Depraved Difference (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery Book #1) Page 2

  Her shoulder bumped into something.

  She yelped, jumping back, listening for what she did not know. Silence. She tentatively reached out, her hand coming into contact with the same cold, dampness she had felt all along. She turned, running both hands along their respective surfaces, until they met. It’s only a corner! Settle down! She breathed a sigh of relief, and continued along this new wall. It didn’t take long for her to confirm there were three more corners. And no door. She got down on her hands and knees, and began to explore the floor, reaching out in wide circles, running her hands along every square inch, then crawling forward another few feet. The entire floor seemed to be of the same consistency as the walls. She reached the end of her second pass, and turned to make her third, feeling almost like a lawnmower, trying not to miss any of the surface. She moved several feet from the wall, running her hands about, finding nothing she hadn’t already found. She reached far ahead to plant her hands then drag herself toward her next search area, when her left hand found empty space. Falling forward, she felt her hand hit something cold. She continued to collapse, the chain overhead screeching in protest, then breaking her fall as all the slack she was granted was used up. Now on her side, she pulled her hand up out of the cold void, the distinct feeling and sound of ice cold water finally registering. What the hell is that? She changed position so she could explore with her free hand, and felt around. She found a small area of concrete, perhaps four feet square, with a smaller square cut cleanly in the middle, that went down about six inches, at which point there was water.

  She had no idea what this was, or why it would be there. Could it be part of the plumbing? “Eww!” she exclaimed, rubbing both hands on the dirt floor in an effort to remove any unseen sewage. She smelt her hands and didn’t notice anything. She stuck her tongue out to touch it to her hand then stopped. How desperately do you need to know? She made a mental note of the location of the hole in the map she was now creating in her head, and continued her exploration, finding nothing else of interest. She crawled to the nearest corner, and thought about what she had learned. She had dirt walls that turned into concrete higher up. The floor was dirt, with some sort of concrete hole leading to water. She knew there was a ceiling above her, with a wood floor on top of her, suggesting a house or cabin of some sort. I’m in a basement. She nodded to herself. She was definitely in a basement, dug out to be deeper than any basement she had ever been in before.

  She had repeated her explorations several times, but found nothing she had missed. The occasional sound of rushing water from the hole she had discovered suggested it might indeed be linked to the plumbing of wherever she was. Rather than use the floor and live with the smell, she had taken to using this hole as a latrine. Her routine had continued, unchanged, for what she now thought to be weeks, but with no sense of time, she was only guessing.

  But today was different.

  Today she felt different. After eating, she had fallen asleep, which wasn’t unusual, but when she woke up, she felt different. She felt clean. Her mouth, which had become disgusting to her, tasted fresh. She ran her tongue over her teeth, and they felt smooth, clean for the first time since she had been taken. She tasted the distinct grit of toothpaste, as if she had not had any water to rinse. And her hair! Her head no longer itched. She reached up with her free hand and ran it through the smooth, clean hair, not a single knot, no hint of the matted greasy mess that had been there before. She ran her fingernails against her scalp, and realized they had been clipped. She reached down and felt her toenails finding they too had been trimmed. As she ran her hands up her legs, she immediately realized something else was different. What the hell? She felt her pants, then her shirt. They were different. I’m wearing different clothes! As she explored her body using only touch and smell, she realized she had been cleaned and groomed. Everywhere. From her hair and ears, to her toes, to her—. She shuddered to think of it. But there was no doubt. He had definitely cleaned her. Thoroughly. She drew her knees up and she hugged them to her chest, burying her head and closing her eyes. What else did he do to me?

