Chapter 12
BEFORE THE LIGHTS SNAPPED off and the room was once more plunged into darkness, Proctor had finished his meal. He had no intention of starving himself; on the contrary, he knew that now, of all times, he needed to keep up his strength.
Proctor did not feel afraid. He had witnessed things over the last decade to render fear in a situation like this both superfluous and counterproductive. The central problem now was the identity of his captor—and why he’d been kidnapped.
He used the brief period of light to give his surroundings exceedingly precise scrutiny. His captor was not just insane, but insanely cautious: he could see no flaw in the room’s security, nothing that might be useful as a weapon.
When the room fell again into sudden blackness, he put the food tray back into the slot, retaining the water bottle for later use.
He closed his eyes, clearing his mind with a series of mental exercises.
And then he stood up—mindful of limbs that ached from lack of movement; careful not to let the blackness, or his cuffed hands, confuse his sense of balance.
He walked back and forth for a while on his hobbled feet.
He squatted down, testing his cuffs once again.
No possibilities there. Then he spent an hour on his hands and knees, familiarizing himself with the cell: crawling along one wall, then another, to the piss-drain—which he used—then completing the circuit of the room.
He did this several more times. Then he tried crossing the middle of the room diagonally, aiming for the opposite corner in the dark: first slowly, then more quickly, until he had gained a proprioceptive sense of the dimensions of the room and his place in it.
He’d used the light to estimate the room’s size, and now he used the blackness to practice crossing it at speed, low to the ground and from various angles.
It seemed unlikely he’d be given a chance, but this was his best shot at catching his enemy in the dark.
His enemy. Funny how quickly the old mindset returned to him.
He went back to his original position. He did a vigorous round of push-ups, sit-ups, and calisthenics, then leaned against the wall.
He estimated three hours had passed since the lights went off, but keeping track of time wasn’t a concern—his captor had made it clear he’d be fed at regular intervals, and for now that was enough.
He moved on to considering the situation from a larger perspective.
He was clearly in a basement room—many things, including the musty, humid smell, made this evident.
This argued for him having been moved inland, above sea level, or perhaps on a geological ridge such as where the French Quarter had been built.
He was not the first to have been imprisoned here—the smell of stale urine and other, faint human scents made that obvious.
More revealing was his abductor’s evident prior experience with captives.
The man’s efficiency and the advice not to starve himself—everything argued that a former tenant, or tenants, of this padded hellhole had refused to eat, made noise, tried to escape, perhaps pissed and shit themselves.
His foe had learned from them, and Proctor was now the unfortunate beneficiary of that experience.
He briefly considered the fate of those former tenants, and the conclusion was not pretty.
The man was clearly a sociopath—the way he’d come into the garage in his uniform, smiling, completely at ease: Proctor would have detected any scent of deception.
But there had been none. And the quick, efficient way he’d incapacitated Proctor, of all people, implied experience with kidnapping—perhaps a lot of experience.
Beyond that, though, Proctor could not determine a precise motive.
If his captor was a serial killer, which seemed increasingly likely, he did not fit the MO of any Proctor had heard of.
Also disquieting was how intently the man had looked him over during their interaction—not his face so much as the rest of him, particularly his right arm, bared as it was by the hospital smock.
It was as if the man was sizing him up for something.
He had neither the information nor sufficient observations to make a more informed judgment.
He’d done all he could for the present, and he should probably rest. He shifted into a prone position, twisted his hands to a spot where the zip ties felt least bothersome—and then, after taking a deep breath, began relaxing the muscles of his face, followed by those of his shoulders, biceps, forearms, thighs, and calves: first the left side, then the right.
He was asleep before the next step—clearing his mind—was even necessary.
He was woken by the ceiling lights, turning night into day. He sat up, muscles tense, ready to take advantage of any opening. He heard the voice of his captor through the small slot at the bottom of the door.
“You ate everything,” he said. “Good. And you’ve rested. I’m glad you’re intelligent enough to accept your situation and not waste energy screaming or attempting to harm yourself. As a result, I think you’ll find today’s meal a lot more appetizing.”
There’ll be little reason to speak again—so he’d said when he entered the room. Nevertheless, he was speaking now, and Proctor saw no reason to interrupt. The smell of roasted meat reached his nostrils.
“Please put the tray and your trash back beneath the door once you’ve finished your meal.”
A tray of food appeared. “See?” came the voice. “I promised you would eat well.”
Wrapped in thin waxed paper was a pound of filet, cubed and grilled. In the other cardboard compartments were boiled carrots, folded pancakes, and more Jell-O. There was significantly more food this time, with another bottle of water.
“Since you ate everything and haven’t made a nuisance, what I’ve brought you today is not only more palatable but more ample,” he said.
Proctor thought to himself that the man liked to talk. That was one weakness.
“You’ll also find a multivitamin and a couple of amoxicillin tablets in the food container,” the man said. “After eating, you will swallow the pills with some water. They aren’t really necessary—the antibiotic is just a precautionary measure—but if you don’t take them, I will have to punish you.”
Proctor did not respond. He simply looked at the food—which was indeed ample and prepared with care.
Unusual care. And now a grim thought entered his head.
The way the man had looked him over with an almost slavering expression; this insistence on eating well and staying healthy—these hinted to Proctor at the fate his abductor had in mind for him.
“You’re a strange fellow,” his captor said. “Other than that nonsense about the crocodile attaché case, you’ve remained quiet. You don’t plead. You haven’t offered me the PIN code for your ATM card. You don’t even ask questions.”
Proctor didn’t reply.
“Fifteen minutes,” the man said. “Enjoy your dinner!”