Hello, Darkness (4 page)

She was in no mood for Stan tonight. “I doubt you’ll suffer any damage.” She waved him out. “Go on. Just lock the door behind you. I can let the police in.”

Her nervousness must have conveyed itself and made him feel like a deserter. “No, I’ll wait with you,” he said glumly. “Go brew yourself some tea or something. You look rattled.”

She
was
rattled. Tea sounded like a good idea. She headed for the employee kitchen, but never made it. An obnoxious buzzer sounded throughout the building, announcing that someone was at the main entrance.

Reversing her direction, she rushed toward the front of the building and was relieved to see two uniformed policemen on the other side of the glass door. Never mind that they appeared to be fresh out of the academy. One of them looked too young to shave. But they were all business and introduced themselves with stiff-lipped laconism.

“Thank you for coming so quickly.”

“We’d been out this way and were headed back when we got the call,” one explained. He and his partner were looking at her strangely, as most people did when they first met her. The sunglasses made them instantly curious.

Without acknowledging either her glasses or their curiosity, she led Officers Griggs and Carson through the labyrinth of dark corridors. “There’s a recording of the call in the studio.”

The unremarkable exterior of the building hadn’t prepared them for the electronic sophistication of the studio. They gazed about them with curiosity and awe. She brought them back on track by introducing Stan. Their acknowledgments were clipped. No one shook hands.Paris used the mouse on the Vox Pro computer to play Valentino’s recorded call.

No one spoke while they listened. Officer Griggs stared at the ceiling,Carson at the floor. When it ended, Griggs raised his head and cleared his throat, seemingly embarrassed by Valentino’s crude language. “Do you get calls like this often, Ms. Gibson?”

“Weird and kooky sometimes. Heavy breathers and dirty propositions, but nothing like what you’ve just heard. Never anything threatening. Valentino has called before. He tells me about a wonderful new girlfriend, or a recent breakup that left him heartbroken. He’s never said anything like this. Never anything even close to this.”

“You think it’s the same guy?”

They all turned to Stan, who had ventured the idea.

He continued, “Somebody else could have borrowed the name Valentino because they’ve heard him on your show and know that he’s a regular caller.”

“I guess it’s possible,”Paris said slowly. “I’m almost positive that Valentino’s voice is disguised. It never sounds quite natural.”

“That’s not a common name either,” Griggs said. “Do you think it’s legit?”

“I have no way of knowing that. Sometimes a caller is reluctant to give even a first name, preferring to remain totally anonymous.”

“Do you have a way of tracing calls?”

“Ordinary caller ID. One of our engineers added software to the Vox Pro that would give us a readout of the number, if it was available. Each call is also date and time stamped.”

She brought up the information on the computer screen. There was no name, but a local telephone number, whichCarson jotted down.

“This is a good start,” he said.

“Maybe,” Griggs said. “Considering what he called to say, why would he use a traceable number?”

Parisread between the lines. “You think it was a hoax?”

Neither of the policemen answered her directly.Carson said, “I’ll call the number, see if anyone answers.”

He used his cell phone, and after listening through numerous rings concluded that no one was going to pick up. “No voice mail either. Better call it in.” He punched in digits, then while he was giving Valentino’s number to whomever was on the other end, Griggs told her and Stan that the number would be traced.

“But my guess is that it was a guy using a name he’d heard on your program and just trying to get a reaction out of you.”

“Like the sickos who make obscene phone calls,” Stan said.

Griggs bobbed his cropped head. “Exactly like that. I bet we find a lonely drunk or a group of bored kids trying to have some fun by talking dirty, something like that.”

“I hope you’re right.”Paris hugged herself and rubbed her arms for warmth. “I can’t believe someone would do this as a joke, but I certainly prefer a joke to the alternative.”

Carsondisconnected. “They’re on it. Shouldn’t take long.”

“You’ll let me know what they find out?”

“Sure thing, Ms. Gibson.”

Stan offered to follow her home, but it was a halfhearted offer and he seemed relieved when she declined. He bade them good night and left.

