The Killing Hour

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

The basement is cold, and Jo can’t stop shivering. She’s tired, but can’t fall asleep. Other than two bathroom breaks that Cyris gave her, she’s been roped up against the same drum since coming back here the other night. Which was. . she isn’t sure. It’s easy to lose track of time when you’re locked in a basement with no view.

When she used the bathroom, she had to leave the door open. Cyris stood with his back to her to at least give her some privacy. The first time, she couldn’t bring herself to go. She just sat on the toilet too scared for anything to happen. The second time she barely sat down before things started flowing.

Each time she was brought into the hall, she could hear cartoons going and a woman laughing from a bedroom. She thought about calling out for help, but she didn’t. She couldn’t face meeting Cyris’s girlfriend. The woman had to know Jo was here against her will, she would have heard her, which could only mean one of two things: the wife was okay with the fact her husband would bring women home and tie them up, or the wife herself was tied up and couldn’t do anything about it. If the second of those two options were true, then why the laughter? And now that she was questioning things, why would his girlfriend be watching children’s cartoons? The answer to that was obvious-she wouldn’t be. Which means the laughter wasn’t coming from a woman, but a little girl.

None of it made sense.

Her trips to the bathroom gave her some idea of the time. It was afternoon. Probably around three or four o’clock, but perhaps later. Down in the basement it’s all the same. In this dark place on this concrete floor where the cold seeps slowly and forcefully into her body it’s easy to imagine that it’s permanent midnight. Her wrists are sore. He replaced the gag she had in her mouth with duct tape, and at the same time he gave her the bathroom breaks, he also gave her water to drink. She doesn’t struggle against the ropes anymore. In fact she hardly even moves her hands or wrists. The skin there is just too raw. There are moments where she thinks about how easy it would be to give up. To accept her fate might just mean dying won’t be so difficult. These moments are brief. She would never give up. Never make it easy for Cyris. Somehow, she’s going to get out of this. She will see her family again. Her friends. And Charlie?

She doesn’t know. Things can never be the same between them, but what exactly does that mean? She can’t forgive him for what he did to her on Monday night. Can she? No. No, of course not. However, the fact she’s questioning just how much she can forgive tells her something important-she’s not over him. And he’s not over her either. He still has photographs of her on the walls and he’s still wearing his wedding ring.

She hears the basement door starting to open before she sees it. She looks up as light spills into the room, then has to close her eyes and look away as the light hurts her. Cyris has reached her by the time she can see anything without having to squint. The scent of soap and sweat overpowers her as he leans down, and a moment later a knife touches the ropes that bind her. He tells her to stand, but her legs give way and she falls on her side. He hisses the command at her again, this time adding the sight of his knife as an incentive. It works, and when she gets to her feet he tosses something at her that she can’t identify until they hit the ground. Handcuffs. Maybe he has a whole drawer full of them.

When he tells her to pick them up she doesn’t refuse. The refusal begins when he tells her to put them on. Handcuffed she will be no match for him. He takes a step toward her and she watches his face as anger and insanity blossom behind his eyes, and she realizes that handcuffed or not she’s in the same situation, and that if she pushes the point he’ll get those cuffs snapped onto her wrists anyway and beat the hell out of her in the process. The cold metal ratchets into place as she cuffs her hands in front of her.

He leads her up the stairs into the hallway. She can hear the cartoons again, and in the distance a neighbor is mowing lawns, and somewhere between those two noises a chorus of barking from several dogs. The curtains are drawn, but around the edges she can see the dull fading of sunlight. It has to be around six thirty, maybe seven o’clock, she thinks.

He leads her through to the adjoining garage, which looks clinical white under the glow of eight fluorescent tubes. Brand-new tools are hanging neatly on a Peg-Board. Some look new, some look well used. There’s a wheelchair lying on its side jammed under the workbench. Did he kill somebody who couldn’t walk? Is the wheelchair a souvenir? On the bench is a pile of metal shavings and an open box of shotgun shells, next to them a hacksaw.

“Take off the tape,” he tells her.

She reaches up and pulls it away. It hurts. “Please,” she says, “please let me go.”

He lifts up his hand and points his palm at her. She stops talking.

“If you say anything, I’ll hurt you,” he says.

“Who does the wheelchair belong to?”

He steps in and uses the back of his hand to strike her. The impact knocks her onto the ground. She looks up at him.

“Get up,” he tells her.

She gets up.

“Talk again and it will be worse. You understand?”

She nods.

“Now get in the car.”

There are two cars in the garage. One is Charlie’s. The other is a dark blue four-door sedan. He opens the passenger door of the sedan for her. She climbs in. As he moves around to the driver’s side she contemplates locking the doors, but with all those tools to choose from, it’d only be a matter of seconds before he forced his way in. He climbs in, immediately telling her to shut up again even though she hasn’t said a word. He tells her to be still while they wait for the darkness to arrive. She slowly nods. They wait silently in the car as it gets darker outside.

She’s more scared now than she’s ever been.

Scared of the dark.

Scared of Cyris.

Scared of Charlie.

She says nothing as she waits beneath the glare of the fluorescent lights.