A dog collar. Heavy metal linked to a chain.
What kind of sick pervert had put her in here?
Footsteps sounded above her, indicating she might be in a basement. Nearby the sound of water dripping echoed. A dog barked. And… did she hear another woman crying? Or… clawing at another cage?
The steps grew louder. The sound of a door creaking rent the air, floorboards groaning as he came down.
She glanced up, squinting to see his face. But it was too dark, and he closed the door, blocking out any light that might slip through the crack. A low whistle echoed as he walked down the stair, a happy whistle, as if he was excited.
Blinking, she forced herself to be still and choked back a cry. Don’t show fear.
“Ahh, good, you’re awake.”
The sight of the knife in his hand made her snap. The cage rattled as he inserted a key into the lock. The scent of sweat and stale beer hit her.
“Why are you doing this?” she cried.
“Because Monday’s child is fair of face,” he murmured as he knelt in front of her and set a duffel bag on the floor. “And you’re not.”
With a sinister smile, he yanked her by the hair and pulled her from the cage, tearing a scream from her.
She couldn’t see what was inside the bag, but her imagination went down a dark, terrifying path. Tears blurred her eyes, and she began to shake.
He snatched a whip from his belt and slapped it across her back. “You want to live, then beg.”
The sharp sting of the whip sliced her back through her clothes, and she blinked back tears. But she refused to beg.
He brought the whip down again and again, slashing at her back. “I said beg!”
A sob escaped her, and she tasted blood, but she shook her head. Another crack of the whip, and he kicked her in the stomach. When she still refused to beg, he turned into a madman, shouting and pacing and slapping the wall with the whip.
Finally, he returned to stand over her, his breath panting out. With a yank of her head, he forced her to look at him. “All right, we’ll play it your way. You won’t beg for your life, then I’ll keep you for a while. And we’ll have fun.” His menacing laugh pierced the air. “Oh, yes, we’ll have so much fun, Cathy.”
A shudder coursed through her. Her name was not Cathy. But she was too weak to say anything and he was lost in his madness. What did it matter anyway? She was chained in here like a dog.
“Now I’ll have to find another,” he sang as he dragged her back inside the cage. “Monday’s child is waiting.” The metal door clanged shut, then he stomped away, cracking the whip against the concrete wall as he climbed the steps and left her in darkness.
Six
Monday
The Reflection Pond
Last night he’d been forced to take another. But hell, this one was a better fit for Monday’s child. Much better. She’d begged from the moment he’d taken her until he’d watched her draw her last breath.
He moved swiftly, juggling the dead woman in his arms as he climbed the hill, grateful for night and the canopy of trees hiding him from sight. Mosquitoes buzzed around his face, and a water moccasin snake glided across the crystal-clear water of the pond. Lily pads floated on the surface and wild mountain laurel sprang up around the bank.
The first woman he’d taken still lay waiting in the cage, suffering. But he would wear her down eventually.
The nursery rhyme flowed from his mouth in a singsong rhythm, and he eased the woman onto the ground, propping her against the thick trunk of an oak facing the water. Women are special, the voice inside his head said. Monday’s child is fair of face.
He traced his thumb over her heart-shaped face. She truly looked angelic, her teeth as white as pearls, her skin ivory and as soft as satin, her hair as blonde as corn silk. But her eyes, the windows to the soul, looked blank and empty.
Smiling to himself, he carefully clipped her fingernails then stowed the clippings in a bag. No doubt she’d prefer a bright nail polish, but she would go to her grave with short, unvarnished nails void of color.
Prying her mouth open, he placed the folded scrap of paper with his message inside. He threaded the needle, stabbed it in the woman’s lower lip, and pushed it upward into her top lip. Over and over he continued until her lips were completely sewn together. No more gossiping, talking back, or lying.
When he was finished, he stood back and admired his handiwork. His stitches were even, neat, seamless. Pulling the tube of lipstick from his duffel bag, he slowly painted her mouth ruby red until it looked as if she was bleeding.
The plain white panties and bra were something she’d never choose, but he slipped the underwear over her naked body, gently tracing his finger over her pale, cold stomach.
The olive-green dress came next. It looked sickly against her skin, which had already started turning blue. He smoothed the sheath down over her lifeless form, then slid simple black heels onto her delicate feet.
This dress would have been perfect for a funeral, if she was going to have one.
He unwound some bramble, wrapping it around her throat as a sign to the ones who found her. Let them figure out the meaning.
His pulse quickened as he remembered her scream of terror just before he’d slashed her throat. He dotted blusher along the cut on her cheek he’d made with the broken edge of a mirror, rouge the bright red of poppies. Then he folded her hands across her stomach in prayer form.
If she could see herself, she would not be happy with the way he’d fixed her.
A light rain began to fall, droplets clinging to her long blonde eyelashes. Any surface beauty she possessed would disintegrate quickly, turning her into dust and bone. The ugliness beneath would be revealed and everyone would know that Monday’s child, who was supposed to be fair of face, was nothing but a disguise.
Pulling daffodils from his bag, he ripped off the petals and scattered them on the ground, spreading her on top of them and covering her with more of the bright yellow petals. The olive-green satin dress looked sickly beneath the soft wildflowers.
As stark and ugly as the woman wearing it.
Seven
Somewhere on the AT
After hours of a punishing ten-mile hike in the drizzling rain, Ellie was bone tired. In spite of her experience on the trail, her muscles and feet ached, the blisters she’d acquired on her feet were raw, and a permanent chill had invaded her body.
Today the numbness had set in. Finally. She welcomed it, drowning out the pain of the past month.
Slogging through the mud and prickly brush, she used her flashlight to illuminate her path. All day she’d noted signs of spring in the budding trees and scent of damp grass as she strove to make it to the shelter ahead. Raindrops glistened on the leaves like tiny diamonds, and wild mushrooms pushed through the soil in various colors.
With the start of the season, eager adventure-seekers had begun their journey on the 2200-mile-long trail. Statistics showed that most would never make it the entire way. The challenging physical conditions made many give up. Worse, the isolation could turn a person’s mind inside out. Getting lost in the endless stretches of untamed vegetation and smothering forests came with the territory. So did the craving for hot meals and warm beds.