Switched (18 page)

The duck was delicious and so were the other four courses. Nataniel had pulled out all the stops. It was my first real European meal. Cafe food didn't come close.

"For the first time, I feel like everything's going to be fine," I told Doyle around a mouthful of duck.

Besides that comment, we didn't talk about Bruno or the missing girls. We didn't hint about the trauma we had gone through. If it weren't for our bandages, I could have almost completely forgotten that we had just that day been kidnapped and almost murdered.

So instead we talked about movies and the weather. Doyle, it turned out, was heavily into chick flicks, but Nataniel and I were more the action/adventure fans. After we exhausted the movie topic, we headed into weather, which was more interesting than you'd think, but thankfully less interesting than mass murdering rapists.

I was also slightly tipsy from the wine, which might have made the weather discussion more interesting.

"I'm telling you," Doyle said. "We've never been without rain this long."

We helped Nataniel clear the table before dessert. He washed the dishes and handed us the dessert plates, and we began to set the table once again for dessert and coffee.

"No napkins," I informed Nataniel.

"In the laundry room," he said, pointing to a door next to the dining room. "On the freezer."

I opened the door and looked sidelong at Doyle. The laundry room looked like it could house all kinds of rodents. Doyle rolled his eyes.

"Chicken," he said. He opened the door and stepped inside. I followed closely behind him. "See? Nothing here."

I did a quick scan. It was a large laundry room with a washer and dryer on one side, a large freezer on another, and belongings scattered here and there.

"You never know," I said. I wasn't too fond of the chicken remark.

"True." We stood next to the freezer, but it grew distinctly warm in the laundry room. I put my hand on Doyle's chest with my fingers splayed and felt his heartbeat speed up.

"Oh, my," I breathed.

He traced his finger down my arm. "Pretty sweater," he remarked. "I take back everything I said about your clothes."

"Smart man. And you haven't seen any of my lingerie yet."

Doyle's head snapped to attention. "But I will, right?"

I shrugged.

"I will, right?" he repeated.

I touched his forehead. "You're sweating, Doyle."

"What do you expect? You mentioned lingerie."

"Men are so easy," I said, which was the biggest lie I ever spoke. But I was still tipsy and feeling no pain, and I enjoyed Doyle's reaction to me, no matter how temporary our situation might be.

I stepped away from him and put my hand on the top of the freezer. "Oh my God," I said. "Do you think there's ice cream in this freezer?"

"He’s serving cake, Debra."

"And what goes better with cake than ice cream?" I asked, logically.

"Oh, Americans."

I opened the heavy door of the freezer, gasped, and slammed it shut again. I closed my eyes, too.

"What is it?" Doyle asked. "He only has vanilla?"

I pointed at the freezer. "I think Igmar's in there."

"Igmar?"

"And his wife. I think they're both in there. If it's not them, it’s two other unfortunate people lying frozen in a freezer." I clutched handfuls of Doyle's shirt. "Doyle, I don't think they could have survived being frozen in a freezer. Do you know what that means?"

"Are you joking?"

I wished I was joking. Hell, maybe I was joking and didn't know it. Maybe I saw what wasn't there. Doyle opened the freezer door. We took a good long look.

"Yep, they're dead all right," he said.

And then I felt a searing pain at the back of my head, and everything went black.

My head hurt. It throbbed in pain, like I had been kicked in the head by a mule. For a second I wondered if I had drunk too much, blacked out, and was just suffering from a monster hangover.

But I recalled the freezer with the dead people inside. Poor ice cube people. I hoped they were killed before they were put in the freezer. Freezing to death was a rotten way to die. What was I thinking? Any way to die was a rotten way to die. I didn't want to die in any way, rotten or not.

I had been standing in front of the freezer, staring at the dead people when the pain in my head started. Like I was hit. Which was the only logical answer: I was hit on the head, and that's why everything went dark.

I raised my hand to rub my head, but I couldn't lift my arms. I was chained to a rock wall, my hands outstretched at about shoulder level.

My heart began to race, and my stomach lurched. I was in some kind of cave, and it was cold. What on earth? I was confused. Disoriented.

And my head hurt something awful. I moaned in pain and desperation.

