Once more I awaken to the door opening. Marty’s in a hurry…that means he’s going to work, so it must be morning. Something’s in his hand, but I can’t see what. I hear a clatter of metal and see what he’s got. I feel the coldness of the bedpan against my hip. It disgusts me, but I lift my hips off the metal gurney. He slides the bedpan in underneath me.
I empty my bladder slowly so it dribbles into the bedpan. “I’m finished.”
He dabs me with toilet paper and pulls the bedpan from underneath. He leaves the room but is back within a few seconds. He pulls my head up.
“Orange juice,” he says.
I take a few gulps but it goes down the wrong way and I cough.
“What’s wrong?”
“It just went down the wrong way,” I say between splutters.
He feeds me toast with jam, but I’ve barely finished each mouthful before he’s cramming the piece of toast into my mouth again.
“Too fast,” I say.
“I’m late. They’re waiting on a fingerprint analysis of your apartment.” He smirks.
God, they all still think he’s one of the good guys.
“Josh is particularly anxious for those results. I’m his one and only link to the Bureau now. Poor thing.”
“How is he?” I try not to show how much I care about Josh—that could set Marty off.
“He’s pathetic. He’s nothing without the FBI trimmings. A powerless, weak man. He sits in the living room with photos from the cases spread out around him. Somehow he managed to keep the files. He begs me to help him, to help clear his name.” He laughs. “But like I said, the best is yet to come.”
I turn my head away from the food. “I’ve had enough.”
He pushes the toast against my lips. “One more,” he says, as though I’m a child.
I take another bite.
He leaves the room and I heave a sigh of relief. He’s gone.
But he returns.
He touches my stomach lightly. I stiffen.
His hand lazily runs across my body. There’s no hint that he’s in a hurry now. He runs his fingers over the bandaged cut. It still throbs. He moves to my groin and twirls my pubic hair. I don’t make a sound.
He brings his face up to mine. I look into his eyes and hide my revulsion. His breath is on my face and he kisses me. I don’t fight, but I don’t respond fully either. I don’t know how to play it. Can I stop him again from raping me? Maybe it’s better to get it over with.
He pulls his lips and hand away.
“Shit, I’m late.” And then he’s gone.
I wait five minutes and then let myself cry. I cry and scream, even though I know no one can hear me. God knows what he’s done with Montana and Sargent.
I’ve got to get out of here. If I can just get off this gurney.
Okay. Think, Sophie. Think. I shiver with the cold. The room is cold and the metal gurney feels like ice against my back. I wiggle my toes and hands. I need my strength and I don’t want my foot or leg to go to sleep.
I think about what I know about him. What I can use. I form a list in my head.
He’s meticulous, a health and neat freak.
He’s smart.
He’s been jealous of Josh for years and feels he’s in competition with him.
He thinks he’s in love with me.
He thinks I can love him.
He wants to make it special with me.
He’s clearly delusional.
He’s strong.
I lie on the table and go through these points in my head over and over. I need to push his buttons and escape. What if I went to the toilet, right on the gurney? That would be too messy for him. Surely he’d have to move me. But that could make him angry too. It might make him hurt me or tie my ropes tighter. Or it might mean I never get my arm free again. No, there’s another way, and I have to figure it out by tonight.
I know his routine. He’ll make us dinner again and untie my arm. How can I get him to untie both my arms? I need them both, and preferably a leg too. My legs are stronger than my arms. I wonder if I’m going to have to let him rape me to get my leg free. Could I cope with rape if I knew it might save my life?
I’m not sure how much time has passed when the door opens. I give both my hands and feet another wiggle to make sure they’re not asleep. My heart beats faster. It’s time.
Marty runs his hands along the soles of my feet and up my legs as he walks toward my head. He checks my ropes carefully.
“How was your day?” I ask, hoping to distract him from my bindings.
“Busy. Very busy.” He runs his hand around my breast.
I’ve got nowhere to go. I can’t even shrink any farther into the gurney.
“How is the task force taking my disappearance?”
He smiles. “Rivers is pissed. Josh is the prime suspect. Everything’s pretty much perfect.” He runs his hand through my hair. “I can’t wait to see Josh’s face when he’s accused of murder. Of killing so many women.” He pauses. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes.” My voice is soft. I just want him to stop touching me.
He leaves the room.
