In Laymon's Terms

“Are you out of your mind?” he finally asked—which wasn’t quite the same as denial.

“Cassandra Bittaker back in April. Melinda Trenton in June. Gina Norris and Lorraine West in July.”

Owens’ expression gradually changed as I named the young women who mysteriously vanished in the past four months. Initially, he had the look of a claustrophobic man on a stalled elevator, but by the time I got to “Gina Norris,” he was positively beaming. Like I was describing his greatest accomplishments.

“You read the papers,” he said. “So do I. I don’t go door to door making wild accusations, though. Maybe you should stick to the funnies.”

“Maybe I should call the police,” I countered. “They’d be very interested in your basement. That’s where you keep them, isn’t it?”

The whole time, he kept that smile. Fight or flight was in his eyes, but the smile never faltered. It reminded me of all those pictures where the flash gave people red satanic eyes, but they smiled good-naturedly all the same.

Owens surreptitiously examined the street from right to left. I knew he was looking for potential witnesses to his next disappearing act, having realized that he wouldn’t be having this conversation with me if I’d already called the police. A SWAT team would have smashed through every window and door of the house.

“I wrote about coming here in my journal,” I lied. He didn’t have to know that I hadn’t actually gotten around to naming names or reasons. “I went from house to house on your block, too, asking about my lost dog. ‘A basset hound, long ears, sleeps about twenty hours a day, answers to Gloria.’ If I disappear, someone around here will remember me. It won’t be long before they figure out my last visit was at your house.”

Sounds convincing, doesn’t it? Wish I’d thought of it BEFORE I went through with this, and actually did it.

He looked at me like he was trying to solve an equation, and the smile finally receded.

“Not only that,” I went on, “but you know who I am. And I have copies of your pictures. It was pretty ingenious of you to nab all those girls without being seen, but you need to bone up on common sense.”

He didn’t look pleased with that remark at all. “Just what exactly is it that you want?” he asked, his mouth barely a line on his face.

“Show them to me,” I said.

AUGUST 21 (LATER)

I’m back. Damn telephone. People calling to ask how my mom and I are doing, as if they really care. We oughtta have the thing disconnected.

Anyway, I GOT TO SEE THEM! It must have been how those astronauts felt at the moon landing. One small step for man, one giant leap for sexual sadism. You go in the house, through the den to the kitchen, and that’s where the door to the basement is. I made Owens go first, because I didn’t want him to a) push me down the stairs, b) lock me up down there with the women, or c) both. Not that b) wasn’t without its prospects, but I’d only accomplish half of my goals. More on that later.

So we went down there, and of course it’s just like the pictures, for the most part. The basement walls are stone, and Owens has the shackles driven into them. You aren’t breaking away from those unless you come from the planet Krypton. There were also some empty shackles, for future acquisitions. And speaking of acquisitions, there, from left to right, were the pretty little schoolgirls and co-eds all in a row. Alphabetical order, too. I thought it was a coincidence, but he consciously lined them up that way. It seems like a pointless risk to me if he has to trade out shackles, but Owens is a bit weird.

The girls are chained with their arms overhead, which makes their breasts rise up. I sound like Gray’s Anatomy, don’t I? Their tits, then! I’d seen tons of pictures, but never in the flesh, never right in front of me. Not even when I was looking into houses, even after three steady years outside Lissa Hindley’s. My sister always locked her room and the bathroom, too. It was like this huge conspiracy to make sure I never got to see the good stuff, but I found a way around it, didn’t I?

It was all on display! Four downy clefts, eight TITTIES, and four sets of ass. Hours and hours of fist-pumping action if you just happened to sit next to them during a study hall, but in a place like this, where you can blur the line between daydream and reality, the possibilities were almost exhausting.