Darby McCormick: Fear The Dark Part 35

'Shh. You need to rest.' Ray wrung out the washcloth again. 'Go to sleep.'

'How many?'

Ray Williams tossed the washcloth into the bucket. 'I killed her there, in the bedroom. Nicky,' he said. 'I was the one who washed down the area that morning, before you arrived. And Lancaster caught me. Lancaster had no idea why I'd done it. He didn't say anything to me because he was waiting to see if you guys found out anything before he made his move. Now he's dead, and my secret is safe.

'As for the other women I've hosted here, it doesn't matter. What matters is that you and I are together. You're my special girl. I only have eyes for you.'

Ray Williams placed his hands on either side of her hand and then his lips were mashed against hers, breath stale and tongue probing, and he inhaled deeply as if trying to draw something out of her.

Then, mercifully, it was over. He stood and she watched him move past the iron door and out of the cell. The woman was waiting by a ladder. Ray was about to go to it when she grabbed him by the back of the head and pulled him towards her, kissing him deeply, one hand ma.s.saging his crotch as she glared at Darby like a hungry wolf protecting its food supply.

When Ray Williams finally pried himself away from the woman's grasp, he turned to the ladder.

'I love you, baby,' the woman said to him. 'Forever.'

'I love you too, Sarah.'

As Ray climbed the ladder, Sarah entered the cell.

72.

'Relax,' the woman said, as she picked up the washcloth. 'I'm not going to hurt you.'

Darby tried to speak, but the words dissolved in her throat.

'It's okay,' the woman cooed as she cleaned Darby. 'It's okay. Go ahead and close your eyes and sleep.'

The woman hummed as she worked. Several minutes later, the woman gently rolled Darby on to her back. Darby, still immobilized from the drugs, couldn't do anything but lie on her back with her wrists tied behind her and her midsection exposed. If the woman wanted to kill her, there was nothing she could do to prevent it. She was helpless.

'Just remember,' the woman said, 'he's mine.'

Darby wasn't listening, her attention locked on the plastic-wrapped steel wire that ran from whatever was on her neck to a hole in a steel ceiling.

The woman saw Darby looking at it but said nothing.

Darby blinked, concentrating on the round, pale face hovering just inches away. The woman's dark brown hair was greying at the roots, and cut short; her dark blue eyes were bloodshot, damp and puffy from crying. Her front teeth were crooked and gapped.

The woman noticed Darby staring and, self-conscious, clamped her lips shut and turned her attention back to the bucket.

I know who you are, Darby wanted to say. You'd go unrecognized on the street, because you're a middle-aged woman now. Your face has filled out, and you're wearing gla.s.ses and your hair is a different colour, but you've got the same eyes, the same nose and lips.

'Nicky,' Darby croaked. 'You're Nicky Hubbard.'

The woman paid no attention. She wrung out the washcloth and said, 'Ray loves me and only me. Remember that. And fight back. Ray really loves it when you fight back. It makes us both so happy.'

Day Ten.

73.

It was a shock collar, the kind used to train dogs; but Ray Williams had modified it for human use, and there was no way to remove it.

Darby had tried. She couldn't see the collar there was no mirror in here but she could touch it any time she wanted to. The obedience collar, as it was called, was made of thick steel and had a small padlock on the back, along with an O-ring. The inside of the collar was lined with fleece so it wouldn't cut or irritate the wearer's neck. Every time Darby swallowed, she could feel the four metal p.r.o.ngs that delivered the shock digging into her skin.

The collar's O-ring was attached to a heavy steel-mesh wire encased in clear plastic the kind of cable used in dog leads to prevent the animal from running away. The cable ran up through a hole in the ceiling, which was, along with the floors and walls, made of galvanized steel; it was attached to a pulley, and it allowed her to roam freely about her homemade six-by-eight cell, with its chemical toilet and mattress.

But the wire prevented her from getting anywhere near the cell's steel door and iron bars, which separated her cell from a room that offered more creature comforts: a twin bed, which at the moment was neatly made and decorated with throw pillows; a nightstand and lamp; a small flat-screen TV and a Blu-Ray player; a high-backed chair, toilet and a small refrigerator stocked with bottles of water and cans of soda. The shelves above the bed held boxes of meal-replacement bars, toilet paper and an a.s.sortment of paperback books, the majority of which, as far as she could tell, were romance novels.

The adjoining room also held a ladder that led to what Darby guessed had to be some sort of trapdoor. She couldn't see it from her cell, but she always heard it when it was opened, and it was being opened right now.

Darby sat up on her mattress and threw back the wool blanket and comforter. At the moment her cell was bathed in a complete and total darkness. Her facial swelling had disappeared; she was able to see out of both eyes; and the staples along her incision itched furiously. She had been given Tylenol with each meal, and she had been provided with ill-fitting but warm clothes: thermal underwear, fleece-lined sweatpants and a woollen sweater. No shoes, though, just two pairs of woollen socks. Williams was smart enough to know that a shoe could be turned into a weapon.

At least that was what Darby a.s.sumed; she hadn't seen Williams since the day he had washed her. Darby figured he was tied up with Coop and the other federal agents who were avidly questioning him about what had happened at Sally Kelly's house. What had Williams told them? That Savran had killed everyone inside the house and then taken her as his hostage? Was Savran alive or dead?

And how many women had been brought here to this private torture chamber, which was, she suspected, buried underground? She had a solid idea about the purpose this place served. There was no question in her mind about what Williams was going to do to her after the heat died down. Williams, she figured, could afford to wait them out.

Were the FBI still in Red Hill? Were they looking for her or did they a.s.sume Savran had killed her?

Her stomach dropped and her muscles tensed when she heard the trap door shut, followed by a padlock clicking into place. Then footsteps continued down the rungs, and a moment later she heard the click of a light switch, and the pair of lamps in the adjoining room came to life.

