14

Forty-Six

Jane Macias started awake. She was cold. A crack in the wall next to where she laid her head was letting in frigid air from outdoors. Her father would never stand for such slovenliness. A man’s home was his castle, especially when that was an unembellished statement. There was a responsibility that came with stature, he always said. Show the world how much you care, and in turn, they will care for you.

Her father. God, she missed him. She’d never be able to erase the image of him, pale and shaking on the hard, cold floor. He was nearly dead, the light leaving his eyes when she found him. She’d held him and rocked him, blood soaking through her shirt. He’d mouthed the name just before he died, just as the EMTs arrived to try saving his life. It was too late, but she had the ammunition she needed. Proving it was another story. She was almost there. And now she was being held captive. She was going to fail her father yet again.

This man, this creature who was holding her, was going to kill her soon, she could tell. The cat-and-mouse game was coming to an end. He was too entranced by the blood and flesh of her young body to worry about the decrepit stones in the attic, letting cold air seep into the tiny garret room where she was being held prisoner. It was better than the hole she’d been in before, a room that smelled of sex and blood. She’d been relieved when she was moved.

That beastly thing who’d been salivating over her body, who ran his lips across her neck and promised to take her life, was gone.

She tried to turn over, finding the bonds that held her hands and legs in a frontal vise strong as ever. The young one bound her, night after night. The past two nights, the young one would come, untie her, carry her downstairs because her legs were numb from lack of movement, and sit her in a chair in the creature’s library. From behind, he’d strip off the blindfold, so she never saw his face. He would leave the room and the crippled one would talk. Tell her horrific stories, detailing the death of the man’s soul. Touching her, but unable to fulfill himself. He made her touch him. That didn’t work, either.

She knew who he was, of course. This bent, misshapen thing was Snow White.

He’d come to her once, alone and sweating. She heard his labored progress up the stairs, listened with every nerve taut when he reached her door, panting heavily. He’d been too winded to hurt her, though the gleam in his eyes told her that was his intention. He’d taken off her blindfold. She saw the insane desire light up his face from within, like a flashlight was being held just below the surface of his papery skin. He’d stared, then licked his lips. Traced the line of her cheekbone with a bent finger. Her imagination ran wild, as if the touch of his finger had left some sort of filth on her face that she’d never get off. Then as abruptly as he’d appeared, he was gone. She wept for the first time that night.

A sound brought her back, and she heard steps, creeping toward her. This wasn’t the young one, she was certain of that. His tread was unmistakable, heavy and purposeful. No, this was someone lighter, who was coming slowly. She had a half-hysterical moment imagining a giant spider crawling across the room to wrap her in its silken web and drain her of life slowly, but shook the thought off. These were human footsteps. Despite the blindfold whispering against her skin, she squeezed her eyes shut, afraid.

A hand touched her face. She couldn’t help herself, she cringed. But she didn’t cry out.

The hand was joined by another and ten fingers roamed across her face languorously. She felt no malice in the touch, just a gentle curiosity. Just as slowly, the hands were withdrawn.

“You are beautiful,” a soft voice whispered in her ear.

“Who are you?” she asked.

He was working on her bonds now. The owner of the voice shrugged slightly, a movement so eloquent that Jane felt it, a dismissive gesture born of repetition. “Nobody. I am no one.”

Jane’s hands were free now, and he’d moved on to her feet. She stretched her arms hard above her head, rejoicing in the movement. Pulling her arms down, she started to pull off the blindfold.

“Don’t. Pleassse.”

The longing in the voice caught her, and she stopped. She realized that this man was no threat; the whisper of a lisp made her feel both comforted and a little creeped out. Didn’t movie psychopaths have lisps? She started inching away and sensed the man stiffen. She quit moving, let him work on the knots around her ankles. After many interminable minutes, she felt the rope free, and her legs were no longer glued together. He took her hand and helped her stand, massaging the blood back into her legs.

“Can you ssstand?”

Jane tested each leg. Pins and needles, but functioning. “Yes.”

“Keep your hand on my ssshoulder. I’m going to get you to the door. Then you can take off the blindfold.”

“Who are you?” Jane repeated. “Do you have a name, at least?”

“I have many, but none will mean anything to you.”

Jane heard a snick, then tapping. He’s blind, she realized with astonishment. The thought made her giggle. The blind leading the blind. This was crazy. Her hands went to the blindfold again, but he stopped.

“Please. It will be quick. I promise. There are many passages through the house.”

The tone of his voice made her stop, and she said, “Okay.” And meant it.

After a few long minutes of shuffling along, they went down two flights of stairs. Jane could smell bread. A kitchen? Before she could think, her hand was on a doorknob.

“Thiss will take you through the gardensss. Walk sssouth for one hundred paces, then turn to your right. You’ll be in the garden of the house next door. Please, just get a ride from someone, and don’t look back.” The door started to close, and Jane whipped off the blindfold and looked over her shoulder. All she saw as the door closed quietly behind her was a face that looked like an old candle, melted from continual use. She was glad she hadn’t gotten a full look.

“Thank you,” she whispered.