thirty-four degrees.” There was a brief, static-riddled pause, and then the sound of canned music, and then another click that cut off the music abruptly — he had apparently been hoping to catch the three-thirty news report, had only got the last few seconds of it, and had now turned off the radio. From the kitchen (she assumed it was the kitchen), she heard the sound of cutlery clinking against china. He was eating. She suddenly became furious with him. Struggling against her bonds, she tried to twist free of them. The air in the room was stale, and the cooking smells from the kitchen, so tantalizing a few minutes before, now began to sicken her. She warned herself against becoming nauseated; she did not want to choke on her own vomit. She heard dishes clattering in the kitchen; he was cleaning up after himself. There, yes, the sound of water running. She waited, certain he would come into the room again.
She did not hear his approach. She assumed that he walked lightly and that the apartment or the house or the hotel suite (or whatever it was) had thickly carpeted floors. Again, she did not know how long he’d been standing there. She had heard the water being turned off, and then silence, and now, suddenly, his voice again.
“Are you sure you are not hungry? Well, you will be hungry sooner or later,” he said.
She visualized a smile on his face. She hated him intensely, and could think only that Bert would kill him when he found them. Bert would draw his revolver and shoot the man dead. Lying on her back sightless and speechless, she drew strength from the knowledge that bert would kill him. But she could not stop trembling because his unseen presence frightened her, and she did not know what he might do next, and she could remember the fanatic intensity in those blue eyes above the green surgical mask, and the speed with which he had crossed the room and put the scalpel to her throat. She kept listening for his breathing. His silence was almost supernatural, he appeared and disappeared as soundlessly as a vampire. Was he still there watching her? Or had he left the room again?
“Would you like to talk?” he said.
She was ready to shake her head; the last thing on earth she wanted was to talk to him. But she realized that he would have to remove the gag it he expected her to speak, and once her mouth was free…
She nodded.
“If you plan to scream…” he said, and let the warning dangle.
She shook her head in a vigorous lie; she planned to scream the moment he took off the gag.
“I still have the scalpel,” he said. “Feel?” he said, and put the cold blade against her cheek. The touch was sudden and unexpected, and she twisted her head away sharply, but he followed her with the blade, laying it flat against her cheek and saying again, “Feel?”
She nodded.
“I do not want to cut you, Augusta. It would be a pity to cut you.”
He knew her name.
“Do you understand, Augusta? I’m going to remove the tape from your mouth now, I’m going to allow you to speak. But if you scream, Augusta, I will use the scalpel not only on the tape but on you as well. Is that clear?”
She nodded.
“I hope that is clear, Augusta. Sincerely, I do not want to cut you.”
She nodded again.
“Very well, then. But please remember, yes?”
She felt the scalpel sliding under the gag. He twisted the blade and she heard the tape tearing, and suddenly the pressure on her mouth was gone, the tape was cut through, he was ripping the ends of it loose. As he lifted her head and pulled the remainder of the tape free, she spat out the cotton wad that had been in her mouth.
“Now, do not scream,” he said. “Here. Feel the blade,” he said, and put it against her throat. “That is so you will not scream, Augusta.”
“I won’t scream,” she said very softly.
“Ah,” he said. “That is the first time I hear your voice. It is a lovely voice, Augusta. As lovely as I knew it would be.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Ah,” he said.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “My husband’s a policeman, do you know that?”
“Yes, I know.”
“A detective.”
“I know.”
“Do you know what happens when a cop or his family is injured or threatened or…?”
“Yes, I can imagine. Augusta, you are raising your voice,” he chided, and she felt him increase the pressure against her throat, moving his hand so that it and not the scalpel exerted the force, but the gesture nonetheless threatening in that she knew what was in his hand, and knew how sharp the instrument was — it had sliced through the tape with a simple twist of the blade.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t realize…”
“Yes, you must be more calm.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes,” he said. “Augusta, I know your husband is a detective, that is what it said in the newspaper article announcing your wedding. Detective Third/Grade Bertram A. Kling. That is his name, is it not?”
“Yes,” Augusta said.
“Yes. Bertram A. Kling. I was very distressed when I read that in the newspaper, Augusta. That was in October, do you remember?”
“Yes,” she said.
“October the fifth. It said you were to be wed the following month. To this man Bertram A. Kling. This policeman. This detective. I was very distressed. I did not know what to do, Augusta. It took me a long while to understand what I must do. Even to yesterday morning, I was not sure I would do it. And then, at the church, I knew it was right what I wished to do. And now you are here. With me. Now you are going to be mine,” he said, and she suddenly realized he was insane.
He was sitting just inside the door.
Augusta had heard him entering the room some ten minutes ago. He had not said anything in all that time, but she knew he was sitting there, watching her. When his voice came, it startled her.
“Your husband has blond hair,” he said.
She nodded. She could not answer him because he had replaced the gag the moment they’d concluded their earlier conversation, though he had not bothered to stuff anything into her mouth this time, had only wrapped the thick adhesive tape tightly across it and around the back of her head. That had been sometime after three-thirty; he had mentioned the time to her. She was ravenously hungry now, and knew she would accept food if he offered it to her. She made a sound deep in her throat to let him know she wished him to remove the gag again. He either did not hear her or pretended not to.