Bound Read Free

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