Jonas Saul: Bound

“You talked to the police?” Mrs. Walsh opened her front door all the way. “They give out information on a case so easily?”

“Ma’am, I’ve worked with the police for years on missing persons cases. My reputation is sound. I respect confidentiality. They wouldn’t work with me if I didn’t.”

Kramer wondered if it would start to rain before Kelly’s mother decided to either let her into the house, or send her on her way.

“Did the police send you?”

“No,” Kramer said.

“How about the media? Were you sent here to dig for more clues or did you come on your own?”

“I came on my own.”

Mrs. Walsh made an exaggerated attempt to step out on the porch and look both ways, up and down the street.

“Am I able to trust you? You’re saying, no one sent you? You’re here to talk about Kelly and no one knows you’re here?”

Why are we still going over that point? What is she getting at?

“It appears you’ve been hounded to the point of paranoia,” Kramer said. She raised her hands in an ‘ I surrender’ gesture and said, “I just want to talk. That’s it. No one and nothing is behind my motives.”

Mrs. Walsh stepped back into her foyer and nodded at Kramer, but she didn’t step aside to allow Kramer entry.

“Maybe we could continue this conversation inside. If it’s possible, I would like to see Kelly’s bedroom.”

“Okay,” Mrs. Walsh said, as she moved to the side.

Kramer stepped in to a modest home. It appeared to be kept clean and tidy, but she started to feel that something was wrong again.

“Please understand. I’m usually pretty cautious when answering the door. We used to get reporters wanting interviews, and all sorts of weirdos, knocking at all hours.”

Oh, so now you only allow psychics into your home .

“Kelly’s bedroom is up there,” Mrs. Walsh said as she gestured at the stairs and started for them, slamming the front door hard. Kramer followed close behind.

When they entered Kelly’s bedroom, she saw that they’d turned it into a library. She also saw Kelly, sitting in a rocking chair in the corner.

“Are you okay?” Mrs. Walsh asked.

It must’ve shown on her face. “Yes, yes I’ll be fine. What happened to Kelly’s things? Aren’t you expecting her to come home?”

“Sadly, no. She wasn’t the type to run away. My husband and I decided to move on. If and when she does come home, then we would turn her old room back to the way it was.”

That’s odd. Mrs. Walsh knows more about Kelly’s disappearance than she’s letting on. Something is very wrong here.

Kramer heard a soft whisper. She looked over as Kelly was mouthing the words ‘ where the deer play ’.

“Was there a certain area where Kelly set up her glass deer?”

“Oh, my, you really are psychic.” Mrs. Walsh walked over to the closet and stood beside it, pointing into the corner of the room. “Before this bookcase was here, we had set up a circular rug in the corner. When she was little, Kelly would play for hours on that rug, so none of her glass figures would break. She always played with her deer right here.”

Kramer walked over, being careful now to keep a little distance from Mrs. Walsh. Every sense she had screamed to RUN . She had to leave, to come back with Bruce or never again.

To look like she was onto something, Kramer used her hands to inspect the bookcase. She ran her hand down the side of the wall and felt a slight depression in the drywall.

She heard someone coming as footsteps resounded along the outside corridor. She turned to see who it was. Mrs. Walsh’s facial expression had changed. She looked angry.

The footsteps stopped outside Kelly’s bedroom door.

“Everything okay Mrs. Walsh? Have I offended you?” Kramer asked.

She hadn’t seen the rubber mallet in Mrs. Walsh’s hand before. Now it dangled from her grip.

“You big city bitch.” Her voice had taken on a high-pitched squeal, as if this was her real voice, and she had deliberately deepened it earlier to converse at the door. “You come here and want to start shit. Who do you think you are?”

Kramer had felt it. She should have run. She regretted getting this involved in the first place.

She turned at looked at the chair where Kelly sat. Kelly was crying, her face red, tears streaming down her cheeks. She was shaking her head back and forth, and mouthing the word ‘ No ’.

Kramer’s stomach dropped even further. She stepped back, leaning against the bookcase.

A man stepped into the room behind Mrs. Walsh. His physical features led Kramer to believe that she was now standing in the presence of Kelly’s parents.

“I’ll leave. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“Oh no. You won’t be leaving. Ever,” Mrs. Walsh spat the last word and lunged.

Kramer ducked out of reflex. The mallet hit the bookcase above her head, stopping its descent. Kramer looked for an escape. She felt trapped, locked in the corner of the bedroom, both Kelly’s parents blocking her in.

Before Mrs. Walsh could raise the mallet again, Kramer dove past her legs and tried to crawl through the door.

A large hand grabbed her from behind. As much as she writhed and protested, Mr. Walsh held firm and lifted her as if she was weightless.

“We got us here a pretty one,” he said, his breath smelling of onions and garlic.

“No one knows she’s here,” Mrs. Walsh added. “Take her to the basement and do what you do best. Treat her to a little Kelly treatment.”

Kramer grabbed hold of the doorframe and tried to arch herself in a quick twist to dislodge his grip, but it was too tight. The man had to be at least six and a half feet tall.

Then Mrs. Walsh dropped the mallet again, this time connecting with Kramer’s wrist where she held the doorframe, breaking it.

Kramer screamed. The pain was more intense than anything she had ever felt.

“That’ll teach you to go nosing around in other people’s business,” Mrs. Walsh shouted in Kramer’s face. “Who do you think you are? Now you’re gonna pay, you little bitch.”

Mr. Walsh dragged Kramer out of Kelly’s bedroom, but not before Kramer caught a glimpse of Kelly, still sitting on the chair in the corner, her head in her hands, crying, her body wracked with sobs. The pain became too much. Blackness covered her peripheral vision and then moved inward until Kramer slumped, completely out.

Kramer woke to a massive amount of pain. The basement was dark and smelled of oil. A little light shone out of a single bulb that dangled from the ceiling.

She looked over at the source of her pain. A rope tied her swollen wrist to a long nail protruding out of the wall. The injury looked horrid. It was a dark purple, her hand sitting at a bad angle. She looked at her other arm and then down her body. Nothing else damaged yet.

Then she tried to look around the basement as best she could in the little light she had. It was a mess. Tools scattered around different makeshift tables told her the guy wasn’t organized. Something hung from the ceiling to her right. It had chains, and a small black strip that looked like a seat.

Then it hit her. She looked back at the tools on the tables. They weren’t just any tools. They were items used in some kind of fetish. She was sure of it. The thing hanging from the ceiling was a swing of some kind. Behind a beam, barely visible in the light from the bulb, she saw a medieval stockade, with the hole for a head and two smaller holes for the hands. Black ropes could be seen dangling around the side of it.

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.