Airel - Aaron Patterson [66]
To my left I heard the roar of water. Most of the windows on that side, I noticed, were obscured by mist from a cascading waterfall that must have found its source farther up, above us. It reminded me of our family trip to Multnomah one summer; the long hike to the top, the dizzying view from where the stream bed released its charge into the atmosphere. I wondered how I would remember this particular wrinkle if this was really a dream.
The killer said, “I selected this site to build my house many years ago. I thought living under a waterfall would be beautiful.” He looked like he was taking a nostalgic turn.
“Sometimes in the mornings I sit here, watch the sunrise come over the mountains…and as it hits the water it makes millions of rainbows all across this room.” He looked at me. I felt unexpectedly bold, and wanted to ask his name for some reason, but I didn’t. Like a father beholding his beloved daughter, he said, “I want you to know: in time you’ll thank me for doing this.”
He paused, and I could feel my anger begin to boil as he continued, “I don’t expect you to understand now, but one day you will love me as much as I love you.”
My jaw was scraping the floor. “Are you—freaking—kidding me?!” I couldn’t believe what he had just said. He was crazy. “You are a sick man.” I started to back away from him and the windows. I turned my back to him, hoping to provoke him. I wished he would just get it over with, whatever he had planned. I’d rather be dead than waste any more of my life in his presence. The way he looked at me made my skin crawl.
Noiselessly, he strode by me at a brisk pace, leading me out of the ballroom. I followed, because what else could I do? I was starting to become aware of my exhaustion—it had been a long night—and what else was there? Would I curl up on the cold stone floor like a dog? That wasn’t an option.
I figured I’d take my chances with whatever creepy “hospitality” he had to offer me. If there’s one thing I had theorized about people, it’s that they used each other, whether they meant to or not. Whatever his use for me, I made a guess that I could barter his interest for something a little more practical—like somewhere to lie down and die, for instance. At least for the night.
I looked around for any sign of Michael. I worried that my captor might have been lying about not harming him.
We passed through a set of massive double doors that led through a large kitchen. There were no appliances; nothing modern. There was a huge wood-fired brick oven in one corner, and massive wooden tables for workspace that were crowded with huge earthenware bowls, full of fresh produce of every kind.
Ornate cabinets lined the stone walls. Some of the cabinets stood like furniture and I imagined that they were stuffed to the gills with all kinds of things I had never seen. I’m betting that there ain’t a bag o’ chips to be found in this place. No fridge or microwave that I could see, either. I’m so screwed.
I took mental notes of the layout of the place so that when I tried my escape I could remember which way to go. We passed through the kitchen, down a wide hallway, and up a flight of thickly carpeted stairs. He stopped at a pretty standard-looking door. The difference was this one was secured with a thick steel bolt mounted to the outside with a latch the size of my fist.
“This is your room,” he said.
“My cell, you mean.”
He ignored me. “Michael is in that room, next door. I warn you, there is no possibility of escape. Any attempt will result in punishment. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I said in a flat tone, ripping an imaginary hole through him with my eyes. I was so furious my hands were trembling. I clenched my fists open and shut to try to control it. I wanted to see Michael, to hold him and to make sure he was okay. Why was this man doing this to us?
He slid the bolt and flipped the latch open. The door opened with a slight nudge and I walked in. Before I could turn to face him, the door shut with