Falling Into Place (10 page)

As if he recognized her weakening resolve, Emily’s captor chose that moment to enter for the first time. He wore a full face mask similar to those worn by executioners during medieval beheadings. Only his eyes were visible through asymmetrical holes cut in the fabric, and those dark orbs chilled her to the core. She choked out the word “why” before he hosed her down for the first of many times, causing her to choke as the water filled her nose and mouth. She thought she was going to die right there before it stopped and she could finally breathe again, coughing and gasping for air. He was gone without uttering a single sound.

Her kidnapper kept her in that simple, windowless, 10 x 10 room for days with no heat, light or other amenities, such as food and water. Her only nourishment came via an intravenous drip hanging from the ceiling attached to a vein near her ankle, so it wouldn’t get contaminated by her excretions. She spent most of the first few days falling in and out of unconsciousness due to both her inverted position and the machinations of her tormentor. After the first 24 hours, he would periodically come into the room to torture Emily, always keeping his face hidden. Emily quickly grew to despise the sight of that face mask with a hatred so all-consuming it surprised even herself.

Always in complete silence, her captor made superficial but precise incisions all over her body, cutting just deep enough for blood to stream down her naked form. He stood in mute awe as it flowed over her hips, breasts and buttocks, never saying a word. The madman never took his eyes off her, staring at the patterns the dripping blood made as it cascaded down her body. Despite not wanting to give him the satisfaction, she could hear his breath quicken and feel his excitement grow with each scream, moan or sob she eventually uttered. The son of a bitch would wait for her to lose consciousness before stitching her wounds and hosing her off once again.

Emily thought of Kurt often in those early days, drawing on their love for the strength to go on. She was determined to see him again, to somehow escape from this unnamed level of Hell in which she found herself. Hoping to piece together an escape plan, she began looking for normal patterns in this surreal, insane set of circumstances. She strained to hear any sound that might be a clue as to where she was being held. But she didn’t even hear the wind or rain. As the days dragged on she noticed her captor only tortured her at night. At least she thought it was night by the drop in temperature before and during his visits. Did this bastard have a 9 to 5 job, pretending to be a nice, normal person instead of what he was: a deranged lunatic? Did he have formal medical training? The precision of his cuts and the meticulous stitching of the wounds made her think so. None of these disparate facts helped her form even a rudimentary picture of her attacker. That reality left her dispirited, chipping away at any remaining hope of survival.

As the same sick scenario played out over and over, day after day, Emily lost her will to live, unable to focus on anything but the pain radiating from every inch of her skin. Her demented keeper spent long hours cutting her and watching her bleed never saying a single word to her when she shrieked curses at him through gritted teeth. Before long, all she wanted was to retreat inside herself in a desperate attempt to get away from his cold, inhuman eyes constantly staring, always staring. The only thing she had left to look forward to was the moment she inevitably lost consciousness, managing to escape his glare for a little while.

After one such encounter, Emily woke up on the floor, no longer suspended but still restrained at the ankles and wrists. As she lay there on the cold, hard concrete, she couldn’t escape the stench of the fetid, waste-filled puddles scattered on the ground from her multiple cleanings. Even though she was still shackled, she could run her fingers over the vast multitude of stitched incisions all over her body. She’d lost so much blood it seemed incomprehensible that she could still be alive. Her belly ached from hunger and her throat was raw from both dehydration and her continuous screaming. She felt as weak and helpless as a newborn infant.

The continuous torment also eroded all her remaining reserves of strength, her hope and even her senses. Emily had no idea how long she’d even been at the mercy of this lunatic; the very concept of time was now alien to her. It seemed like she’d never been anywhere else but that room, that she’d spent her whole life with her psychotic captor. Now when she tried to think of Kurt, her happiness with him seemed like a forgotten fantasy from a life she’d never lived at all. It was so hard to picture his face when she closed her eyes. All she could see were those eyes, that facemask and the shadows moving around her, which meant
he
was back and the nightmare was starting again. Emily no longer remembered a life without pain, inevitably accepting she was going to die in that room.

