Bound Page 2

  What the hell is this place?

  Footsteps started down the stairs. Mr. Walsh came into view. He was wearing shorts and a wife-beater shirt, white and stained.

  They couldn’t hold her for long. Bruce would miss her at dinner and wonder what happened. He knew she wouldn’t stand him up. They’d had a deal. But would he come to the Walsh house and expect to find her tied up in the basement?

  “I see you’re finally awake.”

  He stepped up close and sniffed her. It was repulsive and at the same time reminded her of a dog doing the same thing.

  “Good, I smell fear.”

  He lifted the edge of his shirt and wiped his nose, snorting as he did it.

  In all her experiences with the dead and working with the police, she had never been in such a bad place.

  “What are you going to do? Whatever it is, there will be no going back. You won’t be able to undo it.” Kramer hated that her voice sounded so weak.

  He looked up at her and stared for a moment before responding. “I never want to undo nothing.”

  “What about Kelly? Wouldn’t you want to change that?” She had nothing to go on. She had to try to keep him talking.

  “Never. Kelly was good. One of the best. I left her locked in that stockade over there for almost a week once and she still begged for me to do it to her. The more they beg, the faster I release them. You’ll learn this rule because you’re a bitch too. You’ll learn.”

  Kramer’s insides twisted. She almost lost her bowels as her urine, warm and sudden, rushed down her leg.

  Mr. Walsh looked over at her feet. “Good,” he smiled. “That’s a start.”

  He stepped over and bent down, placing his hand, palm open in the small puddle that formed at her feet. She leaned into the wall as hard as she could to get away from him, but it was no use.

  He lifted his hand and sniffed again. Then he opened his mouth and licked her urine off his fingers.

  He looked up at her and smiled his evil smile again. “You taste good.”

  For a large man, he stood up with ease and speed. One second he was on his knees and the next he was standing, his chin coming to her forehead.

  “You’ll do fine. One or two months of being my pet and then I’ll bury you in the wall like all the others.”

  Kramer couldn’t help herself: she spat at his face, the phlegm landing beside his mouth in a glob.

  He stepped back, licked around his lips, caught a piece of her saliva, and dragged it into his mouth.

  “Damn, do you taste good.”

  Then with the quickness and deft speed of an athlete, he lunged forward, grabbed her jeans on both sides, and yanked with his vise-grip hands. They snapped and dropped, leaving her exposed to him, her panties the only thing separating her privacy from his insanity. Kramer screamed as long and as loud as she could.

  “Oh, you are going to be fun. Maybe later, my wife could join us. I usually leave her out in the beginning. I love all the bodily fluids except blood.” He turned and tossed her jeans away and then looked back at her. “My wife only likes blood. When she joins us, you end up minus a finger or a toe. After a few weeks, you’ll never walk again and then, eventually she takes too many pieces and I’m left with a dead trunk, and that’s no fun. Well, maybe for a few days, but that doesn’t concern you, because you’re already gone by then.”

  He laughed. Then he guffawed and slapped his knee. The laugh grated on her already raw nerves. Kramer cried. Was this it? Could it be that easy?

  A loud bang from upstairs made her jump, pain rushing through her wrist.

  Mr. Walsh looked up at the ceiling.

  “Wait here,” he said.

  Where am I going to go, asshole?

  As Mr. Walsh reached the bottom of the stairs, Kramer heard a gunshot somewhere above. He heard it too, and stopped. In the dim light, she thought she could actually see doubt on his face.

  He ran from the bottom of the stairs to a table that was littered with gadgets, lifted one and walked over to stand beside her.

  The door opened above. Light shone down the stairs. It looked like someone was holding a flashlight.

  “Kramer? You down there?”

  “Help!” she yelled, but only half the word escaped her lips before Mr. Walsh clamped a hand over her mouth. Breathing became a chore she couldn’t accomplish.

  The tool in his hand was a metal OBGYN-type speculum with the ends shaved down to points like knife-tips. Mr. Walsh turned the sharpened ends toward Kramer’s chest and pushed it forward with all his strength.

  Between his grip and the ropes on her wrists, she had little wiggle room, but it was enough to arch her back and spin her chest away. One of the pointed ends of the speculum entered between two rib bones and punctured her right lung, which caused immediate stress in her breathing ability.

  A gun went off somewhere in the basement.

  Mr. Walsh’s hand came away from her mouth and nose. Breathing was even more difficult than before. It seemed like the one bulb in the basement went out for Kramer.

  #

  Kramer regained consciousness as she was being loaded onto a stretcher. An officer was standing over her.

  “What happened?” she managed to ask.

  “We got ‘em, thanks to you. You’re going to make. You’ll be okay.”

  “Got who?” she asked, feeling slightly out of it. “You mean, Mr. Walsh?”

