Creep

  “Exactly.” Jerry nodded. “I tell my sister—Keisha’s mother—to put the computer out in a central area in the house so she can monitor where the girl goes, what she does online. Keisha’s a bright kid, but she’s got no street smarts.”

  Morris nodded politely.

  The private investigator suddenly sniffed the air. “Did you pass through Bead World?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  Jerry threw his head back and laughed. “Miss Gwendolyn and her crew are harmless. Bet you made their day.”

  Morris managed a smile.

  Jerry cracked his knuckles. The popping sound was loud in the small office. “Anyway, you didn’t come here to talk about the Internet or beads, you came here to discuss your fiancée. She’s missing?”

  “The cops don’t seem to think so.”

  “Ah.” Jerry grinned. “Mike Torrance sent you? He’s a good guy. We were partners up till I retired last year.”

  Morris looked at Jerry doubtfully. “You don’t look old enough to be retired.”

  Jerry laughed. “I’m fifty-two. It’s the West Indies blood that keeps me looking so young. I started working for Seattle PD fresh out of college at twenty-one, put in my thirty years. Got a full pension, so this is a nice side business, something to keep my mind occupied until I figure out what to do with the rest of my life. Get a lot of referrals from Mike—Detective Torrance. I owe that guy a steak dinner and a few beers. But enough about me. How far did he get in the investigation?”

  “According to him, all the way. But I’m thinking he wouldn’t have suggested you if something more couldn’t be done.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Jerry’s face was neutral. “Sometimes the case is closed but you have this inkling there’s more to it. Sometimes Mike recommends me just to put the client’s mind at ease. What was his official conclusion?”

  Morris cleared his throat. “That Sheila—that’s my fiancée—left town voluntarily. She’s been gone over a week now. He thinks she’ll be back when she’s ready.”

  Jerry reached for a notepad and pen. “And you don’t think this is normal behavior for her?”

  “Blowing off our wedding? No, I don’t. She’s a meticulous person. Every hour of her day is planned. Even if she changed her mind about getting married, I can’t imagine she’d take off the way she did. She’s a tenured professor at PSSU. It’s hard to imagine her leaving before the end of the term.” Morris described the phone message Sheila had left. “Her therapist said she didn’t check into any of the better-known treatment centers. I’m worried about her. I need to make sure she’s okay.”

  “Puget Sound State professor? What did you say her name was?”

  “Sheila Tao. She teaches psychology.”

  “Huh. I took a behavioral psych course through PSSU about seven, eight years back. But the professor’s name was Sheila Chancellor, I think.”

  Morris nodded. “That’s her. She was married then.”

  “Get the hell out.” Genuine shock spread over Jerry’s features. “The world just gets smaller and smaller. She was a helluva lecturer. She even gave me some one-on-one help with my final paper. She’s your fiancée?”

  Morris nodded again.

  Jerry was quiet, clearly perturbed. “Well, shit, this puts it all in a different light, knowing who she is and all. I was upgrading to a bachelor’s degree in criminology back then, through night school, which wasn’t exactly easy, being a cop and keeping crazy hours. She helped me write a paper that focused on criminal behavior patterns. Nice lady.” Jerry was thoughtful for another moment, then jotted something down on the notepad. “How old is she now?”

  “Thirty-nine.”

  The private investigator looked up. “I hate to suggest it, but maybe she’s going through some kind of midlife crisis. I went through it with my wife when she turned forty a few years back.”

  “That’s what your former partner said.”

  “It does happen.” Jerry saw the look on Morris’s face. “But you don’t think that’s it.”

  “She was having an affair. She admitted it.”

  Jerry didn’t blink. “She say who?”

  Morris shook his head. “And there . . . might have been others. I’m not sure.” He couldn’t bring himself to say she was a sex addict. The words were too ugly. And this guy was a former student—Sheila wouldn’t have wanted someone like him knowing her secret.

  Jerry’s expression was hard to read. “Did Mike explain to you that most of the time adults go missing because they want to? Forget what you see on TV. The majority of people who disappear do so on purpose. Considering she left you a message, it sounds like this is the case here.”

