The Fourth Monkey: A twisted thriller you won’t be able to put down. J.D. Barker

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СКАЧАТЬ on them too, at least two feet, the kind you find in prison movies where the bad guy’s hands are shackled to his feet and he’s forced to shuffle down some dark hallway. The cuffs were designed to allow some movement but not much.

      She knew of the Four Monkey Killer. Everyone in Chicago did, possibly everyone in the entire world. Not just that he was a serial killer, but the way he first tortured his victims before killing them, mailing body parts back to their families. First an ear, then —

      Emory’s free hand went to her eyes. The room was dark, but she could still make out faint outlines. He hadn’t touched her eyes.

       Not yet. Maybe he’ll have time when he gets back.

      Her heart pounded within her chest.

       How long before …

      She couldn’t think about it. She just couldn’t.

      The idea of someone taking out her eyes, taking them out when she was alive.

      Your tongue too, dear. Don’t forget about the tongue. He likes to take that third and mail the little stump of flesh back to Mommy and Daddy. You know, right before he finally —

      The voice in her head seemed oddly familiar.

       You don’t remember me, dear?

      Then she knew, just like that, she knew, and anger swirled.

      “You’re not my mother,” Emory said, seething. “My mother is dead.”

      Christ. She was going crazy. Talking to herself. Was it the shot? What had he given her? Was she hallucinating? Maybe all of this was just some kind of nasty dream, a bad trip. She might be —

      You should try to figure the rough patches all out later, dear. When you have more time? Right now I think you should focus on finding a way out of this place. You know, before he gets back. Don’t you agree?

      Emory caught herself nodding.

       I only want what’s best for you.

      “Stop.”

       When you’re safe. Until then … this is a tough spot, Em. I can’t write you a note and get you out of this one. This is way worse than the principal.

      “Quiet!”

      Silence.

      The only sound was that of her own breath and the blood pumping at her ear, warm and throbbing under the bandage.

       Where your ear used to be, dear.

      “Please don’t. Please be quiet —”

       Better that you accept it now. Accept it and move on.

      Emory lowered her legs over the side of her makeshift bed. The wheels squeaked as the gurney rolled a few inches before scraping against a wall and stopped. When her feet touched the cold concrete, she almost pulled them back up. Not knowing what was beneath her creeped her out, but remaining still while waiting for her captor to return was not an option she was willing to consider. She had to find a way out.

      Her eyes fought the darkness, trying to adjust and pull in the smallest bit of light, but there simply wasn’t enough. She raised her hand to her face, and it was barely visible unless she practically touched her nose.

      Emory forced herself to stand, ignoring the dizziness swooning through her head and the pain at her ear. She took a deep breath and held the edge of the gurney for balance just below where her handcuffs were attached, standing still until the nausea left her.

      It was so dark. Too dark.

       What if you fall, dear? What if you try to walk, trip over something, and fall? Are you sure this is wise? Why don’t you sit back down and figure things out. How would that be?

      Emory ignored the voice and tentatively reached out, her left hand stretching into the blackness, her fingers groping. When they found nothing, she took a step toward the top of the gurney, toward the wall it rested against. Right hand on the gurney, left hand reaching. One step, then another, then a —

      Her fingers found the wall, and she nearly jumped back. The rough surface felt damp and grimy. Cautiously running her hand across the wall, she found a groove and traced the edge with the tip of her finger, following horizontally until she found another groove, this one vertical. The pattern repeated about a foot down. Rectangles.

      Cinder blocks.

       You know, where there’s one wall, there’s usually another. Sometimes there’s a door or a window or two. Perhaps a walk of the perimeter is in order? Figure out just what kind of mess you’ve gotten yourself into? You’re tied to that pesky gurney, though — not really fit for travel.

      Emory tugged on the gurney until the frame moved, rolling an inch or so on squeaky wheels. She squeezed the rail. Just holding the metal frame, holding on to something, made her feel a little safer. It was silly, she knew that, but —

       It’s a crutch. Isn’t that the word?

      “Fuck you,” she muttered.

      With her left hand on the wall and her right dragging the gurney, she inched along, her feet shuffling. She counted as she went, attempting to map out the space in her mind’s eye. She took twelve steps before finding the first corner. Emory estimated the first wall to be about ten feet long.

      She continued along the second wall. More cinder block. She ran her fingers up and down the wall in search of a light switch, a door, anything, but she found none; only more block.

      Emory stopped for a second, her head turning up. She couldn’t help but wonder — how high could this room be? Was there a ceiling?

      Of course there’s a ceiling, dear. Serial killers are smart; you’re not the first girl to attend his rodeo. He’s taken how many girls? Five? Six? He’s probably got the routine down to a science at this point. I’m sure this room is sealed up tight. You should keep exploring, though. I like this. Much better than sitting around waiting for him to come back. That’s a fool’s game. This has purpose. This shows initiative.

      She continued around the room. The gurney fought again as she turned the corner, and she pulled the frame toward her with an angry yank.

       Hey. I just thought of something. What if he’s watching you? What if he’s got cameras?

      “It’s too dark.”

      Infrared cameras can see in the dark plain as day. He’s probably got his feet up on a desk somewhere, watching Emory TV, a big, fat grin on his face. Naked girl in box. Naked girl trying to get out of box. The last girl took thirty minutes to venture this far around the room. This one is on a tear — she got there in twenty. How exciting. How entertaining.

      Emory stopped moving and stared into the blackness. “Are you there? Are you … watching me?”

      Silence.

      “Hello?”

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