  As she sat there, moaning, trying to come to grips as she rocked herself like a small child, she heard something overhead, then an odd zapping sound, followed by a flash of blinding light. She squeezed her eyes shut and jumped to her feet, her hands flat against the wall behind her as she felt her way into a corner. Finding the corner, she froze and held her breath, listening for the telltale signs her captor might be about to join her. There was nothing. She tentatively opened her eyes, holding her free hand up to shield them from the light. She rapidly blinked and tried to focus, her eyes no longer used to the brightness. It took a few minutes for her eyes to adjust, but when they did, she found a lone light bulb hanging from the ceiling. She stepped under it, closing her eyes and enjoying the warmth as the bulb bathed her in light for the first time since she had been taken captive. It felt wonderful. Almost like sunlight. She stood, lost in this nearly forgotten sensation, for several minutes, then opened her eyes again, and looked around her, seeing her prison for the first time. It was definitely a basement, made of concrete walls that turned to dirt about five feet from the floor. The floor was dirt, the only exception the small square where the water hole was. Above were wooden rafters that appeared very old, the distinct lines of the platform cut into the floor the only break. And there was the pole, running the entire length, a pair of handcuffs clasped to it, then to a chain that led down to her own pair.

  She slowly spun around, taking in every detail, not sure how long the light would last. As she did, she noticed something on the walls. She stepped closer and gasped. Long gouges were scratched into the dirt by fingernails, as if someone had tried to climb out, the bloody streaks left on the concrete, three feet from the ceiling, indicated the extent of their success.

  She wasn’t this dungeon’s first captive.

  For the first time in weeks, she screamed.

  Aynslee Kai leaned back in her chair and tried to stretch all the kinks of a hard day's work from her body. It was useless. When she got home she would pour a glass of cabernet sauvignon, grab a Tess Gerritsen novel, and run herself a hot bath. Though the evening newscast had ended long ago, her work as the entertainment reporter was never over. She loved her career choice but hated her job, covering celebrities not exactly hardcore news. Her dream? CNN anchor. Yeah, me and every other person in this business. She hoped her talent would be spotted eventually so she might escape the cubicle assigned three years earlier, its plain, light blue walls pale reminders of the sky of which she had no view, the single plastic “window” merely providing a better view of the enclosed offices lining the outer walls, devouring the sunlight, leaving nothing for the minions like herself, relegated to serving within the bowels. Art prints clashed with a collection of cartoon clippings, their humor long lost, plastered about in a futile attempt to brighten her cell but instead serving to remind her of her miserable existence and lack of success. It was taking longer for her talent to be recognized than she had planned. At first she thought she had hit the jackpot to get assigned the entertainment beat. It meant regular face time almost every night, but she soon realized she would never be taken seriously as long as she did it. Usually reporters rotated out or quit, but she hadn't moved on yet. Friends told her it was because she was too pretty. She thought that was BS, half the female talent on the air these days had implants and West Coast noses.

  About to call it a day, she heard the familiar double-tone of an email arrive. She glanced at her watch. Almost midnight. Forget it, I'll look at it tomorrow. She shutdown the notebook, disconnected it from the docking station and slipped it into its carrying case. Checking her BlackBerry to make sure it was on, she headed out the door. As she waited for the elevator a young intern joined her. He seemed to always be there whenever she was leaving, almost as if he lurked around the corner in wait for her. It creeped her out. She nodded at him and pulled out her iPod to try and head off a conversation.

 
“That's a nice iPod, Miss Kai.”

  Too late!

  “How many gigabytes does it have?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “No clue.”

  “You probably just got it 'cuz you liked the color!” He laughed. The awkward guffaw made her cringe. Thankfully the elevator chimed a soon definite end to their conversation as the doors opened. She stepped aboard and to her dismay, he did as well. “Me, I got an eighty-gigabyte model. As soon as I got it, I ripped my entire CD collection. It took me weeks, I've got hundreds of CDs you know. I have over six thousand songs on it. If you'd like I could put together some playlists for you.”

  Having tuned him out, it took her a minute to notice he was waiting for a response. “Sorry, I didn't catch that, I'm a little distracted, working on a story, you know.”

  “I was wondering if you'd like me to put together some playlists for you?”

