28

Bouchard tried the door and was surprised to find it unlocked. She entered the house and found herself in complete bedlam. The place looked like a supermarket after an earthquake; dishes, utensils, and trash were interspersed with sundry canned goods and processed foods. The sink overflowed, and she was certain that she saw the surface of several dishes move.

She turned right and entered a large room with a fireplace centered in the far wall. The furnishings were past due at the local landfill—the coverings torn, worn, and their insides open to the eye. She turned around and saw a staircase on the right.

Bouchard slowly climbed the stairs as she tried to avoid any creaking steps. She saw several doors and opened the first she came to. In a huge canopy bed that had once been elegant lay a diminutive old woman. Bouchard approached and said, “Hello.” There was no response from the woman. She lay unmoving, her eyes open but seeing nothing. A thin line of spittle trickled down her chin. Without thought, Bouchard took a tissue from the box on the nightstand and wiped the old lady’s chin. A quick inspection told her that the woman was alive, yet she was not alive.

“Advanced Alzheimer’s,” Bouchard whispered.

She turned, and through the old woman’s door she saw another door across the hall—this one secured with a large padlock. She walked to it, lifted the lock, and looked at it. Her heart leapt when a voice from inside said, “Who’s there?”

“Cheryl?”

“Who are you, and how do you know my name?”

“My name is Anne Bouchard. I’m a private investigator. Your grandparents hired me to find you.”

“Anne or whoever you are, you need to get out of here now! He’s crazy.”

“I’m not going to go without you. I’ll find something to get this lock off with.”

She turned and inhaled sharply when she saw Fischer standing at the top of the stairs. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he said.

He punched Bouchard, driving her head into the doorjamb.

_________________

Willard stood in the doorway of her room. “I got a job for you.”

She knew better than to ask questions. She got up from her bed and followed him out of the room. Cheryl had gained an appreciation for the smaller things in life—for instance, he had let her keep the clothes she had worn on the charter.

He stopped beside the room that had once been Monique’s prison and took his ever-present key ring out of his pocket. Once the padlock on the door was open, he pushed her through. When Cheryl saw the condition of the naked woman that he had shackled to the bed in the same manner he had done to her, it brought back vivid images of her own first week in captivity. Then she remembered how Monique had said, “Now that he has you, he’ll take me to the factory.” Cheryl closed her eyes. Was he planning to replace her?

The woman tossed and groaned, reminding Cheryl of her struggle with addiction. This woman, however, was not in the thralls of drug withdrawal; she had been brutally beaten. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Nurse her until she’s better.”

Rather than scaring her, realizing the precariousness of her situation angered her. “What happens to me once I do that?”

He stepped back and looked at her with a furrowed brow. She was not sure if he was angry or surprised by her standing up to him.

Reluctant to give up her advantage over him, Cheryl pushed on. “Well? Answer me.”

“Nothing.”

“Does bringing her here mean that you are no longer interested in marrying me?” She turned on him, pushing her face toward his, her anger under control.

He gathered his composure and grabbed her by the arms. She felt tears well up in her eyes as he increased the power of his grip, hurting her.

“I said that nothing was going to happen to you!”

Cheryl tried another approach. “But you can only have one wife!”

“You don’t know your Bible, do you? When Sarah couldn’t give Abraham a son, she gave him her maid Hagar as a wife. So he had more than one wife, as did Isaac and Esau. King David and King Solomon each had more than one hundred. If God let them, why can’t I?”

“What if I object?”

When he turned away from her, his tone didn’t support the certainty in his words. “You won’t. Now get to work.”

Once he had walked out of the room, Cheryl walked to the bed and studied its repulsive condition. She realized that mere weeks—or was it months—before, she was just like this woman. She turned and started for the bathroom to get some towels, soap, a washcloth, and warm water but stopped short when she heard him talking in a low voice. “She shouldn’t talk to me that way . . . only mums should talk like that.”

She was surprised. He sounded like a small boy muttering under his breath after his mother had chastised him. Was he intimidated by strong, assertive women? If so, how could she use it as a weapon against him?

Suddenly his form filled the door. “Where you going?” He seemed to be back in his usual frame of mind.

“You said for me to nurse her. I need to wash the blood off her face and head.”

He stepped aside, allowing her to pass. “You try anything, and you know what’ll happen.”

She turned and confronted him. “I’m reminded often enough.”

He slapped her. The sound seemed explosive in the dark hall. As quickly as he had become enraged, he became timid; his head cocked as if he were listening for something. Cheryl stood before him, her hand against her cheek. She was still defiant and said, “Don’t worry, she can’t hear you. In fact, even if she could, she’d have no idea what it was.”

He spun on her, his fist cocked. “You’re going to regret your disrespectfulness! A woman should obey her husband. Now get what you need and go to work.”

Cheryl filled a plastic basin with warm water and returned to the room. He stopped her at the door and lifted the towel and washcloth she had draped over her right forearm. He lifted the soap in the basin, and water dripped from his hand as he inspected it. She laughed at him. “What’s the problem, husband dear? You afraid your wife may get her hands on a razor blade and cut your goddamned throat?”

He dropped the soap into the water, and his head snapped up. “You watch your mouth.”

“And if I don’t, you’ll kill me? You’re going to do that anyway . . . it’s only a matter of when.” Cheryl realized that as foolhardy as it was to confront him, it felt wonderful to stand her ground against her captor. “At this point, I might prefer death over a life with you.”