Nighttime Is My Time

40

She knew he was going to kill her. It was only a question of when. Incredibly, after he left, she had fallen asleep. Light was flickering through the closed blinds, so it must be morning. Is it Monday or Tuesday? Laura wondered as she tried not to become fully awake.

Saturday night when they'd gotten here, he had poured champagne for them and toasted her. Then he'd said, "Halloween is coming soon. Want to see the mask I bought?"

He was wearing the face of an owl, each enlarged eye with a wide black pupil set in a sickly yellow iris, and edged with tufts of grayish down that darkened into deep brown around the pointed beak and narrow mouth. I laughed, Laura remembered, because I thought that was what he was expecting. But I could sense then that something had happened to him-he had changed. Even before he took off the mask and grabbed my hands, I knew I was trapped.

He dragged her upstairs, tied her wrists and her ankles together, and covered her mouth with a gag, being careful to leave it loose enough to be sure she didn't choke. Then he tied a rope across her waist and fastened it to the frame of the bed. "Did you ever read Mommie Dearest?" he'd asked. "Joan Crawford used to tie her kids to the bed to make sure they didn't get up at night. She called it 'safe sleep.' "

Then he'd made her begin to recite the line about the owl in the tree, the line from that grade school play. Over and over again he made her say it, and then he made her imitate the girls at the lunch table, laughing at him. And each time, she could see the murderous anger building in his eyes. "You all laughed at me," he said. "I despise you, Laura. The sight of you revolts me."

When he left her, he deliberately put his cell phone on the top of the dresser. "Just think, Laura. If you could reach this phone, you could call for help. But don't do it. The cords will tighten if you try to open them. Take my word for it."

She had tried anyway, and now her wrists and ankles were throbbing with pain. Her mouth was parched. Laura tried to moisten her lips. Her tongue touched the rough cloth of the sock he had taped over her mouth, and she felt bile rise in her throat. If she got sick, she would choke. Oh, God, please help me, she thought, panicking as she fought back the wave of nausea.

The first time he reappeared, there was some light in the room. It must have been Sunday afternoon, she figured. He untied my wrists and gave me soup and a roll. And he let me go to the bathroom. Then he came back a long time later. It was so dark, it must have been night. That was when he had me make the phone call. Why is he doing this to me? Why doesn't he just kill me and get it over with?

Her head was clearing. As she tried to move her wrists and ankles, the dull throbbing became intense pain. Saturday night. Sunday morning. Sunday night. It had to be Monday morning now. She stared at the cell phone. There was no way she could reach it. If he let her call anyone again, should she try to shout his name?

She could imagine the pillow muffling the sound before it escaped her throat, imagine the pillow pressing over her nostrils and mouth, choking life from her. I can't, Laura thought. I can't. Maybe if I don't upset him, someone will realize that I may be in trouble and try to find me. They can trace calls from cell phones. I know they can. They can find out who owns his phone.

That hope was the only chance she had, but it gave her the faintest trickle of relief. Jean, she thought. He intends to kill her, too. They say people can project thoughts. I'm going to try to send mine to Jean. She closed her eyes and imagined Jean as she had looked at the dinner, dressed in her royal blue evening gown. Moving her lips under the tape, she began to say his name aloud. "J^ean, I'm with him. He killed the other girls. He's going to kill us. Help me, Jean. I'm in my old house. Find me, Jean!" Over and over she whispered his name.

"I forbade you to use my name."

She had not heard him come back. Even with the gag over her mouth, Laura's scream broke the silence of the room that had been hers for the first sixteen years of her life.