For a crazy moment I thought he might just give me one of those Elvis smiles. He would come into the room and pick up a magazine. I'd slip the gun back into the drawer unnoticed, then bid him goodnight and get the hell out of there.
It almost worked that way. He stood there watching me for an eternity. Probably about a minute and a half, in reality. I lowered the gun, hoping to put it back where I'd found it. I fumbled for the drawer, unwilling to take my eyes off him. My shaking hand couldn't find it and I backed up. My butt touched the open drawer. It slid quickly closed, causing me to momentarily lose balance.
Josh was at my side instantly. He reached for the weapon with shaky hands and I gave it up. For the first time in my life, I wished I'd listened to Ron's advice about guns. At least I'd know whether it was loaded, whether the safety was on or not. It was a little late now for those kinds of wishes.
"What made you do it, Josh?" Now I could only hope to stall long enough to work out a way to get myself out of this alive.
He shrugged, backing away enough to aim the gun at me. His hands weren't shaking now. His lids were half closed, the dark eyes almost sexy looking. I'd never seen him like this before, but then I'd never seen him after several beers, a violent movie, and with a gun in his hand.
My question still hung in the air. He hadn't ignored it, he was contemplating his answer.
"They were mean to me," he finally said.
"Mean to you?" Mean to you! Is that the answer nowadays? Anytime someone is mean to you, you blow them away?
"My old man used to throw me around. Every time he came home drunk, he'd take it out on me and Mom."
"And your mom? Why did she deserve it?" Or had her big mistake been reaching into that drawer the same way I had?
He laughed, an abrupt chuckle that came out as a snort. "She was no better. Whenever Dad hit me, she'd jump in and pull him away. But when he wasn't around, she'd scream at me, call me stupid, and lazy. She was no different than him."
"And so you're gonna solve it the same way they solved everything. Somebody makes you mad, so you just get violent."
He shrugged again. "They deserved it."
The cold attitude chilled me. I rubbed my goose-pimpled arms.
"What about me?" I asked. "Now you feel you have to get rid of me, too?"
"You haven't ever been mean to me, Charlie," he said. He seemed genuinely puzzled about my remark.
"What about the police, Josh? Sooner or later they'll figure this out." I was careful not to say that I'd tell them.
"I'll get a good lawyer," he said.
So that's what it boiled down to. A good lawyer could find some kind of defense for Josh. It made me furious but I had no doubt of its feasibility. Good lawyers get guilty people off the hook all the time. Right and wrong have ceased to matter. It only matters how good your lawyer is.
"Josh, think about this. You need help, counseling. Let's try to figure out a way."
He stiffened. For the first time since he'd taken the gun from me, I saw anger. It was a cold, unprincipled anger.
"I need to think about this," he growled. "Not with you. Just me, by myself."
He jammed the gun into the waistband of his jeans and, almost in the same move, grabbed a length of nylon climbing rope from the dresser near the door.
"Sit down," he ordered. With his left hand he yanked the chair away from the desk, flinging a bath towel off it. The cord was still in his right hand.
I stared at the gun in his waistband. If I moved quickly, I could probably grab it. What good would that do? I didn't know how to use it. But he didn't know that. I hesitated a second too long. Josh grabbed my shoulder, squeezing it painfully in a grip that brought me to the chair without much effort. He looped the rope around my left wrist, cinching it tight. My right arm was curiously useless, numb from the pressure he'd applied to my collarbone. Before I managed to shake off the feeling, he'd snagged that wrist, too, and was proceeding to wind the rope through the lower chair rungs, effectively pinning my hands down near my ankles in a position that would very soon send my lower back into spasms.
"Ow, Josh, that hurts!"
Oddly enough, he listened. He let a little slack in the rope. A curious kindness from a two-time murderer. He progressed to my ankles, tying them now to the chair legs. At least I had some protection there from my socks.
"Josh, what are you going to do?" I worked to keep the tremor out of my voice.
He yanked at the final knot. "I don't know. I just gotta get out of here. I ain't living with that aunt, and I ain't going to jail. I just gotta figure it out."