  How do I get rid of this guy? In as disinterested a tone as she could muster, she said, “Sure, leave them on my desk.” His face brightened. That probably backfired. The elevator opened on the ground floor and she burst from it like a bull at the rodeo. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed she had left her stalker behind as she raced to the subway. She scrambled down the station steps, swiped her transit pass, pushed through the turnstile and headed to her platform. It didn't take long for her train to arrive. She sat at the front of the car, her body pressed against the side, her purse on her lap, her notebook case strategically occupying the seat beside her, the strap wrapped several times around her arm. She turned up her iPod and retrieved her BlackBerry to check her email, curiosity winning out.

  The email contained no text, only a video attachment. She activated it. As the clip played her jaw dropped and her eyes opened wide. She looked around to make sure no one had seen it then ran to the door as the subway slowed at the next station. She dialed the news director as she rushed to the other side of the platform.

  Logan kicked a discarded Pepsi can and watched as it clanged away from him, coming to rest near Joe, the resident drunk who slept in front of their building, or in the lobby on cold days. He looked at the shithole he lived in and sighed. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He had never really expected to be rich or famous, but a dishwasher at a pizzeria without a penny to his name, and a family that refused to speak to him, was not where he thought he would be at eighteen. He had been stoned, after all, when he and Aaron had videotaped the woman being beaten on the subway a year ago. When they returned to his parents’ house they posted it on YouTube and every other site they could think of, but not before recording an outro featuring the two of them horsing around for the camera. That part was really stupid. He kicked a beer bottle, the hollow echo of the glass rolling on the concrete sliced through the uncharacteristic silence. Joe stirred. Within hours their handiwork had been downloaded thousands of times. It even made the local news and over the next few months the coverage of the incident and the debate over the morality of leaving the recording of a woman’s murder on the Internet drove over one hundred million curious and depraved to view it. When his father found out he kicked him from the house, saying anybody who stood by and watched a woman get beaten to death was no son of his.

  Fuck 'em. Who was he anyway? He had never been proud of him, never patted him on the back for a job well done. Did you ever do anything to make him proud? Logan sighed as he looked up at the building he and Aaron, tossed as well by his mom, had rented a small bachelor pad in a year ago. He hadn’t even known neighborhoods this seedy existed in New York until they moved in, but it was all they could afford with the odd jobs they were able to find. It had turned into a yearlong bender of booze and drugs. A bender he was tired of. But Aaron seemed perfectly content to keep going this way. I’m just so tired.

  “You okay, kid?”

  Joe’s gravelly voice startled him. He looked at Joe, lying on his side, hugging a brown bag Logan was sure didn’t hold leftovers from lunch.

  Logan shook his head. “No.”

  He stepped into the lobby, checked the mail, tossed the bills in the garbage and dragged his weary body to his apartment. After he shouldered the warped door closed behind him, he heard voices on the other side of an old acoustic divider pillaged a few months ago to try and give each other some privacy for when they were getting busy with the honeys. There had yet to be any honeys.

  “Hey, Logan, that you?”

  “Yeah.” Logan stepped around the divider and saw Aaron and a man he had never seen before laughing on the couch as they watched TV, the hijacked cable feed their biggest accomplishment in three months. How long their rooftop handiwork would last, they didn’t know.

  “Dude, this is Wolf, he's new in the building.” Wolf stood and shook Logan's hand. He looked old, maybe thirty, blonde hair, kind of nerdy looking.

  Wolf pointed to a case of beer sitting on the table. “Beer?”

  Logan already liked him. He grabbed a bottle and twisted off the cap, flicking it toward Aaron who ducked and laughed. After a long swig Logan sat down in a nearby beanbag chair, its innards long-since replaced with newspaper and other semi-soft scraps, and ran his fingers through his shoulder-length, scraggly hair, trying to rid himself of the knots caused by the hairnet his boss forced him to wear all day.

  “Tough day at work?”

