Bradshaw walked back from the barn holding up a long dress on a hanger. It looked to be an exact replica of the dress Desdemona had worn in the play. Was this the dress he planned to kill her in? Perhaps he’d smother her with a pillow? That was something she didn’t want to think about. He pressed some buttons on an electronic lock to the side of the front door.
Pressed his injured thumb against the lock. The door clicked open. He carried the dress inside and then, leaving the door ajar, returned without it.
“What is this house?” she asked.
Tyler swept his arm in the direction of the house. “My home. My humble abode. Chez Bradshaw.”
“I see. And is Bradshaw your real name?”
He seemed to take a second or two to think about that before answering. “No. No, it’s not. But it will do for now.”
“You also told me you lived on Stanton Street. Around the corner from me. Not in some country estate.”
“Another semi-fiction. I do keep an apartment in the city but not on Stanton Street. But I spend more time here. I prefer it.”
“And you live here alone?”
“Except for my little brother.” He again smiled his charming smile. “Welcome to our little family. We’ve been looking forward to having you join us.”
Words like cuckoo, nutcase, weirdo and psychotic skittered through Zoe’s mind. This guy was definitely some kind of crazy. Had to be. Exactly what kind of crazy and how close to death she or possibly Tyler might be, Zoe couldn’t begin to guess. It was something only time would tell.
“Can you please take the tape off my feet? I have to go to the bathroom.”
“Madam.” He bowed gallantly. “I will do so gladly once we’re inside. Your wish is my command.”
He picked up her duffel, scooped her up in his arms like a groom carrying his bride over the threshold. They climbed the steps to the front door. He pushed it open with a foot and carried her in. He kicked the door closed behind him. Zoe heard a metallic click. Locked in, she thought.
The interior of the house reflected the exterior. What had once been a large, elegant and expensive mansion still seemed neat but somehow oddly neglected, as if it belonged to another era. Black and white marble floor tiles. A few of the tiles were cracked, others partly covered with what she was sure were genuine antique Persian rugs. Dusty oils by long-dead artists hung from walls covered in dingy William Morris papers. The house felt like an aging movie star, once rich, elegant and successful and still trying hard to maintain the image, but not quite pulling it off. Nevertheless, it did look clean. Zoe wondered if Bradshaw dusted, vacuumed and mopped the floors himself, or whether there was a loyal housekeeper somewhere in residence. The image of the demented Mrs. Danvers from Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca flashed through Zoe’s mind. Sadly, it was beyond ridiculous to imagine the husband and killer of Rebecca, Maxim de Winter, being played by anyone other than a young and beautiful Laurence Olivier. Certainly not by Tyler Bradshaw.
Tyler carried Zoe across the entry hall and then up a sweeping circular stairway to the second floor. Again, she felt like she was in a movie. Rhett Butler carrying Scarlett up a similar flight of stairs at Tara to make love to her as soon as they reached the bedroom. Of course, the original Scarlett wasn’t bruised, battered, tied up with tape and wearing pee-soaked underwear.
At the top of the stairs Bradshaw turned left and walked down a long hallway. At the end, he paused in front of a heavy paneled door with another electronic lock on the left-hand side. Tyler dropped the duffel, and Zoe watched closely and memorized the four-digit code, 0391, as he entered it onto the keypad. He then pressed his wounded thumb on the glass plate at the top. She heard a click identical to the one downstairs. He swung the door open and carried her in. Even though she now knew the numeric code, there’d be no sneaking out of this particular prison. Not unless she could find a way to complete the job of severing his thumb and use it to open the locks of her elegant prison. Assuming, of course, the thumbprint still worked once it had been detached from a living body.
Once inside, Zoe found herself in a spacious bedroom that, unlike the rest of the house, looked like it had been newly furnished. He laid her down on a queen-sized canopy bed covered with a floral spread, with a half-dozen matching pillows at the head. He retrieved the duffel and deposited it on the floor of what appeared to be a large walk-in closet. With the door open Zoe could see dozens of garments hanging from the bar inside. She wondered who they’d belonged to. Sarah Jacobs? Maybe. Or perhaps an assortment of earlier victims. She supposed it was possible he’d bought this particular wardrobe just for her. Which meant he knew her sizes. Which, in turn, would mean he’d been in her apartment before last night. She shivered involuntarily.
Bradshaw tossed the duffel on the floor of the closet and closed the door. Zoe managed to work her way up to a sitting position on the bed to check out the rest of the room. In the far corner she saw an easy chair upholstered in a pattern that complemented the bedspread, a side table and a lamp next to it. An antique or maybe just a very good repro desk made of mahogany or maybe cherry was pushed up against one wall. On top, what looked like the kind of visitors’ book you might find in a New England bed-and-breakfast. A pen had been placed in the spine of the book. Zoe wondered if Bradshaw wanted her to write a remembrance of this adventure. My Amazing Visit With Tyler, or perhaps, I’ve never before experienced such a delightful and thoughtful rape.
On the opposite wall stood a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with hundreds of volumes. Both hardcover and paperback. Some looked old. Some looked new. She supposed reading was how she was meant to amuse herself when she wasn’t busy fulfilling Tyler’s sexual dreams. And to make sure she didn’t get fat and soft lying around reading and perhaps eating bonbons, a treadmill stood in the corner. Presumably, Tyler didn’t like having sex with fat, soft women. Only slender, fit ones like herself. Two large windows curtained in a fabric that matched the bedspread overlooked the rear of the house. Wouldn’t do her any good to break the glass. Even supposing it was breakable. Steel bars blocked exit from either one.
“This will be your room as long as you behave.”
“And if I don’t?”
“We’ll change your quarters to an underground cell beneath the basement. Just a cot, a sink and a toilet. You’ll stay there until you decide that misbehavior doesn’t make any sense. I’m sure you’ll be much happier up here.”
Unless, she thought, the underground cell and the cot depress your libido. “I told you. I have to use the bathroom.”
“Stand up and turn around.”
Zoe did. Bradshaw pulled a knife from his pocket and cut the plastic flex cuffs. “You can take the tape off your feet yourself.”
He put his hands under her armpits, picked her up and deposited her atop an old-fashioned steamer trunk at the foot of the bed where she could unwrap the tape. Once her feet were free she looked up at Bradshaw and weighed the wisdom of kicking him in the groin and making a run for it.
“Don’t try it, you won’t get far,” he said as if reading her mind. She had to be careful not to let her facial expressions reveal her feelings.
“Your bathroom’s in there.” He pointed to a door with an ordinary glass knob and no visible locks.
Zoe went in, closed the door and looked to see if there was some kind of a lock. But, of course, there wasn’t.