The unmistakable sounds of the madman returning brought her to tears once more, the last remaining ounce of resistance dying inside her. Emily prayed to a deity she never believed in for this ordeal to be over; to put her out of her misery. She desperately wanted to die. As her captor silently made his way into the room, she looked up at his shadowy form and begged him to kill her.

“Please, please, I’m ready,” she whispered softly with tears streaming down her cheeks. “Please end this. I want to die.”

The man stood in silence, gazing down at the broken, beaten woman before him. Slowly he knelt before her, his eyes locked on hers. Methodically, he removed his facemask and Emily screamed louder and longer than ever before. The man calmly waited for her screams to fade. Once they turned into incoherent sobs and distraught mewling, he took her face in his hands with a gentleness that surprised her.

“Much like every other so-called
normal
person, your viewpoint is quite pedestrian, Mrs. Sheppard,” the man said with a smile straight out of a funhouse mirror. “You think in terms of beginnings and endings, not of the infinite expanse that this actuality can be.” He casually wiped the tears from her cheeks with his index fingers. “You see this perhaps as the end of your life, the cessation of your suffering, but it is merely another phase of ultimate existence. This is all simply part of the very essence of what we are.” He moved his hands down her face, resting them on both her shoulders. “Do you finally understand this?”

Emily felt an eerie calm come over her. The world seemed to move in slow motion as all her anxiety and fear melted away. She stopped crying and smiled as only a child can, before the child learns how unfair and cruel the world can be; how hard life becomes once you grow up. She said serenely, “I do understand now.”

“You have made me very happy, my dear,” the man whispered softly in her ear. “It is a pleasure to finally meet the real Emily. My name is Mikhail.”

There was a sudden sharp pain in the right side of Emily’s neck, immediately followed by a feeling of euphoria. She felt the warmth of her blood flowing down her skin. It was a familiar feeling by now, but she innately knew this time was different. Her bleeding was so rapid she knew her jugular vein had to have been pierced. The end had finally come for her. It was comforting, in a way, as Emily strangely felt whole, like she’d found a piece of herself that’d been missing all those years. She knew there was little time before life left her completely. She closed her eyes, smiled broadly and thought of Kurt.

Police Detective Jefferson Mancini was a dedicated and highly decorated officer of the NYPD, working in the homicide division of Manhattan’s 13
^th
Precinct for the previous six years. In his twelve years on the force he’d seen and been involved in his fair share of bad situations. Like most cops, he’d even caught a few cases that affected him personally: his third grade teacher, Miss McCaffrey’s husband was busted for solicitation; a kid he went to summer camp with, Edwin Nunez, got mugged on the lower East Side; and a girl he had a crush on in college, Joanne Kleinschmidt, died of a heroin overdose in her dingy, little Queens studio apartment. Those instances gave him some pause, causing a day or two of quiet reflection on the random nature of life or brought back bittersweet memories long forgotten. This current situation was in an entirely different league.

Ever since Emily Sheppard’s body was found under the Brooklyn Bridge, the detective’s world had begun to fray at the edges. The bizarre nature of her abduction and the obvious torture she had endured sent his mind reeling. He felt a mixture of guilt, empathy and sorrow on top of an overwhelming sense of responsibility to find her killer. Truthfully, it was eating him up inside but it was infinitely worse for her husband, Kurt, the police detective’s best friend. Looking across the bar at the drunken, slumped-over form of his long-time buddy, Jeff couldn’t help but think this was the worst it was ever going to get for either of them.

The two men met in Junior High School, bonding over sci-fi movies, comic books, the N.Y. Mets and, of course, girls. During their teenage years, they were inseparable, despite their many differences. Jeff was a star athlete, tall, muscular with the dark hair and the good looks of a teen heartthrob, while Kurt was a quiet, average-looking, introspective dreamer with a sharp mind and a quick wit. Kurt and Jeff became a team early on and nothing could break them apart. They watched each other’s back even when their precocious natures got them into hot water.

