Read Online The Hostage by Jonas Saul - Free Book Online
Authors: Jonas Saul
Tags: thriller
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twenty heads separated Drake and Sarah from Spencer when he turned around and tried to locate them. She ducked her head and got Drake to bow at the waist.
Twenty feet into the new corridor, she spotted another exit sign.
“This way.”
Sarah cautiously opened the door, which was unobstructed and led to the outside. They stepped into the summer sun and walked away from the stadium with no one on their tail, and no one knowing where they were.
Chapter 10
Elmore dipped the mop in the bucket and continued scrubbing the basement floor. With each swing of the mop he collected more blood, slowly removing proof that Jackie had ever been in his home. Later he’d wear protective clothing and use various bleaches and ammonias to finish cleaning her cell. The mattress would be burned and every piece of clothing he wore. Not a single CSI unit would ever be able to prove Elmore used the cages for anything other than role play with his panty photos that he shipped out weekly, which was a licensed, legitimate business.
He wondered how Sarah would hold up being locked away from the world. Maybe she would tell him things. Prophecies like she did for other people.
Jackie had been the longest girl he’d kept prisoner, coming in at six months. Maybe he’d keep Sarah longer. He could make an exception if she proved to be a good girl.
He had read a biography on serial rapist and killer Ted Bundy and remembered a quote that Ann Rule had said. Something about Ted being a sadistic sociopath who took pleasure in another human’s pain and the control he had over his victims to the point of death, and beyond. Elmore couldn’t believe that. Of all the brilliant people he had read about, Ted was once married and functioned well. Sure he did mean things, but who didn’t nowadays?
Elmore wasn’t beyond caring. He knew some of the things he did were wrong, but he wasn’t sadistic. He cared about his girls. If they did what they were told, they enjoyed their stay with him. It proved to Elmore that he had an ability to care. He derived pleasure from their pain because they deserved it. Like disciplining a child — if it was necessary, then so be it — he would enjoy teaching them.
He offered his girls the ability to control their future. If they did what was required of them, things got easier.
It was time to change the water in the bucket. Elmore lifted it and walked to the basement sink in the far corner.
What about Dali? What if he hadn’t painted a single canvas? It would be interesting to see what a novel would have been like had Dali written instead. On the contrary, what if Edgar Allen Poe had only painted and never wrote a single word? How mad and dark would his paintings have been?
This, Elmore understood, described him. He was an artist of sorts. One that dealt with flesh and the human condition. He knew he was brilliant because everyone had needs and yearned to have them fulfilled. For Elmore, it was easy because he simply took the needs that required fulfillment. That alone placed him above the rest.
With the bucket filled with fresh water, he returned to the area where Jackie had bled out.
He recalled the day when he was twelve and his mother had stopped him from painting anymore images of women with injuries. He had explained that it showed fragility and beauty in one image. She had projected that he wanted to hurt women.
“Well, you were wrong, mother dear,” he said to the empty basement. “I didn’t want to hurt women, and never have. They do it to themselves. I’m only the messenger. The female condition has nothing to do with me.”
He continued mopping and scrubbing for the next hour until it was time to take a break.
After cleaning his hands aggressively, he headed to his office and fired up his Mac where he began his routine browsing. First the financials of his vending machines in Japan. Then to Twitter to browse the newspapers that had
Twenty feet into the new corridor, she spotted another exit sign.
“This way.”
Sarah cautiously opened the door, which was unobstructed and led to the outside. They stepped into the summer sun and walked away from the stadium with no one on their tail, and no one knowing where they were.
Chapter 10
Elmore dipped the mop in the bucket and continued scrubbing the basement floor. With each swing of the mop he collected more blood, slowly removing proof that Jackie had ever been in his home. Later he’d wear protective clothing and use various bleaches and ammonias to finish cleaning her cell. The mattress would be burned and every piece of clothing he wore. Not a single CSI unit would ever be able to prove Elmore used the cages for anything other than role play with his panty photos that he shipped out weekly, which was a licensed, legitimate business.
He wondered how Sarah would hold up being locked away from the world. Maybe she would tell him things. Prophecies like she did for other people.
Jackie had been the longest girl he’d kept prisoner, coming in at six months. Maybe he’d keep Sarah longer. He could make an exception if she proved to be a good girl.
He had read a biography on serial rapist and killer Ted Bundy and remembered a quote that Ann Rule had said. Something about Ted being a sadistic sociopath who took pleasure in another human’s pain and the control he had over his victims to the point of death, and beyond. Elmore couldn’t believe that. Of all the brilliant people he had read about, Ted was once married and functioned well. Sure he did mean things, but who didn’t nowadays?
Elmore wasn’t beyond caring. He knew some of the things he did were wrong, but he wasn’t sadistic. He cared about his girls. If they did what they were told, they enjoyed their stay with him. It proved to Elmore that he had an ability to care. He derived pleasure from their pain because they deserved it. Like disciplining a child — if it was necessary, then so be it — he would enjoy teaching them.
He offered his girls the ability to control their future. If they did what was required of them, things got easier.
It was time to change the water in the bucket. Elmore lifted it and walked to the basement sink in the far corner.
What about Dali? What if he hadn’t painted a single canvas? It would be interesting to see what a novel would have been like had Dali written instead. On the contrary, what if Edgar Allen Poe had only painted and never wrote a single word? How mad and dark would his paintings have been?
This, Elmore understood, described him. He was an artist of sorts. One that dealt with flesh and the human condition. He knew he was brilliant because everyone had needs and yearned to have them fulfilled. For Elmore, it was easy because he simply took the needs that required fulfillment. That alone placed him above the rest.
With the bucket filled with fresh water, he returned to the area where Jackie had bled out.
He recalled the day when he was twelve and his mother had stopped him from painting anymore images of women with injuries. He had explained that it showed fragility and beauty in one image. She had projected that he wanted to hurt women.
“Well, you were wrong, mother dear,” he said to the empty basement. “I didn’t want to hurt women, and never have. They do it to themselves. I’m only the messenger. The female condition has nothing to do with me.”
He continued mopping and scrubbing for the next hour until it was time to take a break.
After cleaning his hands aggressively, he headed to his office and fired up his Mac where he began his routine browsing. First the financials of his vending machines in Japan. Then to Twitter to browse the newspapers that had
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