I sat still, wondering what he meant to do. He didn't seem to know either. His eyes darted around the room, like he was figuring out what to take with him. He settled on a lightweight jacket and four CDs from the rack beside his stereo. The gun was still in his waistband.
He darted out of my sight, which wasn't difficult since my back was to the door, my eyes aimed at the floor. I strained to hear what was going on. Blaring music from the television in the living room effectively obliterated other sounds. Some bumping noises came from the direction of the kitchen. I twisted to one side then the other, hoping to get some idea. In the macabre black room, I could only see the purplish glow from the two neon lamps. My ears listened for any sound from Josh.
After ten minutes or so, I felt sure he'd really gone. I managed to get enough weight onto my feet that I could lift the chair legs an inch or two off the floor. By hefting my weight at the same time, I managed to turn a few inches to the right. I did this twice, then listened for reprisals from the other rooms. Nothing.
I clumped the chair around enough to see the doorway into the hall. I was breathing hard from the effort and my lower back was killing me. I saw no sign of Josh. Flickering light from the TV set gave the hall a strobe effect. Between that and the neons I was beginning to feel nauseated. Sitting bent over at the waist wasn't helping, either. I scanned the little bit I could see and found no evidence of Josh. I clumped the chair again, loudly, to see if I'd get a reaction.
Nothing.
Every part of my body hurt. My stomach was doing flip-flops while my arms felt stretched to the breaking point and my collarbone still ached from his ferocious pinch. And all the time I had to think about getting out. There was no doubt in my mind that Josh would be back. It was only a question of how long he'd stay away.
I tried to think where I'd seen the telephone. There was one on the kitchen wall near the door to the hall. If I cranked my neck far enough back, I could even see it. In my present position, it was a good two feet above my head. And with my arms strapped down to the chair rungs, there was no way I'd ever be able to dial it. Think, Charlie. There had been an extension in the master bedroom. The phone had been on the floor near the bed. I had set it up on the nightstand, now conveniently out of my reach. Well, it was my only hope now.
Since I hadn't heard any repercussions from my earlier movements, I decided it was time to go for it. It couldn't get much more awkward than this, my ankles tied to the chair legs, hands bound beside them. With a little effort, I worked out a system of shifting my weight to my feet, then to the chair. I scooted along like this, like a severely crippled inchworm. The clutter all over Josh's room didn't help, either. I barreled over some of the obstacles, kicked others out of my way with the tips of my toes. I had to stop for a breather when I reached the hall, but I knew I couldn't afford to make it a long one.
The hall looked impossibly long. In fact, it was probably less than eight feet to the master bedroom. Then to traverse that room, too . . . I resolved not to think about it. It seemed like a day later that I reached the nightstand, although it had probably been closer to twenty minutes. I had lost all track of time and my watch was cocked around to the far side of my wrist, impossible to see. The phone stood on the nightstand, just as I'd left it, about level with my forehead when I stretched my neck as far as I could. My spirits took a dive. There was no way I could lift the receiver and press the numbers.
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Dammit! I hurt all over and knew that Josh might return any time. In a fit of frustration, I reared the chair back on its hind legs and kicked forward with all my might. The nightstand fell sideways and the phone with it. All right!
I scooted over to the phone, which lay upside down on the rug, the receiver splayed out to the end of its spiral cord. I righted the instrument with my toe and jerked myself into a position where my fingers could touch it. Carefully, I pressed 911.
The receiver was two feet away. I clumped over to it and touched it with my fingers. No way I could raise it to my mouth. I waited until I thought I heard a voice at the other end. With the television still blaring in the background, it was impossible to tell. I shouted toward the mouthpiece, hoping whoever waited out there would be able to understand what I was about to say.
"Get Detective Kent Taylor," I yelled. "Tell him Josh Detweiller is the killer. He's out driving around." I gave a description of the car, kicking myself that I'd not troubled to memorize the license number. "Then send someone here to untie me," I shouted. I gave the address, and hoped they got it all. I heard a voice at the other end but couldn't make out the words. My voice was hoarse and I wanted to cry from the pain and frustration. And then I heard the distinct sound of the front door closing.
Chapter 23