I pull on the ropes—maybe they loosened a little when he was checking them. No, they’re still tight. I wiggle my fingers, toes and move my arms and legs as much as I can. I have to be ready. The pit of my stomach feels strange—the adrenaline is kicking in and I’m thankful for the extra energy. I go through my plan, making sure I’ve thought of everything.
He comes back and I can smell the food. The smell both sickens me and hungers me.
“Tonight’s the night,” he says.
I pause. It better go my way, not his. “Yes, it is.”
He unties one of my arms and I reach up toward his face and run my hand along his jaw. He kisses my hand. Then he moves back to the bench and starts dishing out dinner.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Prawn in black-bean sauce, darling.” He comes back with a bowl and fork. “Open up.”
I open my lips and take a mouthful.
“I forgot the wine,” he says. He opens a bottle and pours two glasses. He lifts my head and I prop myself up with my free arm. I take a tiny sip.
“It’s good. Have you tried it?” I want him to drink as much as possible. If I can get him a little bit tipsy, his reflexes down, it may just push the scales in my favor. I think about Susan Young. Her toxicology came back with 0.01 blood alcohol—he shared wine with her too. I shudder.
I take another mouthful of prawn and force it down. Under normal circumstances I would say it was great Chinese food. But not now.
He gives me more wine. I take the tiniest sip possible. “Have some yourself too,” I say.
He gulps the wine.
Soon. It will be time soon.
The fork moves toward me and I open up.
“Mmm,” I say, but I fight the urge to be sick.
“It’s perfect, isn’t it,” he says.
He feeds himself.
The next mouthful. This is it. I close my eyes.
The fork pushes on my lips. I take the prawn and chew. Then I swallow. I cough, one short, silenced cough. Then I pant, as though no air can get to my lungs. I thrash about a bit and bring my free hand up to my throat.
“Sophie!” He hits my diaphragm hard. “Sophie!”
The punch winds me slightly but I pretend I still can’t breathe. He comes behind me and tries the Heimlich maneuver. But he doesn’t have the angle with me lying down.
“Shit!” he screams.
He unties my other arm and sits me forward on the table. Again, he tries the maneuver and this time my bottom left rib cracks. The sound resonates throughout my body. I cry out in pain, but silence it quickly. I wouldn’t be able to make that sound if I were really choking. I pull on his arms, like a desperate plea, then collapse back onto the gurney. I hear him move around to the foot of the trolley.
Yes, yes, please. If he doesn’t untie my legs I’ll try to overcome him, but I don’t like my chances. He unties one leg, then the next, and then he gathers me up in a bear hug from behind and tries the maneuver again, this time tipping me off the gurney and into a vertical position first. The pain on my rib is excruciating and I can’t stop myself from crying out this time. I spit a piece of food that I’d kept under my tongue across the room and I hear him breathe a sigh of relief. Bastard. He’s planning to kill me yet he’s desperate to keep me alive. He wants control of the situation. Control over my death.
This is my chance. I grab the bottle of wine just as he grabs my hair. I turn against his pull, even though it feels as though I’m being scalped alive, and bring the bottle down hard over his head. Red wine runs down his face and into his eyes. He’s stunned but not unconscious. He loosens his grip on my hair.
Now I have to get away.
Before he can get his bearings back, I kick him in the groin, hard. He doubles over in pain and releases my hair fully. Then I run. Out the door, to the right and down the corridor. With each step glass cuts into my feet, but I keep running, barely able to feel the pain. Once I’m a few steps away, it’s pitch-black. I keep running.
I have no idea where in the hospital I am. The corridors and doors seem to go on forever and I run blindly, turning at each junction, always hoping I’m not running into a dead end. My legs are weak and uncoordinated. I’ll never be able to outrun him. But I have to try.
I come to a corner window and glance down. It looks like I’m on the third floor. I consider leaping out the window, but there’s no one around and I’d be badly injured in the fall. Too injured to escape by myself. I keep running.
There are footsteps behind me and I scream. I have to get away. If Marty catches me now he’ll kill me for sure. I’m no longer his placid girlfriend, the object of Josh’s desire.
I see stairs and hurtle my naked body up them. My eyes have adjusted somewhat and I can make out vague shapes.
Run, run, you’ve got to run. I come to a door and open it. I’m up a level. I launch myself out the door. The footsteps are close behind me. Which way?
I move to the left and stumble over something metal and hard. I’m sprawled over the floor and I look back—it was a fire extinguisher.