"Shh! He'll hear you," a voice hissed at me. She was near, but I couldn't make her out.

I tried to adjust my vision to the darkness, shutting my eyes tight for a minute before opening them again.

I could just make out a figure near me, and I thought she was chained to the wall, too.

“Who's that?" I whispered.

"Maisey Wellington," she said.

"Maisey?" The last time I saw her was on Bruno's yacht, surrounded by first responders and law enforcement.

"Debra?" she asked, obviously recognizing my voice.

"Yes, it's me. What's happening? Why are we chained up?" I gasped, remembering the freezer. "Maisey, I think Doyle hit me on the head."

It was a terrible realization. Doyle had been standing over me, looking at the dead people right along with me. Who else could have hit me? Did that mean he was responsible for chaining me up in the cave?

"I’m the biggest moron about men," I said. "I will never date, again."

My breath hitched, and I gulped down tears. I was never going to date again because I was going to be dead, dead, dead. Either that or a mummified body, chained up in a cave forever. I would never see the sun again. I would never know what happened in Downton Abbey. I would die with neon red hair.

"Not Doyle," Maisey whispered. "Not him." Her voice was cut off by a noise in the distance. She shushed me, and we kept quiet for at least five minutes, listening for something. I didn't know what the something was, but I had a sneaking suspicion it wasn't good.

When there wasn't a second noise and nobody showed up, I tentatively pulled at my chains, trying to break free. No good. They were embedded solidly into the stone wall.

"They won't budge, dearie," Maisey said. "I've tried everything to break free. Even biting them. I broke off a crown. See?" She opened her mouth, but I couldn’t see the offending tooth.

"Why are we here?" It was the most obvious question I could think up.

“Your handsome friend. After the cops were done with the yacht, Nataniel invited me to for drinks at his house. He was very nice in a creepy sort of way. During the second drink, he invited me downstairs to show me something. When I got down here to the cellar—or should I say the dungeon—he chained me up.”

None of it made sense. Why would Nataniel do that? Had he gone crazy after killing Bruno? Did he have post-traumatic stress syndrome? Had saving me made him go off the deep end? Had he lost it, completely?

“You mean to tell me that while Doyle and I were eating dinner in the house next door, you were chained up down here?”

Maisey’s stomach growled. “Dinner sounds so good. I haven’t eaten all day. Is Doyle here? Is he okay?”

Was Doyle okay? I didn’t know. How was it possible that skinny little Nataniel had overpowered big, scary policeman Doyle, knocked me over the head, and carried me down to his dungeon?

How was it possible that I could be surprised about anything where Nataniel was concerned? He had already proven himself against two giant henchmen and a knife-bearing Bruno.

Bruno
and
Nataniel? Was it possible that there were two crazy psycho killers on the small, beautiful island?

“I don’t know if Doyle’s okay. The last time I saw him we were standing together in the mice house looking at two dead bodies in the freezer.”

“Oh my God!” Maisey hissed, rattling the chains a little. “What dead bodies?
More
dead bodies?”

“What do you mean, ‘more dead bodies’? Have you seen more dead bodies?”

“Yes! That freakazoid has no shortage of bodies down here.” Her voice hitched and she tried to clear her throat of emotion. Maisey was a tough one. A survivor.

I knew that she had gone through a lot in her life. But somehow, this was more than anybody could expect to handle. I felt bad for her. I wanted to hug her, pat her head, and tell her everything was going to be okay. And I would’ve done that if I wasn’t in the same position.

As it was, I wanted her to pat my own head. I wanted her to tell me everything was going to be okay. I really needed a drink. Or heavy-duty narcotics. One thing was certain: If I was ever going to get out of this alive, I was never traveling anywhere again. Forget home exchange. I wasn’t even getting on a plane to Disney World.

“I might regret asking you this, Maisey, but where are the bodies?”

“He takes them out when he’s done with them.”

“Done with them?” I asked “What you mean, ‘done with them?’”

“When I got here, Felicity was still alive. She had been here a long time. He was saving her. He already killed that other girl you were looking for, and when it was Felicity’s turn after he chained me up, he took the other girl away. I don’t know where he put her. He told Felicity it was her turn for the dress.”

