Do Not Disturb
Page 66
“Can you rip his head off for me? Start pushing at his forehead until it snaps the fuck off? Yank in and rip out tendril after tendril of veins and organs until he is a hot dripping mess of blood?” I breathe hard, unsure of where this raw aggression is coming from, but it mixes with the hot tears burning from my eyes and feels good. He was partying with my money and a slut. I lost sleep over him. I worried over him. I mourned for him. I clench my hands into fists, my cunt growing wetter with each violent word from my mouth. Yes. I need him dead before me, his eyes unmoving, his blood covering my skin, warming my surfaces, pleasing my heart.
There is a sound, something like a stutter, a skittering of words across an unclean surface. Great, MysteryBarbie probably doesn’t want to bloody her manicured hands. “He just told me to call you. Something’s happened. I just—” A gasp sounds through the phone, then something wet, like a sob.
I roll my eyes. Is she crying? “Stop blubbering and put Mike on. I’ll hash this bullshit out with him.”
“I can’t!” Somewhere, MysteryBarbie finds her backbone and the balls to actually scream at me. “You won’t let me explain! I just got here, and he is tied up and stabbed and almost dead!”
My feet stop. They have been moving, a pacing motion that keeps me in place but works off some of my nervous energy. They stop and I pause the action of breathing for a quick moment. She has my attention.
“How long has he been tied up?”
“I don’t know,” she sobs. “I was here on Sunday. I come on Sundays and Thursdays. His cell phone is at two percent, so… a day? Two—three? I don’t know how long a battery lasts. And he was thirsty, he looks—horrible.”
I can’t find my heartbeat. I think my guilt may have eaten it. I grip the phone tighter and wish I could take back every curse I just uttered. “He isn’t speaking?”
“Yeah, but it’s gibberish. He’s just singing ‘Jingle Bells.’ Over and over. He asked me to call you, then started in. I think he’s in shock.”
“What did he say exactly?”
She pauses. “ ‘Call Deanna.’ Well—first he asked for water.”
“ ‘Call Deanna.’ That was it?” I hated him for nothing. Almost dead. Stabbed. Shock.
“Yeah. That was it.” There is something in her tone, something that makes me think she is lying, but she’s not in front of me, and interrogation isn’t nearly as effective if torture devices aren’t involved.
“Did you call the cops?”
“No. He told me not to.”
“So he did say something else!” I snap the words, my frustration at a breaking point.
“Sorry—I forgot that part.”
“Don’t forget anything else.”
She puffs into the phone. “Why’d he want me to call you? Are you a nurse? Can you come over?”
“Shut up, let me think for a minute.” I sit on the bed, my skin already cold, time too precious to waste with the thermostat.
RUN.
Call Deanna.
Why call me? Why the wire memo? Why reach out unless this is about me? I can’t rescue him. I can’t nurse him back to health. This might be my fault. So help me God, if I caused this… I grip the phone so hard I hear the case crack. RUN. “Look around. Tell me what you see.”
“I came in the window because he didn’t answer the door. He was in the bedroom, tied to the bed. Handcuffed to the bed. His mouth was taped shut.”
“Any damage to him?”
“Other than the knife in his shoulder?” There is a beat of silence. Some rustling, and I can suddenly hear the rhythmic sound of a man singing softly, almost whispering the sound.
I picture her leaning over him, his arms spread-eagle against the bed. The face I have never seen, duct tape hanging from one cheek. “Is he still handcuffed?”
“Yeah. I don’t have a key. I haven’t seen one anywhere.”
This bitch is useless.
“I don’t see anything—God, there’s so much blood everywhere.” A sob breaks from her.
Blood. Pools of blood. A heaving chest. “The knife is still in him?” I flex my hands. A knife. Jabbed into his shoulder. I wonder if that’s how the man got him onto the bed. Just the threat of it probably would have worked. People freeze when a knife is held against their skin. I fight my excitement reflex. I miss that freeze. I miss that power.
“Yeah. I’m not gonna touch it. The blood is caked around—” She breaks off, the sudden silence ominous.
There is a sound, something like a stutter, a skittering of words across an unclean surface. Great, MysteryBarbie probably doesn’t want to bloody her manicured hands. “He just told me to call you. Something’s happened. I just—” A gasp sounds through the phone, then something wet, like a sob.
I roll my eyes. Is she crying? “Stop blubbering and put Mike on. I’ll hash this bullshit out with him.”
“I can’t!” Somewhere, MysteryBarbie finds her backbone and the balls to actually scream at me. “You won’t let me explain! I just got here, and he is tied up and stabbed and almost dead!”
My feet stop. They have been moving, a pacing motion that keeps me in place but works off some of my nervous energy. They stop and I pause the action of breathing for a quick moment. She has my attention.
“How long has he been tied up?”
“I don’t know,” she sobs. “I was here on Sunday. I come on Sundays and Thursdays. His cell phone is at two percent, so… a day? Two—three? I don’t know how long a battery lasts. And he was thirsty, he looks—horrible.”
I can’t find my heartbeat. I think my guilt may have eaten it. I grip the phone tighter and wish I could take back every curse I just uttered. “He isn’t speaking?”
“Yeah, but it’s gibberish. He’s just singing ‘Jingle Bells.’ Over and over. He asked me to call you, then started in. I think he’s in shock.”
“What did he say exactly?”
She pauses. “ ‘Call Deanna.’ Well—first he asked for water.”
“ ‘Call Deanna.’ That was it?” I hated him for nothing. Almost dead. Stabbed. Shock.
“Yeah. That was it.” There is something in her tone, something that makes me think she is lying, but she’s not in front of me, and interrogation isn’t nearly as effective if torture devices aren’t involved.
“Did you call the cops?”
“No. He told me not to.”
“So he did say something else!” I snap the words, my frustration at a breaking point.
“Sorry—I forgot that part.”
“Don’t forget anything else.”
She puffs into the phone. “Why’d he want me to call you? Are you a nurse? Can you come over?”
“Shut up, let me think for a minute.” I sit on the bed, my skin already cold, time too precious to waste with the thermostat.
RUN.
Call Deanna.
Why call me? Why the wire memo? Why reach out unless this is about me? I can’t rescue him. I can’t nurse him back to health. This might be my fault. So help me God, if I caused this… I grip the phone so hard I hear the case crack. RUN. “Look around. Tell me what you see.”
“I came in the window because he didn’t answer the door. He was in the bedroom, tied to the bed. Handcuffed to the bed. His mouth was taped shut.”
“Any damage to him?”
“Other than the knife in his shoulder?” There is a beat of silence. Some rustling, and I can suddenly hear the rhythmic sound of a man singing softly, almost whispering the sound.
I picture her leaning over him, his arms spread-eagle against the bed. The face I have never seen, duct tape hanging from one cheek. “Is he still handcuffed?”
“Yeah. I don’t have a key. I haven’t seen one anywhere.”
This bitch is useless.
“I don’t see anything—God, there’s so much blood everywhere.” A sob breaks from her.
Blood. Pools of blood. A heaving chest. “The knife is still in him?” I flex my hands. A knife. Jabbed into his shoulder. I wonder if that’s how the man got him onto the bed. Just the threat of it probably would have worked. People freeze when a knife is held against their skin. I fight my excitement reflex. I miss that freeze. I miss that power.
“Yeah. I’m not gonna touch it. The blood is caked around—” She breaks off, the sudden silence ominous.