74.

Once her eyes had adjusted to the sudden brightness, Darby saw the woman Williams called Sarah slipping out of her boots. They were wet with snow. Wherever Darby was, she wasn't inside Williams's house. Was she on his property or had he tucked her away somewhere else?

Darby didn't know, but one thing was clear: Williams had designed this place with care and detail to prevent anyone from escaping.

Sarah wore a pink fleece top with matching sweatpants. 'It's time for your feeding,' she said, slipping her stockinged feet into a pair of slippers.

That was what she called Darby's meals: feedings. Like she was some sort of caged pet. That's exactly what I am.

Sarah smiled brightly. 'Did I tell you Ray belongs to Netflix?'

Darby said nothing, looking at the neatly made bed outside her cell. The woman slept here almost every night, and she spent the majority of the day down here too, reading her Victorian romance novels and watching TV series and movies on DVD. She left for a couple of hours at a time and always came back with supplies at least Darby a.s.sumed it was a couple of hours. She had no idea. There was no clock down here; no windows to tell here whether it was day or night; no calendar to mark off the pa.s.sage of days. She was buried underground, trapped inside the waiting room to h.e.l.l.

'Ray allowed me to get the first season of The Tudors. If you're nice to me '

'How many women?' Darby asked.

'We're not doing this again. I told you, no questions.'

'I know who you are. Why do you keep denying it?'

'Please, I want to have a nice day today. Please.'

'Your name is Nicky Hubbard.'

'Nicky Hubbard is dead. Ray killed her.'

She repeated the same words every time Darby brought up the subject.

'No, he didn't. You're Nicky Hubbard,' Darby said. The woman could deny it all she wanted, but there was no doubt in Darby's mind. 'That's why he's hiding you down here with me. Red Hill's swarming with the FBI, and other cops '

'Wrong.'

'Ray can't afford to have someone stop by the house during the day and see you,' Darby said. She felt sure the news about Hubbard's fingerprint had been released. 'Someone would recognize you if they looked carefully enough.'

'Wrong.'

'You have Nicky Hubbard's eyes. Her nose and lips.'

The woman kept shaking her head. 'I'm getting real tired of you '

'You have her ears too,' Darby said. 'You're Nicky Hubbard.'

'Enough!'

For the past few days, Darby had been playing around with numbers. Ray Williams had abducted Nicky Hubbard thirty-one years ago; Darby didn't know the how and why, because the woman kept refusing to answer Darby's repeated questions on the subject. And Darby knew Williams had abducted another woman not that long ago, the previous occupant of this cell, a woman named Sherrilyn O'Neil. If Ray had been abducting a woman every year, that meant he was responsible for disappearances of thirty other women.

And that was just a conservative estimate. It was more than likely he had been taking two women a year, which brought his lifetime record up to sixty. The frightening thing was that sixty was in all probability still too low a number. How many had he abducted and killed? Darby felt sure Nicky Hubbard knew. But did the woman know where Williams had buried the remains?

The woman who called herself Sarah had collected herself. 'If you behave, I'll turn on the TV so we can watch The Tudors. We can have a nice, enjoyable day together.'

As the woman got down on one knee and reached inside the big plastic bucket she'd brought down with her, Darby launched into the same script she'd been using day after day, hoping that it would release the memories buried somewhere inside this meek middle-aged woman who had been brainwashed into believing Ray Williams loved her.

'You were seven years old when your mother brought you to the Carter & Sullivan department store,' Darby said. 'You were looking at Cabbage Patch dolls when Ray Williams kidnapped you. He was a teenager. He '

'I'm not listening to you any more.' The woman began to transfer the contents of the bucket to a small cardboard box: clean clothes, a bottle of water and a meal-replacement bar.

'Your mother's name is Joan,' Darby said. 'She misses you and loves you, Nicky. She wants you to come home.'

The woman who called herself Sarah Williams stood abruptly. She reached inside her pocket and came back with a small handheld remote with a thick rubber antenna.

'Your mother is alive,' Darby said, struggling to keep her gaze locked on the woman. 'I can take you to her.'

'Say my name my real name. You say it right now or you'll force me to press the b.u.t.ton.'

Darby had been repeating the script for G.o.d only knew how many days, but this was the first time she had seen the woman who believed her name was Sarah with the remote.

'Let me help you,' Darby said. 'I want to help you.'

'Say it. Say my name or I'll do it.'

Darby had an idea of what was coming. Her muscles tensed, and she broke out in a cold sweat.

'Say it!'

'Nicky Hubbard. Your name is Nicky Hubbard.'

The woman pressed the remote's side b.u.t.ton.

Darby had been Tasered before, but this was a thousand times worse. Hundreds of electrified razors tore through her neck and limbs and exploded through the meat of her brain. She clutched the steel collar frantically, uselessly, trying to tear it off. Her legs gave out and then she fell against the floor, writhing. Screaming.

75.

When it was over, Darby lay on the floor, quivering and gasping. As her vision finally returned, she saw that Hubbard had moved the cardboard box inside her cell.

Nicky Hubbard and that's who she was, Nicky Hubbard, not Sarah Nicky Hubbard pressed her face against the bars. She looked sad. Apologetic.

'That was the number seven setting.'

'Nicky,' Darby croaked.

'I don't want to hurt you again. Please, I'm begging you, stop calling me that. You're wrong about Hubbard. She's dead.'

'It's not your fault. Battered women, abused children and cult members they all undergo a very traumatic bonding process. Victims become loyal, even protective of the perpetrators.'

'I am not a victim. I told you that before.'

'Victims go on to develop their abuser's beliefs, values and '

'Stop or I'll press the b.u.t.ton again.'