Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [116]
A silence descended upon them. They had run out of words; anything else they might say to each other would only compound the hurt. It suddenly felt as if there were a frozen tundra between them, instead of a scarred wooden table in a crowded bar.
They finished their drinks and walked without speaking out into the gathering twilight. A brisk wind was blowing in from the East River, and as they faced the setting sun, it occurred to him this might be the last time he ever saw her.
She stood on the curb, waiting to snag one of the yellow cabs hurtling down Second Avenue. She turned back to him as if about to say something, just as a cab came grinding to a halt in front of them, brakes screeching.
“I’ll call you,” she called to him as she climbed in, closing the door behind her. With a gun of its engine and a squeal of tire rubber, the cab turned west and sped off across town.
Walking home through the darkening city, Lee replayed the evening in his head. He watched the couples, arms linked, strolling in stride with one another, heels clacking crisply on the pavement. Just a few days ago he and Kathy had been one of those couples, and now he was headed home alone, while she caught a train back to Philadelphia.
He knew she was afraid; they were both afraid. And that’s what frightened him most of all.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Drip, drip, drip …
Elena Krieger groaned as she fought her way into consciousness. It was cold here, so cold…. She opened her eyes, but there was little light in the room. She blinked rapidly and peered into the darkness, trying to make out the shape and size of the chamber where she was imprisoned.
Drip, drip, drip …
She struggled to move her limbs, but realized she was bound and gagged, her hands tied securely to her feet. Drip, drip … drip.
The sound was maddening—more than the ropes binding her limbs or the rag wound tightly around her mouth. She struggled some more, but only succeeded in getting rope burns, tiring herself out in the process. She was thirsty, so thirsty.
Drip, drip … drip.
She inhaled the musty odor of dirt and damp stones and realized she was in a basement. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she could see a row of dusty jars on a shelf just above her. Yes—it was someone’s basement, she thought, and this was the canning shelf. For some reason, the thought cheered her. Whoever owned this basement, it was someone who canned. Like her aunt in Düsseldorf, who lovingly boiled and strained fresh berries each summer to make quarts and quarts of fresh jelly: red currant, strawberry, or black raspberry—her favorite. Her tear glands began to thicken, and she could feel her eyes swelling up.
Not now, she scolded herself. Gott im Himmel! Was kann ich jetzt tun? She reverted to thinking in German, as she did in times of stress.
She tried to remember how she got here … the last thing she could recall was getting into the limo with the polite young driver. He had offered her a bottle of water—that was it! He had drugged her! Even now, her shame at being captured was almost as great as her fear. This kind of thing had never happened to her—not Hildegard Elena Krieger von Boehm, in whose veins ran the blood of her ancestors, great German warriors whose blond manes and chilling battle cries sent a stab of fear into the hearts of their opponents.
She had no doubt who her captor was—it was him, the man she had been hunting—but now she was in his power. Another more disquieting thought came to her. He hadn’t killed her yet—but why not? What did he have in mind for her? She tried not to think about it, but fear wound itself around her intestines like a serpent, making her breath come in short bursts. She tried to calm herself by