Mariah Stewart: Last Words

The second book in the Last series, 2007

Many thanks to C. J. Lyons, M.D. (and author of medical suspense novels), for so patiently answering all my questions about the decomposition of the human body under extraordinary conditions.

July 2005

He leaned a little closer to the mirror, checking for signs of five o’clock shadow, tilting his head this way and that to satisfy himself there was no stubble to sully his image. He washed his hands and dried them on the beige hand towel his wife had hung on the bar that morning, then adjusted the collar of his polo shirt and straightened his shoulders.

He did look fine.

“Honey?” His wife called from the hall. “Are you watching the time?”

“Not closely enough, apparently.” He called back, taking one more glance in the mirror before snapping off the bathroom light.

“Don’t forget to say good night to the kids,” she called over her shoulder.

“I won’t.” He fought to keep the touch of annoyance from his voice. As if he’d forget.

God, but she was annoying sometimes.

He poked his head into the kids’ rooms. If he’d been an honest man, he’d have admitted that the delay was more to let the excitement within him continue to build than to have an extra ten minutes with his children. But he was far from honest, and so divided the time equally between them before reminding both to finish their homework and say their prayers before they turned off their lights at bedtime.

“See you at breakfast,” he promised as he headed downstairs.

“I wish your out-of-town clients could show up during normal business hours,” his wife complained when he came into the kitchen. She was rinsing the dinner dishes before stacking them methodically in the dishwasher and didn’t bother to turn around when he came into the room. He fought an almost overwhelming urge to bash in the back of her skull with a heavy object. Which fortunately-or unfortunately, depending-was not within reach.

“What’s the big deal?” He patted her on the butt with what he hoped would pass for affection, “It’s barely seven. And you know very well it’s not unusual to see clients in the early evening hours.”

“Well, it just seems you’re out more and more in the evenings.” She turned to him. “But I guess I should be grateful you get home every night to have dinner.”

“You know how strongly I feel about families sitting down at the table together at the end of the day.” He opened his briefcase and pretended to be looking for something. “And I probably don’t need to remind you that you work through dinner more often than I do.”

“Not my idea,” she protested.

“Not the point.” He closed his briefcase with a snap.

“I don’t get to set my own hours,” she reminded him.

“I’m aware of that. I’m not finding fault. I’m just saying that sometimes if I leave work early to spend time with the kids, I have to make up that time later, which is what I’m doing tonight. It’s a trade-off, that’s all. I know you don’t have that luxury.” He checked his watch. “I’ve got to get going. I’ll try not to be too late.”

He kissed her cheek and walked out the door that led to the garage. On the way, he took a deep, healthy breath of fresh air. It smelled of lavender and late summer roses, and underneath it all it smelled of freedom. Of promise. Of something wicked and yet oh-so-fulfilling.

He drove carefully through town, stopping at the stop sign at the end of his street, and waving casually to a neighbor. He made a left at the first light and went on to his office, where he parked his car and went inside. Leaving the lights on inside-anyone passing by would think he was working late, as he often did-he slipped out the back door and walked to his destination. It took him a while, and he was mildly winded by the time he arrived.

Unlocking the padlock he’d installed after his last visitor had almost departed on her own, he stepped into the dark.

“Honey, I’m home.” He singsonged as his hands reached up for the flashlight he’d left on a hook on the right side of the wall. “Did you miss me?”

His footsteps echoed on the wooden floor and he walked slowly, following the stream of light deeper into the building, letting the anticipation build in him-and the fear in her. He stopped when he came to a doorway, and stood still, sniffing the air, as a dog might, seeking the scent that a woman gave off when she was terrified.

There, there it was.

Lovely.

He stepped into the room and paused to light the candles on the makeshift dresser that stood along one wall. Inside, her clothes were folded and stacked. She would no longer have a need for them but he didn’t have the heart to toss them out, so he’d washed them and put them away neatly.

“I missed you all day, sweetheart. I couldn’t think about anything or anyone except you.” He knelt down next to the bed. “About being here with you, just like this.”

She struggled against the restraints, her eyes wide with fear, her cries muffled by the gag that protruded from her mouth.

“Oh, look at you.” He tsk-tsked softly. “You’ve soiled yourself again. What am I going to do with you?”

He left the room for several moments, then returned with the garden hose.

“We’re just going to have to give you a little shower, aren’t we?” He smiled. “Can’t have you getting all snuggly with your man, looking like that.”

He unlocked the shackles on her ankles, then one of the restraints that tied her wrists to the bedpost. Forcing her to stand on unsteady legs, he moved her as far away from the bed as he could, stretching the arm that was still attached to the bed as far as it would stretch. When he realized that he couldn’t hose her down without getting the mattress wet, he debated momentarily before releasing her other arm. He knew her legs wouldn’t support her even if she had the strength to try to get away-which she obviously wasn’t about to do-and led her several feet to the right before turning on the nozzle.

The first blast of cold water hit her right in the middle, and she cried out, raising her arms to shield her eyes as best she could.

“Now, now, sweetheart, this will just take a minute.” He turned her around to hose off her back and the backs of her thighs. “And you know, if you hadn’t been such a naughty girl, this wouldn’t be necessary.”

He walked around her with the hose, enjoying her efforts to avoid getting the harsh spray in her face. When he was done, he dried her off with one of several towels he kept there for this purpose.

He noted the red welts all over her body. “The mosquitoes have really been feasting on you this week, haven’t they? Maybe if you’re nice to me, I’ll bring something to put on those bites. They really are unattractive, you know.”

He forced her stiff legs to carry her back to the bed. Tiny tears rolled down her face as she submitted to the humiliation of having her arms locked above her head once again. The shackles were not, however, refastened to her legs.

He stood and took off his polo shirt in one motion and placed it on the back of the chair he’d brought here when he first decided to feather his love nest. His shoes were next, then his pants, which were also carefully folded and then laid on top of the shirt.