“How can we contact you when we know something?” Griggs asked as they wended their way through the building, toward the entrance.

She gave him her home telephone number, emphasizing that it was unlisted. “Of course, Ms. Gibson.”

It surprised the two policemen that she was the one to lock up the building for the night. “Are you here alone every night?”Carson asked as they walked her to her car.

“Except for Stan.”

“What does he do and how long has he worked here?”

He doesn’t do much of anything,
she thought wryly. But she told them that he was an engineer. “He’s on standby if anything should go wrong with the equipment. He’s been here for a couple of years.”

“Nobody else works the night shift?”

“Well, there’s Marvin. He’s been doing our janitorial service for several months.”

“Last name?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“Never can tell about people,” Griggs said. “Do you get along with these guys all right?”

She laughed. “Nobody gets along with Marvin, but he’s not the type to make a scary phone call. He only speaks when spoken to, and then he more or less grunts.”

“What about Stan?”

She felt disloyal talking about him behind his back. If she spoke candidly, it wouldn’t be a flattering description, so she told them only what was relevant. “We get along fine. I’m sure neither of them had anything to do with that call.”

Griggs smiled at her and closed his small notebook with a decisive snap. “Doesn’t hurt to follow up.”

Her home telephone was ringing when she let herself in. She rushed to answer. “Hello?”

“Ms. Gibson, it’s Officer Griggs.”

“Yes?”

“Did you get in okay?”

“Yes. I just disengaged my alarm. Have you learned anything?”

“That number belongs to a pay phone near the UT campus. A squad car was dispatched to check it out but nobody was around. The phone’s outside a pharmacy that closed at ten. Place and parking lot were deserted.”

In effect, they were back to where they had started. She had hoped they would trace the number to a sad and lonely individual like Griggs had described, a lost soul who had threatened her and an imaginary captive in a dire attempt to get attention.

Her initial misgivings returned. “So what now?”

“Well, there’s not really anything to be done unless he calls again. I don’t think he will, though. It was probably someone just trying to rile you. Tomorrow night, we’ll have squad cars patrolling the area around that phone booth, watching for anyone lurking in the vicinity.”

That wasn’t satisfactory, but it was all she was going to get. She thanked him. He and his partner had done what was expected of them, but she wasn’t ready to concede that Valentino’s call was a prank and nothing to worry about. Even the origin of the call was worrisome. Wouldn’t someone seeking attention leave obvious clues so that he could be traced and identified, chastened by the police, maybe even written up in the newspaper?

Valentino had used a public telephone so the call couldn’t be traced. He didn’t want to be identified.

That disturbing thought was uppermost in her mind as she made her way through the living area of her house, down the hallway, and into her bedroom. As always when she returned home from work, the rooms were dark and silent.

The houses neighboring hers were also dark and hushed at this hour, but there was a difference. In those houses, the prayers of children had been heard before they were tucked in. Husbands and wives had kissed good night. Some had made love before settling beneath their blanket. They shared a bed, body heat, dreams. They shared their lives. Darkness was relieved by nightlights, small beacons of comfort that shone in rooms littered with toys and shoes, with the accoutrements of busy family life.

The nightlights inParis ’s house only emphasized the sterile neatness of the rooms. Her movements were the only source of sound. She slept alone. That wouldn’t have been her first choice, but that’s the way it was, and she had come to accept it.

Tonight, however, the solitude was unnerving. And the cause was Valentino’s call.

She’d had years of experience listening to voices, picking up nuances in speech, detecting underlying messages, separating truth from lies, and hearing more than what was said out loud. She was able to draw several conclusions about a person based strictly on his or her inflections. Calls had left her feeling happy, sad, reflective, annoyed, and, on occasion, downright angry.

None had left her feeling afraid. Until tonight.

Chapter Four

H
er limbs were beginning to cramp from being held in one position for so long, and an itch on the sole of her foot was driving her nuts. Her face hurt and she could feel it swelling. She ached all over.

That son of a bitch,
she thought, unable to curse him out loud because of the tape over her mouth.

