The Crucifix Killer

Twenty-Three

Darkness – that was all that surrounded George Slater as he regained consciousness. An unbearable pain shot up from his groin. His head was throbbing, making him dizzy. Everything was unsteady. His legs. His body. His memory. He tried to remember what had happened, but his brain wasn’t cooperating.

Where the hell am I?

How long have I been unconscious?

How did I get here?

Very slowly his memories started to form. The knock on the door. The excitement of seeing Rafael again. The strange intruder that had shown up at his rented apartment. The one-sided struggle, the confusion, the pain and then – the syringe.

He felt dizzy, weak, hungry, thirsty and scared. His hands were resting over his chest, but they weren’t tied. He tried to move them, but there simply wasn’t enough space. They touched what felt like unplaned wooden planks, his fingers feeling the splintery texture. He made an effort to scream but the gag in his mouth kept him from making a sound.

George tried moving his legs, but he could only manage one inch or so before they hit another wall in front of him.

A box, I’m inside a wooden box, he thought as panic started to take over.

I’ve gotta get out of here.

He jerked his body violently from side to side, his legs trying to kick out, his hands scraping away on the wood until all his nails were broken, but his efforts were not rewarded. He started to feel claustrophobic, making him more desperate.

He knew panicking wouldn’t help. He needed to work with whatever little knowledge of the situation he had. He took a moment to calm himself down. Concentrating on his heartbeat he took deep breaths. After a minute it started to work. George urged his brain to think. He tried to gather all the information he had so far. He’d been attacked, drugged, taken hostage and placed inside some sort of wooden box. He could feel the blood flowing normally through his body, and that told him the box was in an upright position instead of lying down. That brought him some relief. If the box had been in a horizontal position it could mean he was underground – buried alive inside some kind of coffin, and that petrified him. From a very young age George had been terrified of confined spaces. He was only ten when his mother beat him senseless and locked him inside a wardrobe for twelve hours with no food and no water. His crime – falling off his bike and tearing his brand-new pair of trousers at the knee.

He kicked his legs against the wooden walls again. They felt solid, as if the box had been nailed shut.

‘Would you stop making all that noise?’

The voice took George by surprise. Someone else was there. George’s heart started beating faster. He tried to scream once again, but the gag in his mouth was too tight and he produced only a muffled grunt.

‘It won’t be very long now.’

George could feel the panic coming back. What wouldn’t be long? Until he was freed or until he was dead? He needed to get rid of the gag in his mouth. He knew that if he could speak he would be able to reason with whoever else was there. That’s what he knew how to do – talk to people. As a lawyer he had negotiated million-dollar deals. He had convinced juries and judges that his side of an argument was the correct one. If he was given the chance he was sure he could reason with his captor. If only he could speak.

He jerked his body once again, making even more noise, hysteria starting to take over.

‘That won’t help you.’

Suddenly George froze. He knew that voice, he was sure he’d heard it before, but where? He made more noise.

‘Suit yourself, if you wanna make noise, go right ahead.’

There was no doubt in George’s mind anymore. He knew that person. He closed his eyes in an effort to search his memory. Where had they met before? In the office? In a court of law? Where? George implored his memory to help him.

‘Jesus!’ he said, shivering and reopening his eyes. It had been at a party, a BDSM party. It all came back to him. He could clearly picture the person’s face in his mind.

‘I know you… I know who you are…’