Chapter Seven #2
Family photographs cover one wall. A peach crocheted blanket is folded over the couch, a bowl of hard candy sits on the coffee table, and an old wooden sign near the kitchen says BLESS THIS MESS.
Floral curtains frame the windows, fading sunlight glowing through little pink flowers while Whiskey carries a handcuffed deputy across polished hardwood.
The house smells faintly like cinnamon, furniture polish, and the remains of whatever candle his Mama had burning earlier.
Serial killers have mothers too.
I repeat that twice in my head.
Whiskey shoulders open a door near the kitchen.
Stairs descend into darkness.
Fuck.
“Basement?” I ask.
“Basement.”
“You know how bad this looks?”
“Yeah.”
“You planning to chop me into pieces?”
“Too tall. Freezer ain’t big enough.”
I smack his back again.
“That ain’t funny.”
“Little funny.”
He carries me downstairs.
The basement is somehow even less murderous than the rest of the house.
An old brown sectional faces a television that probably weighs more than I do.
A washer and dryer sit beneath a small window near the ceiling.
Metal shelves are stacked with canned vegetables, cleaning supplies, old toys, and Christmas decorations.
A plastic Santa smiles at me from an open box beside an exercise bike with towels hanging from the handlebars.
There’s a chest freezer.
Of course there’s a chest freezer.
A scarred workbench runs along one wall, and enough ceramic angels are lined across a shelf to make me deeply suspicious of his mother’s decorating choices.
Whiskey finally sets me on my feet.
I immediately swing my cuffed hands toward his head.
He ducks.
“Goddammit.”
“Take these off.”
“No.”
“You can’t fucking hold me here.”
“Already doing it.”
“I’m a deputy.”
“You’ve mentioned that.”
“My father is the sheriff.”
“Really?”
“He will find me.”
“Probably.”
“And then he’ll kill you.”
Whiskey nudges the plastic Santa box out of his path with one boot like we’re discussing weather instead of his probable murder.
“That part’s getting repetitive.”
I step closer. “You think because you dragged me into some sweet little old lady’s basement this is less of a kidnapping?”
“My mama ain’t that old and sure as heck ain’t that sweet.”
“That’s your defense?”
“No. Just don’t call her old to her face or you’ll learn how sweet she’s not.”
I turn toward the stairs.
Whiskey catches me around the middle.
Again.
“Let go.”
“No.”
“I swear to God…”
“You do a lot of swearing for law enforcement.”
He steers me toward a support post beside the old workbench.
Then I see the chain.
A length of heavy metal is already looped around the base of the post.
My weight shifts automatically. Even cuffed, I move one boot back and angle my shoulders, measuring the distance to the stairs, the workbench, the tools, and Whiskey.
Then I slowly turn my head toward him.
“Whiskey.”
He lifts both hands. “It ain’t what you think.”
“There is a chain in your mother’s basement.”
“Old house.”
“Attached to a post.”
“Used to secure equipment.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Nope.”
“I will fucking scream.”
“Figured.”
He takes another set of cuffs from his pocket.
I back away. “Where did you get those?”
“The van.”
“A murder van, I called it.”
“Need you secure.”
“I am already cuffed.”
“You can walk.” He reaches for the chain.
I kick.
He blocks with his shin.
“Quit.”
“No.”
“Twila.”
“No.”
He gets one end of the second cuffs through my restraints before I can twist away, then wraps an arm around my waist and pins me against him long enough to clip the other side through the chain.
Click.
I freeze.
Then pull hard.
The chain rattles against the post and gives me several feet of movement.
Enough to reach the couch.
The workbench.
A section of shelves.
Not the stairs.
“Take it off.”
“No.”
“Whiskey.”
“I gotta make a call.”
“I don’t give a fuck.”
“I know.”
He pulls out his phone.
I start yelling. “HELP!”
His eyes close.
“HELP! I’M A DEPUTY! I’VE BEEN KIDNAPPED BY A DIRTY BIKER. A KING OF ANARCHY!”
“Twila.”
“CALL THE SHERIFF!”
“Woman.”
“WHISKEY WELLER HAS ME CHAINED IN HIS MOTHER’S FUCKING BASEMENT!”