Why had she ever thought he was so special? It wasn’t like he took her to fabulous places and spent money on her. They’d never been anywhere together except this place, and it was a rathole.

She didn’t know anything about him, not where he worked, not even his name. She’d never learned his name even by accident. It wasn’t printed on anything in the apartment, no subscription magazines or mail, nothing. He remained nameless, and that should have been her first clue that he wasn’t classy and intriguing, but just flat-out, freaking weird.

The second time they were together, he had defined the nature of their relationship. Laid down the ground rules, so to speak. He had opened the conversation while spreading baby oil over her, hoping to achieve a special effect in a series of photographs.

“Your friend…the one you were with the night we met.”

“You mean Melissa?” she’d asked, feeling a stab of jealousy. Was he wanting to invite Melissa to join them in a ménage à trois?

“What about her?”

“Have you told her about us?”

“I haven’t had a chance. Her folks made her go toFrance with them for vacation. I haven’t seen or talked to her since the night I met you.”

“Have you told anyone about me and what we do here?”

“Oh, sure. I announced it over breakfast to my parents.” His poleaxed expression made her giggle. “No, silly! I haven’t told anyone.”

“That’s good. Because this is so special, I like thinking that you and I are each other’s best-kept secret.”

“We are each other’s secret. I don’t even know your name.”

“But you know me.”

He stared deeply into her eyes, and she was reminded of her first impression of him, that he could see straight into her innermost being. He apparently had felt the instantaneous connection that she had. After all, he’d told her that first night that he loved her.

The secrecy was probably necessary because of a wife who knew nothing about his “hobby.” She envisioned his missus as a missionary-position-only prude who would never understand, much less consent to, his need for variety and excitement. Pictures of Mrs. No-name masturbating? Get real. Never in a million. Probably not even a bare-boob shot.

That night his lovemaking had been especially ardent. He was focused, you might say, not just his camera. She lost count of the number of times they did it, but it was always different, so it never got boring. He couldn’t get enough of her and told her so. It was a heady experience, being practically worshiped by a man so classy he could probably have any woman. She had thought she would never want it to end.

But that had been then.

Each time she saw him, his jealousy increased, until it began to irritate her and rob her of the pleasure of being with him. No matter how good the sex was, it wasn’t worth the hassle he gave her about other men.

She had thought about standing him up tonight, but then changed her mind. He was going to take it hard whenever she told him she didn’t want to see him anymore. She dreaded a scene, but better to put him out of his misery sooner rather than later.

He had been waiting for her at the appointed place. And, unlike the night they’d met, he didn’t look at all cool and relaxed. He was agitated and edgy. The moment she joined him in his car, he started in on her. “You’ve been with somebody else, haven’t you?”

She supposed she should be flattered that he was jealous, but she had a headache and was in no mood for the third degree. “Do you have a joint?” Having learned that she was fond of smoke, he always had some for her.

“In the glove compartment.”

There were three in a Ziploc bag. She lit one and inhaled deeply. “Best thing for a headache.” Sighing, she laid her head on the headrest and closed her eyes.

“Who was he?”

“Who was who?”

“Don’t jerk me around.”

His tone brought her head up.

“You’ve already been with someone tonight, haven’t you?” His fingers were clenching the steering wheel. “Don’t bother lying about it. I know you’ve just had sex with someone else. I can smell him on you.”

At first she was surprised and a bit unnerved that he knew. Had he been spying on her? But the uneasiness soon gave way to anger. Why was it any of his business who and when she screwed?

“Look, maybe getting together tonight isn’t a good idea,” she’d said. “I’m PMSing and I don’t need any shit from anybody. Okay?”

His anger dissolved instantly. “I’m sorry I raised my voice. It’s just…I thought…”

“What?”

“That we had something special here.”

That’s when she should have told him that she didn’t want to see him again. Right then he’d given her an opportunity, but, damn it, she hadn’t taken it. Instead she’d said, “I don’t like you ragging me about where I go, what I do, and who I do it with. I get enough of that at home.” She leaned back and pulled deeply on the joint. “Either chill or take me back to my car.”