  “Torrance made a point to tell me all that, yes. Twice, actually.” Morris didn’t bother to mention that he also thought Torrance was a jackass. “But I need answers, Jerry. Isn’t that why people hire you? Because, unlike the police, you can find people who don’t want to be found?”

  Jerry smiled.

  “I can’t force her to come home, but I need to see for myself that she’s all right. I’ve invested too much of . . . my time to let it go like this.” Morris had almost said of myself.

  Jerry didn’t look happy. For a moment Morris thought he might have offended the former cop. Or maybe he had second thoughts about investigating someone he knew.

  But then the PI reached into his drawer and pulled out a stack of yellow forms. He peeled one off the top. “All right then. These are my fees. I need two thousand as a nonrefundable retainer up front, and then I bill a hundred per hour plus expenses—”

  Morris put up a hand. “That’s fine, whatever. But I have something else to show you.”

  “What’s that?”

  Morris reached into his leather bag and pulled out Sheila’s laptop. “Can you hack into this? I’m sure if you do, it will tell us a lot. This is her personal computer. It’s password-protected.”

  “Whoa.” Jerry leaned back in his chair again, appraising Morris with narrow eyes. “Computer hacking? That’s illegal, man.”

  Morris’s gaze did not waver.

  Jerry cracked his knuckles again. “No wonder you want to hire a civilian. All right, I’ll see what I can do. Computers aren’t my specialty, but I know a guy.”

  Morris smiled his first genuine smile in days. “I thought you might.”

  CHAPTER : 26

  Sheila’s nipple was on fire.

  She opened her eyes and found Ethan staring at her. Her left breast throbbed painfully. Looking down, she saw why. Ethan was squeezing her left nipple hard, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger like a stale gumdrop he was trying to soften.

  “Stop it,” Sheila said, her voice hoarse. She moved her arms as if to hit him, but the movement only caused her chains to rattle. “That hurts, you asshole.”

  “You were really out.” Ethan tweaked her nipple again. “What were you dreaming about? Were you imagining Morris fondling you in your sleep?”

  She had been lying in bed all day—or was it night?—and her back ached. With great effort, she managed to sit up, and he adjusted the pillows to support her lower back. It was becoming routine. The bones in her spine cracked rapidly as she attempted to stretch, one pop right after another.

  “I wasn’t dreaming.” Her throat was sore and dry. It was always sore and dry. Between her muscle aches, headaches, and fatigue, she felt as if she constantly had a mild case of the flu. “If Morris were touching me, it wouldn’t hurt.”

  “He’s moving on, you know.” Ethan stuck a straw in an opened bottle of Evian and put it to her lips. “You were just a little blip in his predictable little life. Happy wedding day, by the way.”

  Oh, God. He was right. Today would have been her wedding day. Sheila took a deep breath, trying to control the stampede of emotions that had just been unleashed. She felt as if she’d been stabbed in the heart.

  She wondered what Morris was doing right this moment, and her eyes began to moisten. She blinked before Ethan could noti
ce.

  Her captor was obviously trying to antagonize her. He knew her fiancé was her most sensitive button. But Morris was a giant sore spot for him, too. For now, Sheila refused to engage. She hadn’t yet figured out how to use Ethan’s jealousy to her advantage, but she sensed it could be a valuable weapon.

  Her mouth closed around the straw and she sucked in the cool water. She was still being sedated, but it was all right. Sleep was her only measure of relief in this never-ending nightmare.

  “Did you pee?” he asked.

  Sheila flexed her abdominal muscles reflexively at the word pee and winced at her full bladder. Her diaper was dry. “No. But I do have to go. Really badly.” It was awful to have to say those words, but she had no choice. “What do you want to do?”

  It wasn’t a strange question under the circumstances. Ethan usually changed her diaper when she was sleeping. She shifted in the bed, thinking about how great it would be to sit on a toilet seat like a normal adult. God, the things she’d taken for granted. Now that she was thinking about it, it was starting to hurt. She looked at him, desperate. “I can’t wait for the sedative to kick in.”