The handle moves on the door to the stairwell. I scramble along the floor, crawling first and then breaking into an upright run. I need to get around the corner so he doesn’t know which way I’ve gone.
But it’s too late, I can hear footsteps behind me again. I take a few steps forward then double back, walking on tiptoe into the nearest room. My feet are bleeding and I don’t want an obvious trail.
The room looks like an old ward. A dilapidated wardrobe stands in one corner, one door fallen off. I stagger toward it and climb in. This could be dangerous. If he comes in I’m trapped, but at the moment he’s on my tail and I need to get him off it. It’s a gamble I have to take.
Underneath the ward door I see light. Marty must have a flashlight. Another advantage he has over me. I didn’t cover my bloody trail very well. I didn’t know he had a light. My heart beats faster. I think of all the photos of the victims. I bite my lip. I don’t want to end up like them. The light passes. He’s not coming in. I wait a couple minutes, but I don’t want to wait too long, because no doubt he’ll double back and check the blood trail. I slip out the side of the wardrobe and creep toward the ward door. I open the door. It creaks ever so slightly and I hope he hasn’t heard it. No light. Good.
I run quietly back toward the staircase, careful not to trip over the fire extinguisher this time. I travel quickly down the stairs—I need to get out of the building. I run down another level. Am I at the ground yet?
I come down the last flight of stairs and hurtle my way out of the stairway. I’m nearly out. But instead of a free path, I slam into somebody. I start crying. How could he have gotten down here? I turn to run in the other direction, but he grabs me from behind with his hand over my mouth. I try to break free.
“Sophie, it’s me. You’re safe,” a voice says.
I can hardly focus through the tears in my eyes.
“Josh?” I say. “Josh,” I say again as my eyes focus on him. I hug him desperately. “It’s Marty, Josh. It’s Marty.” My voice is quite loud.
“Shh. I know.” Josh takes off the parka he is wearing and puts it over my shoulders. That’s right, I’m naked. I slip my arms into the sleeves and do up the zipper.
“Carter figured it out.”
“Darren?” I follow Josh’s lead and whisper.
“He’s here too. Looking for you.”
Last time I saw Darren and Josh together, they weren’t exactly cooperating. “Darren realized the killer wasn’t you?”
“Not exactly. He saw the map was missing from your place, so he knew the map held the key. But he still thought I was guilty. He came over to confront me and picked up a map of D.C. on the way. I insisted we work on the map together. Eventually we saw the head positioning. We were on our way over here when Carter recognized Marty in the photos in the living room. But Carter knows him as Matthew Lande.”
“Marty’s real name,” I say.
“Yes. I went to school with him, but I don’t even remember the guy.”
“Well, he remembers you. He’s obsessed with you.”
“Fuck. I still can’t believe all this was him.”
“I know. It’s been you for years. He’s been setting you up.”
Josh shakes his head. “He did a good job.”
I gulp. I’d believed it. I change the topic. “Montana and Sargent. I don’t know where they are…if they’re okay.”
“We’ll worry about that later.”
“Are any of the others here?”
“Not yet. It’s just me and Carter. But we’ve called it in. Backup’s on its way.”
Our conversation is silenced by the sound of a shot.
We both look at each other. Shit. Who’s been shot— Marty or Darren?
“I need a gun,” I say.
Josh reaches into his ankle holster and gives me a small, nonregulation thirty-eight.
“Take this.”
“What about you?” I think of Josh’s Bureau issue, locked away in an office somewhere.
He smiles. “I keep a couple of spares.” He moves his arm and I look down, noticing the gun he holds in his left hand. “Wait outside.” He motions toward a set of double doors behind him. “You’ll be safe there.”
I look at the doors and the temptation is strong. Very strong. But then I think about Sam and what Marty did to her and all those other women. What he wanted to do to me.
“No.” I turn back up the stairs I’d come down. All I can think about is revenge. I run up the stairs, spurred on by adrenaline and anger.
“Sophie?” Josh calls, but it’s too late. I’m already moving. He catches up to me and we proceed up the stairs slowly. Josh passes me and moves in front, covering up the stairs, while I cover down the staircase, just in case he somehow got below us into the basement.
We move out onto the level I’d come from.
“Shit,” Josh says. I look down.
In front of us is the slumped figure of Darren.
Josh bends down and feels his neck for a pulse, all the while keeping his eyes down one end of the corridor while I watch the other.