He chilled. He was subdued, even a little sullen, when they reached the apartment. “Want some wine?”

“Don’t I always?”

She was already high from the weed. Might as well go all out and get really wasted. One mercy fuck, then she’d tell him they needed to cool it for a while—read
forever
—then she’d get the hell out of here and never come back.

His computer monitor was the only source of light in this room where the shades were always drawn. One of the more graphic photos of her was on his screen saver.

Seeing it, she said, “Tsk, tsk. That’s definitely one of the ‘afterglows,’ isn’t it? I’m such a naughty girl. Naughty but nice, right?” She winked at him as she accepted the glass of wine he brought from the kitchen.

She drank it like water, burped loudly and wetly, then extended the empty glass toward him in an impertinent request for a refill.

“You’re acting like a slut.” He calmly took the glass from her and set it on the nightstand. Then he slapped her. He slapped her so hard that tears came to her eyes even before the rocket of pain from her cheekbone reached her brain.

She cried out, but was too shocked to articulate a word.

He pushed her back onto the bed. She landed hard. The room seemed to tilt. She was more wasted than she’d thought. She struggled to get up. “Hey! I don’t—”

“Oh, yes, you do.”

He splayed his hand over her chest, holding her down while he wrestled with his belt and fly. Then he began tearing at her clothing. She swatted his hands, kicked at him, and called him every name in the book, but he wouldn’t be stopped.

He pushed himself into her with such force that she screamed. He covered her mouth with his hand. “Shut up,” he hissed, so close to her face she felt a shower of spit.

She bit into the flesh beneath his thumb. He yelped and withdrew his hand. “You bastard,” she yelled. “Get off me.”

To her astonishment, he began to laugh softly. “You fell for it. You thought I was serious.”

She stopped struggling. “Huh?”

“I was just fulfilling your rape fantasy.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Am I?” He thrust hard into her. “Can you honestly say you don’t like it?”

“Damn right. I hate it. I hate you, you son of a bitch.”

That caused him to smile, because in spite of what she said, she was responding. When it was over, each was exhausted and glistening with sweat.

He recovered first and went for his camera. “Stay just as you are,” he said as he clicked off the first shot.

The flash seemed exceptionally bright. She was good and truly stoned.

“Don’t move,” he told her. “I have an idea.”

Move? She was too lethargic to move. Her entire body throbbed, starting with her cheekbone—how was she going to explain a bad bruise?—and all the way down to her splayed thighs. Christ, she still had her sandals on. How funny was that? But she was too tired to trouble herself with taking them off. Besides, he had told her not to move.

Maybe she dozed for a minute or two. Next thing she knew he was back, bending over her, pulling her wrists together.

“What’s that?” She roused herself and saw that he was using a necktie to bind her wrists together.

“A prop for a photograph. You’ve been a bad girl. You need to be punished.” He climbed off the bed and picked up his camera and adjusted the focus.

That’s when it began to get creepy and she felt the first twinges of apprehension. She had struggled to sit up. “Have I mentioned that I’m not into bondage?”

“This isn’t bondage, this is punishment,” he said absently as he moved to the lamp. He adjusted the shade, setting it first at one angle, then another, causing shadows to shift across her body.

Okay. Enough of this. She’d had it. After tonight, no more of him. Posing for him had been fun. It had been something different and, admittedly, it had been a kick to later look at the pictures of herself.

But he was getting too possessive and too…too out there.

“Look,” she recalled saying sternly, “I really want you to untie my hands now.”

Finally satisfied with the lighting, he began setting up the tripod.

Taking another tack, she softened her tone. “I’ll do anything you want. You know I will. All you have to do is ask. Anything.”

He still didn’t seem to be listening. While he was distracted, she had inched toward the edge of the bed, calculating the distance to the door. But when she looked at it, something struck her as odd, and a cold dart of fear went through her when she realized that there was no doorknob on this side. Only a brass disk where the doorknob should have been.

That’s when he had stopped tinkering with the camera. No doubt sensing her alarm, he had smiled down at her. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I want you to untie me.”