She heard footsteps and a soothing voice.

“We’re the Twin Cities’ classical radio station, providing more music and less commercial interruption. That was Mozart’s Sinfonia in B Flat performed by the New Zealand Chamber Orchestra. For your listening pleasure this chilly Saturday morning, we have a selection from …”

The voice would come if she hollered. She struggled to speak and wasn’t certain if she said the word or imagined she said it: Help. She closed her eyes and visualized herself adrift in this blue, the only survivor of a shipwreck. Help. She’d managed to climb aboard a life raft while the others had perished. All she had to do was hang on and wait for rescue. Help. The waters were calm and flat. There was music on this ocean. Violins. Flutes. Footsteps. Help. She opened her eyes, and the blue sea parted for a man. Big blond man. This had to be her savior, the body belonging to the soothing voice.

The man floated to her side, his face coming down to hers. “Awake already? You were dead to the world when I carried you to bed this morning.”

No savior, this man. She blinked back tears, fully remembering where she was and how she got there. The bastard had doped her and trussed her up good. A stupid cow ready for the slaughterhouse.

He brought his mouth close to her ear: “You fell asleep in the shower, and I didn’t have the heart to disturb you. I let you spend the night there.”

More than anything, she wanted to tell him. She wanted to say three words. Were she free, she would clamp his skull between her hands and beat the back of his head against the floor while she screamed the words over and over. I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! Then she would spit in his face and bang some more. Bang and bang until his head cracked open and his brains spilled out.

He hooked his hand over the blue sheet covering her and ripped it off. It floated away like a blue ghost. “You won’t see me for quite a while, and I apologize for that. I have things I need to do. Will you be all right without me?”

Leave, she pleaded in her mind. Please leave.

He cupped her breasts with his hands and squeezed. “I’d like to leave you with a smile on your face.”

No! She strained against the ropes, pulling all four limbs toward her body while lifting her head off the pillow.

He picked a damp curl off her forehead. “You know it’s futile. You’re expending all that energy for naught, and if you perspire, I’ll have to send you back to the shower.”

Her legs and arms and head collapsed back against the mattress with a dull thud. The words thundered inside her head. How could he not hear them? I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!

Leaning closer to her, he cooed: “That’s a good girl. Relax. Just … relax.”

He reeked of soap and aftershave, and the sweet stink made her nauseous. Something sour snaked up her throat, and she wondered if she was going to drown in her own bile.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Before I go, let me tell you a story about the first one, the one I … encouraged after a phone conversation.” He crossed one leg over the other. “It was a cold night in April, late even for college students. I knew there’d be no one on the bridge.”

I don’t care about the fucking bridge. Let me go. Shut up and let me go.

“I headed to the east bank and parked behind the auditorium. If she went with my suggestions regarding the hour and the place, I had plenty of time. If she didn’t show, well … I had the benefit of a nighttime stroll. The campus had an almost ethereal shine from the lights lining its streets and sidewalks, but I saw no signs of life except for a student at the opposite side of the mall, hurrying with his backpack.

“The moment I set my feet on the bridge, I saw her planted at the midway point. She hadn’t let me down. Then things moved quickly—too quickly, really. She hopped up, put one leg over the rail, then the other. For a few seconds, she stood facing the river, her hands behind her back and locked over the railing. She let go, tipped forward, and sailed down. Disappeared into the blackness.”

You sick puppy, she thought. You didn’t try to stop her.

“I ran up to the railing. Had she survived the fall? It had to be a hundred-foot drop. Did she know how to swim? I couldn’t find her right away. Even with the waterfront lights, the river was like ink. I finally spotted her paddling clumsily. She was trying to save herself while the Mississippi swirled and churned around her. The sight of her struggling …”

His voice trailed off, and he reached down between his legs. She snapped her head to one side so she didn’t have to watch.

“A gust swept across the deck of the bridge … Was it wishful thinking, or could I really hear her cries carried along by the wind? What was she screaming? What were her final words? Did she call out someone’s name while the river dragged her? I watched while she went under, resurfaced, and went under again … I imagined it was … my beloved suffering, her mouth and nostrils filling with icy water. The river would enter her lungs, and she would sink … drown.”

The more graphic his story became, the faster his breath came. She closed her eyes. She wished she could close her ears.

“The familiar, guilty thrill sent a wave of pleasure washing over me, and I …”

She felt him relax against the bed, the panting gone. Twisted bastard.

“… I backed away from the rail. My foot bumped something, and I looked down. She’d left a note under an empty bottle of liquor. I put on my gloves, picked up the note, and gave it a read. I didn’t much care now that she was gone. I put the note back so the police could read it.

“At the far end of the bridge, a couple of pedestrians were starting their hike from the west bank. Would they see her letter, or would a hundred people go by before it was noticed? It wasn’t a blatant suicide note, but it showed her mental state. I wondered how long it would take for her body to turn up. I headed back to the car. At least she was no longer suffering.”

He turned on the mattress and dragged the tips of his fingers from between her breasts down to her navel. “I’ll end your suffering soon.”

She snapped her head and tried to hide in the blue of the pillows while he climbed on top of her. His body felt heavy and damp.

He trapped her chin in his hand and forced her to face him. “Look at me,” he ordered.

She closed her eyes tight and tried to concentrate on the soothing radio voice, her only friend in the blue hell.

“This offering is by Aleksandr Borodin. Nocturne for String Orchestra. It was recorded by the St. Louis Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Leonard Slatkin. The venue: Powell Symphony Hall in St. Louis. Listen carefully and you’ll hear …”

“Open your eyes.”

Drop dead, she thought, closing her lids tighter. Her eyes were the only things she could control, and she was damned if she’d surrender them.

“Open them.” He squeezed her chin hard. “I could staple them open. Would you like that? I have a stapler right here in this night-stand.”

Her eyes snapped open and stayed wide with fear. He smiled at her and caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “Much better.”

As he sprawled on top of her, the bile from her own stomach crawled all the way up her throat and filled her mouth with acid. She swallowed hard, wishing the sour fluid were poison.

“I prefer my partners thin. No food for you, just plenty of … fluids.”

While he moved his mouth down to her breasts, she stared up at the blue ceiling, wishing it would crash down on him and kill him.

“I’ve always loved you, Ruth,” he muttered.

Chapter 23