  Bruce nodded. “You didn’t show for dinner. The great Kramer would never stand me up. I figured you’d come to the Walsh house, so I thought I’d do a drive-by tonight. I found your car parked a block down. The engine was cold when I touched the hood. It set off my internal radar. When I came to the door, Mrs. Walsh was acting weird. Then I heard someone screaming from the basement. I asked to check it out but Mrs. Walsh said no. I called for backup and explained that I had probable cause and entered the house anyway. I cuffed Mrs. Walsh and then got startled and fired my weapon by mistake. I found you in the basement.”

  A paramedic stepped forward and tried to push Bruce away. “Sir, we have to get her to the hospital.”

  Kramer lifted her good hand and touched Bruce’s arm. He turned back.

  She tried to speak, but nothing came out.

  “What? What are you trying to tell me?” Bruce asked.

  “The…” she waited, breathed in, cringed with the pain, and said, “wall.”

  “The wall? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Kramer nodded.

  “What about the wall? Is there something in the wall?”

  Kramer nodded.

  Bruce went to ask something again and then stopped, stared down the street, then looked back at her.

  “Is Kelly in the wall?”

  Kramer nodded.

  “Okay. Thank you.” He looked at the paramedic. “Take her away and bring her back in one piece. Nothing happens to this one, you hear?”

  Kramer was lifted into the back of the waiting ambulance, where Kelly sat beside her all the way to the hospital, smiling and mouthing the words, ‘Thank you’.

  The Numbers Game - A Preview

  An excerpt from The Numbers Game.

  I never thought I’d be up on first degree murder charges. The proof is in the numbers. I know this. But they don’t.

  I’m a vacuum cleaner salesman. I used to sell shoes, but now I sell Kirby’s. I run door to door and try to sell my G8 Kirby upright vacuums. The killing has nothing to do with me, but one of the people I had just done a presentation for was murdered minutes after I left their house. I’m innocent.

  This is my story. Call it a diary. I won’t lock it. Besides, I don’t have a lock or anything metal in my prison cell. They don’t allow those things. So I will write my tale and let everyone know what I do and how I do it so they can see that I’m not a murderer. I can’t afford a lawyer from the money I make selling vacuums, but I’ve got legal aid, although that’s worth nothing. Maybe the Judge will read this.

  It’s lights out so I’l
l write in the dim glow I get from across the corridor. It’s a short story so I’ll be brief but there’s two things you need to know up front.

  I only got caught because I had Mrs. Gavin’s shoes in my apartment, and someone saw my car in front of her home and wrote down my license plate number. That makes sense as I was there doing a demonstration.

  I’m innocent. Remember that.

  It’s important.

  #

  Tuesday morning. The sun is shining high already and there’s a slight breeze. I’m off to a great start today. I’ve hit twenty-two houses. Ten doors weren’t answered, and twelve were rejections. The rule is, for every one hundred doors, you get into two. That means by the time I hit fifty, I should get in one door. Once I get in and show them how good the Kirby is, they’ll want one for themselves. Although that’s not always true, because for every four demonstrations, I only sell one. To break it down, I need to hit two hundred doors to sell one vacuum on average.

  See what I mean about the proof being in the numbers? I live by that. It allows me to finance myself properly, as selling vacuum cleaners is one hundred percent commission. If I want a raise, all I have to do is hit another fifty houses per day for a week and I’ll, on average, probably sell an extra vacuum per week. At four hundred dollars a hit in commission, selling three to five per week, I’d say I’m doing all right. I’m not rich, but these are just the numbers. I know the proof’s there and that’s how I get by, but in the end, they’re just numbers.

  I’m on Maple Street. It’s still before lunch. Let’s see how many rejections I can get. You see, that’s the fun part. The more rejections I receive only means I’m closer to an open door. An open door is a potential sale. And, any open door is a chance for me to add a nice pair of shoes to my collection.

  What people don’t know is that I collect shoes. Mostly ladies shoes. I don’t wear them. I’m not creepy. I just collect them. I have over two hundred pairs now from different cities in the States. Today I’m itching to add to that.

  It’s like a calling. I need them. I have to have them.

  The next house coming up is a Victorian. Very nice white trimming and a manicured lawn. I’m sure the owners could use a new Kirby and I could use a new pair of shoes as I mentioned a moment ago.

  I ran up the walkway and rang their bell.

  No answer.

  I rang it again.

  I heard footsteps approaching slowly. The door opened.

  “Hello?” A woman in her fifties stood in the doorway (It can be said, this is Mrs. Gavin).

  “Hi! My name is Trevor Ashton and we’re in the area today offering free carpet shampoos to you and your neighbors.” I thrust out a bottle of Carpet Fresh and held it high in my hand. This always made me feel like those girls on The Price Is Right waving their hands in front of the items people were to bid on. “There’s no obligation and for letting us clean your carpet you get a free bottle of Carpet Fresh. Doesn’t that sound great?”

  The woman seemed stunned. She looked at me a moment longer, evaluating my smile and then shook her head. She started to close the door.

