Kathryn Fox - Without Consent

He stood staring, and took a step forward.

Right then, Anya grabbed the hairspray from the bench, lunged with all her strength, spraying at his face. With the other arm she hit out at the knife. All she needed was the chance to get away.

The force made him stumble back. He grabbed at his eyes. She ran toward the open bedroom door. The stairs were only feet away.

Suddenly, her head whipped backward as pain shot through her scalp.

He twisted her hair to get a better grip. “You stupid bitch!”

Anya clawed at his hand, desperate for him to let go. Unaffected, he dragged her along the floorboards, back into the room. Toward the bed.

Jesus! He was going to rape her! She knew she was helpless on her back, and flipped over onto her knees. He breathed hard but couldn’t swing a hand to hit with her so close. She couldn’t see the knife and struggled to her feet.

With one movement, he picked her up and flipped her onto the bed. Before she could resist, he was sitting on her chest, knees pressed hard on her upper arms. She had to fight to breathe and gasped small amounts of air.

His face distorted with rage and he slammed a fist down hard on her chest, forcing what little air was inside her lungs to escape.

Then she saw the knife again and braced herself.

The pain from the blade on her collarboneforced her head off the bed. Every muscle strained against his weight. For a moment he sat back, knees still pinning her arms above her head. Then he unbuttoned his belt and unzipped his trousers. The smell of ketones in his sickly sweet breath made her gag. He probably hadn’t eaten for hours.

Anya swallowed hard and struggled to think how to stop him. “My ex-husband will be here any minute with our son. He’s got a key,” she lied. “You could get away if you go now. I won’t say anything.”

The words sounded hollow, even to her.

The man cocked his head to the side. “Don’t look at me,” he hissed, and landed a punch to her cheek. “Don’t make any noise.”

The thumping of her heart was almost deafening, and she was sure he was enjoying the sound of air straining to move through her lungs. Is this what excited him-the fear and terror?

Suddenly he froze. “There’s someone downstairs,” he said, zipping his pants with his left hand. The knife stayed put at her throat.

Anya was too afraid to scream.

“Let’s go,” he said, and yanked her up by the hair. Standing, he pulled her head underneath his left arm in a tight headlock, like a footballer holding a ball. Her feet slipped on the floor as she tried to get a grip. The ugg boots had come off on the bed. She didn’t have any control of her legs. The bedroom floor flashed beneath her. The rug slid toward the window in the struggle. A pair of flat shoes were under the bed. She couldn’t reach anything. She tried to get her fingers between his arm and her throat. She needed to breathe. Trying to make a sound, a cough was all that came out. If he had someone else downstairs, she would have no chance of getting away. Maybe one raped and the other killed?

The cold metal pressed harder against her face. It took all her strength to suck in air filled with the stench of body odor.

Slowly, her feet slid down the stairs. Blackness was all she could see. How many stairs were there? She tried to remember. That way she’d know when they were at the bottom. First chance, she’d run for the door.

Light flashed when they turned the corner. The silent TV was still on.

She tried to think. She had to get away, try to get some kind of control. If the police had arrested Lerner, who was attacking her, and why? Maybe Lerner murdered the women but did not rape them.

“Who’s there?” her captor demanded.

He was not expecting anyone! Anya prayed for someone to be here, anyone to save her.

They stood in silence for what felt like minutes, Anya hunched over with the knife in her face. Then he relaxed his grip, just enough to ease her breathing.

“Guess we’re alone after all,” he said. “Now, where were we?”

Anya needed to buy time. Any time at all. She thought of the smell of his breath.

She managed through the arm-hold, “You must be hungry. Don’t you want to eat something first?”

He seemed to pause for a moment then released her, still hanging on to her damp hair.

At least she had the use of her hands, she thought.

“What’s for dinner?” he asked, as casually as if he were home for the evening with his girlfriend.

Anya remembered the profile. Wants to role-play the loving partner. Fantasy rapist. Gentleman. She had to play along.

“There’s a bottle of wine you could open, and some lasagne. It’s cold, but I could heat it up.”

“Do it.” He tightened the grip on her hair. “But don’t try anything. I’ve still got the knife. And don’t look at me.”

Hands trembling, she lifted out leftover lasagne and removed the cling-wrap, feeling the pull on her scalp each time she moved. “Could you put on the light, please, so I can turn on the oven?” She tried to sound casual.

“No lights,” he said. “And use the microwave. Got any beer?”

“No,” she said. “I thought wine was more romantic.”

She felt him loosen the grip on her hair. The knife remained around her chest-for now. For the first time, she thought she might talk him into leaving her alone. She had to gain his trust, get him to open up. She hoped like hell that the profiler had been right. If not, she was about to get herself killed.

She unscrewed the wine bottle. “Pour it,” he said, waving the knife at a glass in the drip-tray. They stepped toward the sink, with his hand still attached to her hair. She could feel his hot breath on the back of her neck.

“You smell nice.” He inhaled again. “Real nice.”

The flesh on her neck and shoulders contracted. She shuddered uncontrollably. He responded by licking her neck. Then he gulped the wine and shoved the glass at her for a refill. The microwave hummed, the light illuminating the clear kitchen benches.

Anya had the knives high up in the pantry, so no little fingers could get to them. Neither could she. Even if she could reach a knife, she was afraid he’d be too strong and turn it on her.

The microwave beeped and steam rose off the lasagne. “Get a fork,” he said, still with the cap low over his eyes. “I’ll eat it here. You can feed me.”

By the way he devoured the leftovers, he hadn’t eaten for quite a while. With his hands still on the knife and her hair, Anya was trapped and had no chance of escape right now. She had to wait. Light flickering from the TV couldn’t be seen from the street. Somehow she had to let Martin know she was home. Somehow she had to get the lights on.

As he chewed, she felt him watch her face as the metal blade depressed her cheek.

She had to play along with the fantasy. It was her only chance of getting away.

“I’ve been waiting for you to come,” she said.

He swallowed hard and stared into her eyes. “How did you know I would?”

“I saw the other girls. I wanted to know what it was like to be with you.” She moved his hand from her hair to her cheek.

He bent forward and brushed his face against hers. The muscles in her face quivered with revulsion, but the gesture worked. Her hair was free of his hold.

“I know you didn’t mean to hurt any of the women,” she whispered. “You were just showing love.”

He raised his head and one of his eyes squinted. She still didn’t know who he was.

She had to be more convincing. Her stomach wanted to purge, to vomit all over him. She swallowed.

“I’d like to get to know you better, you, as a person.”

Don’t cry, she told herself. Stay calm. “I know how intelligent you are, and what you feel about love.” Her voice quavered, so she pushed some hair across his forehead. “That’s why I want this to be right.” Her rapid pulse throbbed in her neck.