  “You really have to go, huh?” Ethan’s hand went to the small silver gun in the waistband of his jeans.

  “Yes.” She winced again. “Do you think . . . could I use the bathroom this time? Please?”

  “No way.”

  “Ethan, please. I won’t try anything. I’m too tired. I’ve barely stood up since I’ve been here.” She rattled her chains again to emphasize her plight. “Just this once, let me use the bathroom like a regular person.”

  She knew from his expression that he was seriously considering her request. She opened her mouth to plead her case further, but then closed it again when she remembered he didn’t like to be pushed.

  Finally he nodded. “Okay. We’ll try it. You’ve been good.”

  Good? What a fucking joke. How was it possible to be bad chained to a bed twenty-four hours a day? “Thank you.”

  Ethan took the gun out of his waistband. “You fuck with me—”

  “I won’t. I don’t have the energy. Trust me on that.” She meant every word. She was in no shape for a fight.

  Ethan fished a key out of his pocket. She caught a whiff of his clean scent as he leaned over and unlocked her right wrist, then her left. When she brought her arms together to rub her wrists, her shoulders tingled with pins and needles.

  “Here.” He handed her the key. “Do your ankles. Like last time.”

  Sheila bent forward, and her back was instantly on fire from the sudden movement. It took all her willpower not to shriek. She was dizzy from the exertion when she finally got her legs free.

  Handing the key back to Ethan, she moved her legs slowly over the edge of the bed, pausing a moment to let the blood circulate. Using small, deliberate movements, she stood up and began shuffling toward the bathroom. Her muscles felt like Jell-O. Looking down, she could see the angry welts on her bare ankles that matched her chafed wrists.

  If she could have walked faster, she would have, the urge to urinate was so strong. Ethan followed behind her, the gun in his hand. As she turned down the hallway toward the bathroom, she couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if she suddenly whipped around. Could she disarm Ethan if she took him by surprise? If she did, then what? She’d have no trouble putting a bullet in his head, but what good would that do? She’d still be stuck in this modern-day dungeon. The door had a keypad and she didn’t know the code to get out.

  Maybe she could use the gun to torture it out of him. Shoot one limb at a time. It was a lovely thought.

  “Holy slow, Batman,” Ethan drawled behind her.

  She made it to the bathroom. Like the rest of the basement, the small room had no windows and was completely done in white—white toilet, white sink, white walls, white floors, white tub, everything perfectly clean. The smell of disinfectant was strong, which didn’t surprise her. Ethan was a germaphobe.

  Sheila pulled her dry diaper down to her ankles. She lifted the toilet lid and sat down. Almost instantly, the bathroom filled with the pungent odor of urine that had been marinating far too long.

  Ethan watched from the doorway, amused. Sheila couldn’t have cared less. She sighed. This was the closest to contentment she’d felt in a long time. After a full minute, her bladder finally flexed out the last drop.

  Then, as if to punctuate being finished, she farted.

  The sound echoed loudly in the ceramic bowl. She felt her face grow hot.

  “Jesus Christ.” Ethan laughed, his face a blend of amusement and mild disgust. “Excuse you.”

  “Sorry.” Her hands flew to her face. It was ridiculous to be embarrassed about a fart—after all, she was being kept here against her will, and what could be worse than having to urinate in adult diapers?—but she was ashamed nonetheless.

  And when the smell hit, she was mortified.

  “Holy fuck.” Ethan clapped a hand over his nose. “Don’t tell me you’re about to take a shit.”

  As if on cue, her bowels cramped.

  “Yes,” she said, doubling over. She couldn’t look at him. There seemed to be no limit to how much humiliation a person could take.

  The thing was, she hadn’t pooped since she’d been here. It was no surprise; she was hardly eating anything. She wondered now if Ethan had been slipping something else into her water along with the sedatives. This was the first time she’d felt the urge.

  “This is so gross.” Ethan’s T-shirt was pulled up over his nose, exposing an inch of flat, hard stomach. His muffled voice was filled with glee under the fabric of the shirt. She knew he was laughing at her.