“He’s alive,” he says. “You stay with him.”
“No, Josh. I’m coming with you,” I whisper. I’m not willing to let Josh face Marty alone. Besides, I need to see the bastard die with my own eyes.
Josh nods, perhaps even now preferring me to be with him rather than Darren. “Which way did you come from?” he asks.
“That way…I think.”
We’re in a corridor that runs at least fifty feet, with identical corridors in either direction running off it. It all looks the same and now I’m confused.
“When I heard footsteps behind me I panicked.” I pause, trying to remember. “I’m sorry, I don’t know.” I feel stupid. I’m trained to take notice and remember things like this. People’s faces, the layout of a room. But I guess my survival instinct took over when I ran.
Josh nods and we’re silent once more. He motions to the left and we move in that direction, him looking ahead, me covering behind, walking back to back. After a few steps Josh nudges me. I turn around. We’re at the first open corridor. Josh mouths, “One, two, three,” and we both charge around the corner, guns first. Nothing. No one.
Which way do we go?
“Marty, it’s all over. The FBI and D.C. police are on their way,” Josh yells.
Silence for a minute, then: “Good. They’ll find you and Sophie dead. A murder-suicide.” The voice comes from our left. We go back to the corridor we were in and keep moving down.
“I don’t think so, Marty. It’s over.” Josh keeps talking.
“Over for you. You never were that bright, were you?”
“Not like you, right?”
“Exactly. But you got all the glory. Popular at school, with the women. And then you waltzed into the police.”
We come to another corridor. Which way? “So you were trying to set the record straight.”
“You bet.”
Josh points to the sound of the voice and we move to our left.
“I finally made the FBI three years ago,” Marty says. “So then it was just a matter of destroying your world.”
“Well, you’ve failed. And Sophie’s still mine, not yours.”
He’s trying to rile Marty. That could be dangerous, very dangerous.
“Careful,” I whisper, but not quietly enough.
“I see you’ve found each other.” Marty’s anger is obvious.
It’s hard to pinpoint the voice because of the long corridors and the echo that accompanies every word, but we’re heading in the right direction.
“Marty, give yourself up and no one will get hurt,” Josh says.
It’s a promise Josh is willing to make, but I am not.
“You think you’re so good, the lot of you,” Marty says.
“Who?” I ask. If we keep him talking we can close in on his voice.
“Agents.”
Josh says quietly to me: “Marty applied as a field agent three times, then finally got in with forensics.”
“It’s forensics who are the important ones,” I say.
“You think I’m going to fall for your flattery again, bitch.”
“This way,” I mouth at Josh, pointing to a corridor.
“It’s true, Marty. That’s why we couldn’t get you, isn’t it? Forensics.”
He doesn’t answer, but we keep moving down the corridor, checking out each door we pass. We’re moving slowly and quietly, listening intently for any noise. A footfall. A door opening or closing.
We come to the end of our corridor, to a T-intersection. Josh turns back to me, deciding which way to go.
Suddenly Marty comes charging around the corner, firing. Josh hears the steps and dives to the right, into a doorway. I dive forward and fire.
Four shots go into Marty’s chest, one after another. He falls. I land on the floor hard, but roll out of it and stand back up. I grimace with the pain from my rib. I race over to Marty and kick the gun out of his hand. I study him for any sign of life and then kneel down and check his pulse. He’s dead. The bastard’s dead.
I automatically go to reholster my weapon, and then look down at myself in Josh’s oversize parka. I haven’t got underwear on, let alone a holster.
“He’s dead,” I say to Josh, and then realize he’s not moving. “Josh!” I slide across the floor on my knees to the spot where he is lying.
I see a bullet entry point in his jacket, and pray to God he’s got a bulletproof vest on under it. I start to tear off his jacket. He opens his eyes and smiles. He coughs. He’s winded, that’s all. No blood.
“Thank God you’re okay.”
He sits up. “I’m fine.” He undoes his bulletproof vest and examines the point of contact on his skin. It’s bright red and he’ll have an almighty bruise, but the jacket stopped the bullet.
We look at each other, silent. So much has happened. Maybe he’ll never speak to me again. How could I blame him—I thought he was a killer.
Finally he breaks the awkward moment. “You hurt?”
“Just a cracked rib.” I pause. “And a couple of cuts.”
Then I hear the sirens.