  “I hate that fucking place.” Logan proceeded to scratch his goatee. “It's hot, it’s noisy and the boss is a prick. And look!” He held up his hands for them to see. “I've got dishpan hands for fuck's sake!”

  Aaron laughed. “Life sucks, dude!”

  Wolf nodded and reached into his pocket. “Maybe this will help take your mind off it.” He pulled out a small Ziploc bag and fished out three blue pills.

  “That better not be Viagra, you fag!” yelled Aaron, causing Logan to spray his beer toward the kitchen.

  Wolf smiled. “Nope, better.” He popped one and handed the other two to the roommates. They both swallowed the pills and washed them down without question. Within minutes Logan began to relax, the tension in his neck and shoulders eased as his troubles of the past year slowly melted away. His entire body felt light, almost as if he could float from the chair if he chose to. He looked at Aaron and giggled, his eyelids starting to feel heavy. Aaron slumped forward and hit his head on the drywall board perched atop four cinder blocks serving as their coffee table. The beer bottles rattled from the impact, caps and beer can ashtrays jolted into new resting places. Logan giggled uncontrollably at the sight. He pointed at Aaron and looked at Wolf who spit out his pill as he watched Logan. This made Logan laugh even harder as the room spun around him. He reached out to steady himself on the floor, but grasped empty air instead, the floor not where he expected. He spilled his beer as he fell forward and passed out.

  Aynslee stood her ground. “This is my story and there's no way in hell I'm giving it up!”

  Jeffrey Merle, the news director, sat perched on the edge of his desk, his arms folded over his chest, propped up by a small potbelly. “Aynslee, this is too big for an entertainment reporter. Shaw is our crime reporter, I want him to run with this.”

  “No friggin' way, Jeff,” she said as she crossed her arms and avoided eye contact with Jonathan Shaw who lounged in a nearby chair, a look of self-importance on his face she would love to smack off. “This was sent to me specifically, it's my story or I walk to another station with it.” Might have crossed the line there. She knew Jeff didn’t like to be threatened. But she had his balls in a vise. The killer had sent the email to her, not the station. If she walked they'd lose the exclusive. And she knew he knew it.

  Jeff stood and walked around his desk. He sank into his high-backed leather chair and clasped his hands behind his head, revealing a hint of perspiration under each armpit. He looked between her and Shaw intently for a minute as he pondered the situation. Aynslee waited. To say patiently wouldn't be accurate. Her heart pounded and her face was flush. She clenched her fists tight, her fingernails digging into the skin so ha
rd she was sure they were drawing blood. She knew this was her big chance to break out from her three year rut. She also knew this might mean the beginning of a new career. He’s going to fire me.

  Jeff broke the silence with a sigh. “Fine, it's yours. Now get out, we lead with it on the six a.m. broadcast.” He picked up the phone, ending the meeting. Aynslee missed the expression of shock on Shaw's face as she marched from the office, her head held high. She passed her cubicle and headed straight to the bathroom, closed the stall door and vomited.

  Logan’s chin rested on his chest and his head throbbed as if he had just woken from a weekend bender. He felt someone struggling behind him and when he opened his eyes and turned his head, he saw it was Aaron. They were sitting on the floor, backs pressed together. Logan tried to stand, but couldn’t, something tight against his chest preventing him. He looked down, and saw some type of cord wrapped several times around his chest, holding him to Aaron, and his arms straight to his sides. He looked around the room and saw Wolf near the window, looking out on the street below. He yelled into the gag stuffed in his mouth, the muffled sound snapping Wolf from his reverie. He slowly shifted his gaze to Logan. Logan went silent, the expression, or lack thereof, on Wolf’s face sent his heart racing in fear. Wolf strode over to the coffee table where a notebook computer was set up. He stroked his finger over the touch pad and the screen saver disappeared, replaced by a media player. He clicked the button to play the selected video full-screen so both Logan and Aaron could see it.