  “Excuse me ma’am,” I said, reaching out and touching the door before it closed. “Is there a reason you wouldn’t like a free carpet shampoo? There’s nothing to buy and there’s no obligation. It’s completely free.” I said this last part with a I’m so excited I just can’t hide it flourish.

  She looked at me and attempted a half smile. “I’m not feeling well. I’ve had hip surgery recently and I’m not up to company. But thank you anyway.”

  She started to shut the door again.

  “But ma’am, you’re the perfect candidate. Don’t you see?”

  The door almost closed. It stopped at the frame. I waited. It opened again, almost defiantly.

  “I already get my carpets cleaned by a company that does a great job. I pay them often to come and do it. They were here about two weeks ago so the carpets are fine. Thank you.”

  “That’s perfect. I love a challenge. Do you realize how much they miss? The Kirby, in under five minutes, would show you how bad they’re doing.”

  She looked me up and down, her face showing her displeasure at my intrusion. In the end, I told myself, if I lost her I’d run to the next house and try again. Eventually I’d get in somewhere. That’s a fact. It’s in the numbers.

  “The carpet cleaners that do my home are very good, and they’re so cheap that I barely pay them a tip, and you want to know why?” She paused here like the drama queen I could tell she was. “Because my son owns the company.”

  Okay, here’s a challenge. I just told her the company she uses sucks. It’s her son’s company. To her I’ve disrespected her family. I’ve got to talk fast and think faster.

  “Let me ask you a question and then I’ll leave. Is that fair?”

  She held the door firm. It looked like she was getting ready to slam it in my face. I didn’t wait for her to tell me to go ahead.

  “Let’s say you just went to the doctor and he told you that your cholesterol was off the charts. Arteries were clogging and he requires you to be hospitalized. He tells you to go home to pack your things and report back to the hospital by mid-afternoon. He also tells you to eat nothing until your return. Especially don’t eat any fast food like greasy burgers because it could be what kills you.” I use my hands a lot when I talk so I dropped the bottle of Carpet Fresh on her door step and emphasized my next point about hunger. “Now, you haven’t eaten all morning. Your nerves were jangling because you were worried about what your doctor was going to tell you. As you walk out the front doors of his clinic—”

  “Are you going anywhere with this? I have to get off my hip. Please hurry.”

  “Yes, ma’am, almost done. As you walk out the front doors of his clinic you see a beautiful diner across the street. You step a little forward and can smell whatever it is they’re cooking. The sign out front says, All you can eat bacon==> FREE! You know the trick. Buy some eggs and get all the bacon you want. Your stomach turns and winces with the smell. You’re going to be hospitalized that afternoon. This is your last chance to splurge, to dazzle yourself with the second love of your life: bacon.”

  “Is there a question in there somewhere?”

  I continued as if she hadn’t interrupted. “Even though it’s free and you know it’s not good for you, would you still go and eat that bacon? Even though it could kill you. The parallel is, even though they clean your carpet for basically free, after the damage I show you they’re doing to your home, would you still have them over, son or not?”

  I waited. Sometimes direct questions like this get a slammed door in the face. Other times you’ve intrigued them enough to take the bait and let you in to see what you’re made of. This was that case.

  The woman stepped back, a smug look on her face. It seemed she liked the fire in my pitch. “Okay, you win. Get your Kirby and let’s see what happens, but I promise you, I won’t be buying one. Just do the carpet and show me the results. We’ll go from there. I’ll leave the door open because I have to go sit down now.”

  She limped away from the open door. I turned and ran down Maple Street to my Pontiac, drove to the front of her house and retrieved the boxed vacuum from the trunk. After carrying it to her door I stepped in, closed the door behind me and quietly locked it. I always locked the doors for our protection. You never know what psychos might walk in while I’m doing a presentation.

  I took my shoes off and placed them neatly beside a beautiful pair of red Jimmy Choos. They sat up so pretty, with a small heel and a lovely strap with little diamonds on it. Wow, the woman had class. These were also the shoes that got me charged with murder even though I didn’t do it. Mrs. Gavin had less than two hours before she would be bludgeoned to death with a rolling pin and a meat tenderizer.

  Although I couldn’t know that at the time.

  #

  I entered her main living room and got the Kirby out of the box and then went about setting everythin
g up. The display model, or as we call it, our partner, has an added piece that the customer’s models don’t have. It’s a little circular window on the right by the air intake. It has small clasps to undo the top. I opened it and placed one of my hundred black cloths in it so we could see what was in her carpet.

  “What are you doing? It was just vacuumed yesterday.”

  “I have to vacuum the carpet first to make sure there’s no grit or sand in it otherwise when I’m shampooing I could cut the fibers of your carpet. My goal is to clean the carpet, not damage it.” I said this with my best car salesmen smile. “After I’ve gone over it a little and nothing comes up then we can go right to shampooing. How does that sound?”