“What do you mean it was her turn for the dress? Hold on, I don’t want to know.”

I fought against believing that poor Felicity was gone. That was a finality I couldn’t bear.

I had lived in her space, worn her clothes, and she had helped heal me from the wedding fiasco. She let me be a new person, get on with my life. But she wasn’t allowed the same luxury.

Beautiful, adventurous Felicity. Cut down for no reason.

So it wasn’t Bruno who killed Felicity and Maria. It was Nataniel. Bruno was just a creepy monster rapist. Nataniel was the real deal. He had the dungeon. He had the chains. And he was killing women.

“Debra, I’m next. The last thing he told me was he was getting the dress cleaned.”

She broke down in quiet sobs. I could imagine what it was like to have been chained up against the wall for so long. I’d only been there for a matter of minutes, and my arms hurt and my hope was diminishing quickly. But there was something about wanting to help someone else that gave me strength. It made me want to survive, if only to help my friend. And Maisey was a friend. Maisey was the best kind of friend.

“He’s not going to kill us,” I said. “We’re going to get out of here. There’s no way I’m going to let some man kill us.”

I was still trying to wrap my head around the idea of Nataniel, the mild-mannered Spanish man being some kind of serial killer. But wasn’t he like all the other serial killers that people usually describe? When the police find the dead bodies, they go to the neighbor, and the neighbor says, “He was a mild-mannered man. So nice. Quiet. We never thought he was eating human flesh in the basement of his house.”

So actually, Nataniel did fit the stereotype of a serial killer. I’d spent time with him and thought he was nice, when in reality, he was planning on kidnapping me and killing me. Just like he did with Maria, with Felicity, and with the poor people who gave me the disgusting home exchange.

“Maisey, we’re going to get out of here,” I repeated.

“Do you have a gun?” she asked, excitedly. “Americans always have guns. Shoot off my chains. I’m dying to pee.”

No, I didn’t have a gun. I didn’t even carry Mace. I was hopeless. But nevertheless, if I didn’t have strength or weapons, I had something else. I was determined. I was a survivor. And I also had to pee.

“Well I don’t actually have a gun,” I said, feeling like a loser. I hated to let her down. I yanked at the chains again. They didn’t budge out of the rock, but I kept at it, tugging. The clinking grew louder and louder, until a ray of light appeared on the other side of the dungeon. We heard footsteps coming closer along the rock floor. I held my breath.

After a couple of seconds, Nataniel appeared. “Good morning,” he said, as if he was welcoming me to the breakfast buffet at the Marriott.

“Nataniel,” I said, trying to remain calm. “Why are you doing this?”

He turned toward me, and I thought he was going to tell me it was all a mistake. That it was all a joke or some great big misunderstanding. That perhaps the sense of humor in Spain is different than the sense of humor in America, and this was considered high comedy on the island.

After all, he had saved my life, or at least I thought he had saved my life. At the very least, he saved me from being raped. So, that meant he liked me and was a good guy. Right?

But he didn’t say any of that. I could see the outline of his face through the light that filtered through whatever door he had opened to come down to our dungeon. He was cold, distant, as if he was off in his own make-believe world.

“Shut up,” he said. “Your time will come. Just behave. Don’t make me angry.”

“I don’t want to make you angry, Nataniel. I don’t know why you’re doing this.”

“You know why, Laura,” he said, his voice filled with anger. Who was Laura? Whoever she was, she had Nataniel mightily pissed.

His hands formed into fists, warning me that I needed to be quiet for my own safety. He approached Maisey. “It’s time,” he said to her. “It’s the happiest day of your life. Time to get prepared. Your dress is ready, and I bought you a perfect shade of red lipstick. You’ll look great.”

“I already look great, you psycho, loony whackadoodle fucker!” Maisey screamed. “I’m not going anywhere with you! Go to hell!”

Nataniel seemed unconcerned by Maisey’s outburst. He approached her like he would approach an unruly child or a dog that doesn’t want to go outside for the day.

When he got close, she struck out at him, kicking her feet wildly. I heard her make contact a couple times, but he seemed unfazed by the pain, his or others.