  “Can you get out of here, please?” The cramping was becoming painful and urgent. She didn’t think she could hold it in much longer.

  He moved back a few inches. “I’ll leave for a minute, but the door stays open and I’m right outside.”

  “No, please.” Sheila had to go so badly she was shaking. Her hands were clammy on her naked thighs. “Close the door, Ethan. Please.”

  While he stood there contemplating her request, her bowels spasmed painfully, and she had no choice but to let it out. The room filled with the stench of fresh shit.

  “Jesus Christ!” Ethan jumped back so quickly he almost fell over. “You fucking disgusting cunt!” Holding one hand over his nose, he reached into the bathroom to turn on the overhead fan.

  Sheila stared up at him from the toilet seat, her hair hanging over her face. Rivulets of sweat ran down her temples. Her bowels continued to cramp and she knew it was far from over. He was looking at her with such shock and disgust that, despite her abdominal pain, she couldn’t resist a chuckle.

  “Well, what did you expect? I’ve been here for days, you cocksucker.” Sheila grunted again. “I’m not done. I suggest you get the fuck out.”

  The door slammed shut. Sheila was finally alone in the bathroom.

  It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. How strange, she thought, that someone who was perfectly capable of killing people and hacking their corpses into little pieces could be disgusted by something like pooping. After all, everybody had an asshole. It made no sense.

  “Flush the fucking toilet!” Ethan yelled from behind the door.

  “I’m not fucking done!” she yelled back, even though she was.

  “Courtesy flush! And hurry the fuck up!”

  Quite possibly the world’s stupidest conversation. What did he think she was going to do? There was nowhere to go, no way to escape. She wiped herself and flushed, then flushed again for good measure. Feeling almost 100 percent better, she put her diaper back on.

  Turning on the faucets, Sheila let the water run into the small sink. She quickly opened the cabinet doors of the vanity, looking for anything that could be used as a weapon. There was a roll of toilet paper and a hotel-size bar of soap. Nothing that could kill Ethan.

  She ran her hands and wrists under the warm water, sucking in a breath as
her welts began to sting. She lathered them with the soap, gritting her teeth as they burned, then rinsed and washed her face. Grabbing a paper towel, she patted her face dry and caught a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror.

  And almost fell over. The face staring back at her was barely recognizable.

  Her hair was stringy with oil and dried sweat. The strands hung limply in uneven waves. Her complexion, normally flawless thanks to a militant skin-care regimen, was ashy, a shade she couldn’t totally attribute to the harsh bathroom lighting. Dark hollows under her eyes looked an inch deep, and her forehead had grooves she’d never seen before. Her full lips were dry and cracked and covered in small brown scabs. Dried white spittle had congregated at the corners of her mouth. Her eyebrows were unplucked and messy.

  She’d aged twenty years since she’d last seen herself.

  The door swung open.

  “Are you finished?” Ethan stood in the doorway, his face turned to the side. He didn’t seem to want to look at her. He was rubbing his hands with the liquid sanitizer he always kept in his pocket, and she rolled her eyes. He hadn’t even touched her and already he felt dirty. “Get the fuck out already.”

  “Can I take a shower?” She turned away from the mirror, unable to look at her reflection. “Please?”

  Judging by the look on his face, he clearly thought her question was insane.

  “Ethan, come on. I haven’t bathed in a week. There’s soap here. Please.”

  “I’ll think about it. But right now, come the fuck out.”

  She wiped her hands once more with the paper towel and tossed it into the trash, then stepped out of the bathroom. He took her by the elbow, gun in hand, and yanked her back toward the bed.

  She cringed at the sight of the chains and handcuffs.

  “Don’t strap me in.” She twisted around to try to get away from him. “Please, Ethan. Look at my wrists. I’m not going anywhere. Don’t strap me in.”

  He pushed her onto the bed. “No. I don’t need the headache.”

  “Where am I going to go?” She held out her wounded wrists. “This place is a jail cell. Do you think I can hurt you? You outweigh me by at least fifty pounds, and you have a gun.”