escape. But for some reason those means escaped her now.
As if in answer to her unspoken pleas his hands moved towards her. For a fleeting moment she thought she might be freed. But instead those hands moved from their position hanging at the man’s sides to the front of his pants, less than a foot from her face.
He unzipped his fly.
A rush of panic swept through her. She screamed as loudly as she could. “No!” she yelled. “No! No! No!” she shouted again and again. She wanted tokick out, but her restraints would not allow it. The chair shuddered and jumped, guided by her frenzied movements. She tried to hop her way backwards, away from the man and his open fly, but she could not.
Through all of this, the man seemed not to hear her.
He reached into his open fly, and exposed his penis.
She reacted to the display with a physical revulsion that began at her toes and crept up through her body to the top of her head and back down again. Knowing that she could not hop her way backwards, she did all she could to turn her head. When she strained her eyes upwards to look into his face, she saw that he was smiling—not a real smile, not the kind she was used to, but some cheap imitation of a smile.
After standing exposed for what seemed an eternity, her captor zipped his pants up again. Then he laughed. He laughed at her, making the most horrible, humourless sound she had ever heard any human being utter. Then he just walked away.
He hadn’t forced himself on her. Yet. It would only be a matter of time, she feared. She needed to do something. She needed a plan, some semblance of control. Debbie even considered an attempt at seduction. She considered what she might achieve if she convinced him that she would cooperate, that she could love him. If he would just release her for amoment, to move her to a better position perhaps, then she might stand a chance.
What is this game? What does he want?
Debbie didn’t know the answers, and she was afraid to find out.
CHAPTER 16
Les Vanderwall came home with a headache, having left some of his old mates downing beers at the Waddling Dog Pub. It was a bit early for him to pack it in, but for some reason he didn’t feel well. Whenever that happened, he made a mental note of whether there was any link to his wife’s death. He’d noticed that he became ill every month on the anniversary of the day she died. Sometimes it wasn’t the right day of the month, but even just the time of day, or a reminder of some kind—a whiff of some special smell, a bit of her handwriting found unexpectedly in a cookbook, a memorable place, a phrase. The family doctor said this was not unusual, and that these reactions would ease in time.
Les was worried that he might become antisocial. His mates couldn’t truly understand the impact of the loss of his wife. None of them had been through anything similar, except John and his divorce but that was hardly the same as he’dinstigated it. Now that Jane was gone, Les had no one to relate to emotionally, the way married couples did. He was alone in his grief. He didn’t want to burden his daughters. They had their own lives.
Les Vanderwall felt like half a man. It was gradually forming a wedge between him and his friends. That could be a terrible problem. He had to make an effort to stay in touch socially. Les knew that if he became a hermit he wouldn’t last much longer.
Wearily, he dragged himself up the steps and into the kitchen. The answering machine was flashing.
“Les, it’s Christopher Patrick here…” His lawyer. “It’s about five-thirty, perhaps you can call me back tomorrow morning? There are a few issues with the estate.”
There were always a few issues with his late wife’s estate. Eighteen months on, and there were still issues. How could there still be issues? The real issue was that she was gone. Nothing could reverse that.
The machine beeped and played the second message.
“Hello, Les, it’s Ann calling from
As if in answer to her unspoken pleas his hands moved towards her. For a fleeting moment she thought she might be freed. But instead those hands moved from their position hanging at the man’s sides to the front of his pants, less than a foot from her face.
He unzipped his fly.
A rush of panic swept through her. She screamed as loudly as she could. “No!” she yelled. “No! No! No!” she shouted again and again. She wanted tokick out, but her restraints would not allow it. The chair shuddered and jumped, guided by her frenzied movements. She tried to hop her way backwards, away from the man and his open fly, but she could not.
Through all of this, the man seemed not to hear her.
He reached into his open fly, and exposed his penis.
She reacted to the display with a physical revulsion that began at her toes and crept up through her body to the top of her head and back down again. Knowing that she could not hop her way backwards, she did all she could to turn her head. When she strained her eyes upwards to look into his face, she saw that he was smiling—not a real smile, not the kind she was used to, but some cheap imitation of a smile.
After standing exposed for what seemed an eternity, her captor zipped his pants up again. Then he laughed. He laughed at her, making the most horrible, humourless sound she had ever heard any human being utter. Then he just walked away.
He hadn’t forced himself on her. Yet. It would only be a matter of time, she feared. She needed to do something. She needed a plan, some semblance of control. Debbie even considered an attempt at seduction. She considered what she might achieve if she convinced him that she would cooperate, that she could love him. If he would just release her for amoment, to move her to a better position perhaps, then she might stand a chance.
What is this game? What does he want?
Debbie didn’t know the answers, and she was afraid to find out.
CHAPTER 16
Les Vanderwall came home with a headache, having left some of his old mates downing beers at the Waddling Dog Pub. It was a bit early for him to pack it in, but for some reason he didn’t feel well. Whenever that happened, he made a mental note of whether there was any link to his wife’s death. He’d noticed that he became ill every month on the anniversary of the day she died. Sometimes it wasn’t the right day of the month, but even just the time of day, or a reminder of some kind—a whiff of some special smell, a bit of her handwriting found unexpectedly in a cookbook, a memorable place, a phrase. The family doctor said this was not unusual, and that these reactions would ease in time.
Les was worried that he might become antisocial. His mates couldn’t truly understand the impact of the loss of his wife. None of them had been through anything similar, except John and his divorce but that was hardly the same as he’dinstigated it. Now that Jane was gone, Les had no one to relate to emotionally, the way married couples did. He was alone in his grief. He didn’t want to burden his daughters. They had their own lives.
Les Vanderwall felt like half a man. It was gradually forming a wedge between him and his friends. That could be a terrible problem. He had to make an effort to stay in touch socially. Les knew that if he became a hermit he wouldn’t last much longer.
Wearily, he dragged himself up the steps and into the kitchen. The answering machine was flashing.
“Les, it’s Christopher Patrick here…” His lawyer. “It’s about five-thirty, perhaps you can call me back tomorrow morning? There are a few issues with the estate.”
There were always a few issues with his late wife’s estate. Eighteen months on, and there were still issues. How could there still be issues? The real issue was that she was gone. Nothing could reverse that.
The machine beeped and played the second message.
“Hello, Les, it’s Ann calling from
Similar Books