As they grew and matured, so did their friendship. It was a bond stronger than family. Even when Jeff entered the Police Academy while Kurt started at NYU, they managed to stay important to each other, getting together at least once a week to share various aspects of their new lives. In fact, whenever something relevant or memorable happened to Jeff Mancini, Kurt Sheppard was always there with a grin, a wisecrack, unconditional love and support. Jeff desperately wanted to be there for his friend now that Kurt needed him more than ever.

“I didn’t want to call anybody else, Jeff,” the bartender said softly at the far end of the tavern, looking back over his shoulder at Kurt Sheppard, who was in one of the booths along the wall. “He’s been in here every night since Emily went missing. Usually, he nurses three or four beers before heading home, but tonight he was out of control. I had to cut him off about an hour ago, even took his keys just to be safe. He was pretty pissed for a while but then he just kinda petered out over there. Figured you’d want to handle it yourself.”

“Thanks, Mitch,” Jeff replied, slipping him a twenty for the consideration.

“Up and at ‘em, dude. Time to go home,” Jeff said loudly as he tried to prop up his friend, who was pretty much dead weight due to his level of intoxication. The detective lost his grip and Kurt’s head slammed against the mahogany table with a startling “Thud.”

“Ooooow,” Kurt mumbled, roused from his stupor by the pain.

“Come on, buddy. Let’s get you outta here,” Jeff chided as he reached for the drunken man’s arm. Kurt regained enough of his senses to finally recognize his long-time friend. He stared up at him while trying to focus his thoughts as Jeff continued to try to coax him upright.

“Wha –? Get outta here? You get outta here!” Kurt yelled, pulling his arm away roughly, accidentally slamming his hand into the wall. “Ow! Dammit!” he said, shaking his hand, before turning back to Jeff stone-faced. “Don’t you have a killer to find,
buddy
? What you wastin’ time harassing drunks for?!”

Jeff knew it was the alcohol talking rather than his best friend, but the words still cut deeply. He spoke softly, “Kurt, come on, bud, you know I’m doing everything I can, but right now we have to get you home to bed. I’m not about to leave you alone when you need my help.”

“Emily needed your help! Where were you when she needed you, Jeff! When
we
needed you! Where were you then?” Kurt screamed as tears began to roll down his cheeks. He repeatedly slammed his fists on the table, causing all his empties to fall and shatter on the floor. The distraught man then buried his face in his arms on the table.

The few remaining patrons watched the tableau with various amounts of interest, scorn and bemusement. Mitch, the bartender, began to inch closer, but Jeff waved him away with one hand. He put his other hand on his friend’s shoulder, causing Kurt to look up, his face red with anger and inebriation. It was then that he saw Jeff was crying too and his countenance instantly changed from rage to sorrow. “I-I’m trying, man. I –” Jeff whispered.

Kurt covered Jeff’s hand with his own as he said through sobs, “I’m sorry. I know you loved her too. I just miss her so much, Jeff. So much. I don’t know how to go on. Sometimes I can – I can still hear her voice calling to me. I don’t want to live without her. I don’t. I – I wish I could’ve died with her,” Kurt said, desperately.

The police detective had no words that would even remotely comfort his buddy, so he sat down next to his friend, put his arm around him and hugged him until they both were all cried out. He then drove Kurt home, got him settled into bed and, despite it being almost 2 a.m., went back to the precinct to go over the case once more.

At 7:13 a.m. the next morning, Jeff Mancini was rousted from a fitful slumber by the ringing phone on his desk. He was greeted by the mocking laughter and derisive comments of his fellow officers who’d been having a grand old time at his expense. His shirt was littered with post-it notes saying “Sleeping Ugly,”

“Kids, Don’t let this happen to you” and “Do Not Feed the Animal,” among other sophomoric attempts at humor. As he reached for the receiver, he instinctively gave the room his middle finger, holding it high above his head for everyone to see.

“Mancini,” Jeff said, removing the Post-its as he cradled the receiver on his left shoulder. “Hey, Caroline. Hmmm? Yeah, okay. I’ll be right there.” Jeff grabbed his coat and headed toward the door, saying, “When my partner shows up, can one of you comedians tell him I went to see the M.E.?”

“Crawley’s in with Cap,” Detective Timmons said between bites of a cruller. “Been in there for the last ten minutes or so.”