He looks at me.
I smile.
“What?”
“Need you quiet for five damn minutes.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Asked nice.”
“You kidnapped me!”
“And I’m starting to understand why.”
I draw enough air to make sure the entire neighborhood hears the next one.
His thumb rubs over his lower lip while he apparently talks himself into another felony.
Then he reaches into his back pocket.
Black bandanna.
I stop.
“No.”
“Don’t make me.”
“You put that thing in my mouth and I will bite your fucking fingers off.”
“Noted.”
“Whiskey.”
“Need to call Mama.”
“Then call her.”
“She hears you screaming through the phone, she’ll come straight over here.”
“Good.”
“No. Bad.”
“Why?”
“Because she don’t know you’re here.”
That stops me.
He steps closer. “My mama’s at my house. She hears Sheriff Dix’s daughter screaming in the background, I’m gonna have two pissed-off women to deal with.”
I smile. “Scared of your mama?”
“Fucking terrified.”
That almost gets me. Almost.
Then he puts the bandanna over my mouth.
I fight him.
Obviously.
He catches my shoulders, turns with me instead of trying to overpower the movement head-on, and knots the cloth behind my head tight enough to shut me up without interfering with my breathing.
“Mmff!”
“Yeah.”
“Mmmff!”
“Pretty sure that means fuck you.”
It does.
He steps back. “Soon as I’m finished, I’ll come back. We’re gonna talk. Get this shit straightened out.”
I glare at him.
“Stay put.”
I look pointedly at the chain.
He winces.
“Yeah. Heard it soon as I said it.”
Then he turns and heads upstairs.
His boots cross the kitchen overhead.
A door opens.
A few seconds later, his voice filters faintly through the basement ceiling.
“Mama?”
I move toward the stairs until the chain draws tight.
“Need you to stay with Wren.”
Wren?
There’s a pause.
“No, Mama. I ain’t hurt.”
Another pause.
“It’s club business.”
My attention sharpens.
Of course it fucking is. Everything with these men is club business even when somebody winds up bleeding.
“No. Don’t come over here.”
His voice gets firmer.
“Don’t you dare come over.”
I strain to hear him through the floorboards.
“Wren’ll be in school tomorrow. I’ll pack you a bag. You can pick it up off the porch.”
Wren again.
Who the hell is Wren?
“No, I ain’t shot.”
Pause.
“Nobody stabbed me either.”
Despite the gag, a sound escapes me.
Half laugh.
Half disbelief.
His mother apparently asks enough questions to qualify for federal interrogation work.
“I said I’m fine.”
Another pause.
Then quieter, “Yeah. Love you too, Mama.”
My fingers stop working against the cuffs.
That lands strangely.
I don’t know why.
Bikers can love their mothers. Criminals definitely have mothers. Serial killers probably call theirs on holidays.
Still.
The man who tackled me into the dirt, stole my cuffs, kidnapped me, dragged me into a basement, chained me to a post, and gagged me just told his mama he loves her in a voice so normal it feels obscene.
It doesn’t fit.
I fucking hate things that don’t fit.
The door opens upstairs.
Whiskey’s boots descend the basement steps.
He stops near the bottom and looks at me.
I stare back.
His gaze travels from the chain stretched to its limit, to the stairs I’ve clearly been trying to reach, then back to my face.
“You heard all that.”
I nod.
“Figures.”
He crouches in front of me. “My mama’s gotta swing by here for her medication and some clothes. That’s why you’re gagged. She knows I got Sheriff Dix’s daughter tied up in her basement, I’ll never hear the fucking end of it.”
I make a muffled noise.
“Actually, I’ll probably get shot.”
Another noise.
“Yeah, by her.”
He stands. “I’m gonna get her settled with Wren. Soon as she’s gone, I’ll come back. Thirty minutes, give or take.”
I tug against the restraints.
“Nope.”
“Mmmph.”
“Nope.”
“MMMPH!”
“I know.”
He heads upstairs again.
I wait until the door closes.
Then I immediately start working on the cuffs.
Thirty minutes.
He thinks I’m going to sit quietly in his mother’s basement for thirty fucking minutes.
That man does not know me at all.