Page 46 of The Trap by Catherine
What I needed to do wasn’t to convince the women that I was a good family man and so would never hurt them—especially seeing as good family men hurt people all the time, sometimes even members of their own family—but that I was really doing what Iappearedto be doing, what I said I was: asking for directions to a place I should’ve already been at.
I had to make it seem like I was, genuinely, in a hurry to get to a party.
And I knew exactly what to use.
We’ll get to why I did.
But back to the roadside. She’s standing there, holding her phone, and her gaze has traveled into the back seat. She’s taking in the cake box. The birthday present that might be in that bag. The flowers, perhaps for the hostess.
Twenty-five seconds gone.
There’s aCollins Road Map of Ireland 2017in the pocket of the driver’s door. It’s always there, folded neatly, and I grab it as I get out of the car. “They wrote down some directions for me,” I say as I make my way around the bonnet to her, “but I can’t make head nor tail of it...”
Thirty seconds gone if this, so far, has gone well.
But another car could come along at any moment. The longer one doesn’t, the more likely it is that one will in the next.
She might wait for me to get to her, to show her what I have in my hand, what I’ve implied are the written directions. Or she might say, “Why don’t you give me the address and I’ll look it up for you?” Or she might apologize and say she has to go and maybe even take a step or two away, but there’s no abort button here.
We can’t demote her from victim to witness. From the moment I stopped the car there was no choice but to follow through, so I ignore whatever she’s said and hold out the map and while her attention is on it, I move.
Fast.
I bring my forearm up, connecting with her arm from underneath, knocking the phone out of her hand and sending it flying so it lands several feet away with a satisfyingcrack. I never actually touch the thing, so no prints. Before she has a chance to react—to her, it probably seems simultaneous—I bring up my other arm so I can put a hand behind her head and then I slam it as hard as I can into the side of the car, so she goes face-first into it. I aim for the part of the chassis just above the door, right at the curve of the roof. That, I’ve found, is the sweet spot. She’s stunned now and almost certainly bleeding too, and I only have two or three seconds before her vision returns and the white, hot pain that’s all she knows subsides enough to let some coherent thoughts in, one of which will be,I’m in trouble here.
Open the back door. Push her inside, on to the items that convinced her I wasn’t a man who would do this, along with any bag she might have over her shoulder or be wearing across her torso on a strap. Close the door. Wipe any bloodstains off the passenger side of the car with my sleeve. Pick the map up off the ground along with any shoes that came off and put them in the boot as I walk around it.
On the driver’s side now, open the rear door there and punch her several times on the side of the head. Take the nearest seatbelt and wind it around her wrists as many times as it will go, and then either tie it to another belt or clip it into the buckle, whatever’s at the intersection of speed and function.
Close that door.
Get back into the driver’s seat and go.
Sixty seconds gone, on a good day.
I know what you’re thinking. What if she screams? Or what if she gets into her bag and is able to scratch you with her keys? And what about the blood she’s leaving all over your back seat?
All fair, but also beside the point.
Remember, I’m not trying to commit the perfect crime here. There is no such thing. I’m only trying to delay the getting caught for as long as possible, to fit in as many summit attempts as I can before my luck runs out and I succumb to altitude sickness and perish in the Death Zone. So separating her from her phone, getting her into the car, doing it quickly enough to minimize the chances of someone seeing us...
That’s goodenough.
We have a ways to go yet, though, she and I, so the next thing is to find somewhere to pull in—a derelict home’s driveway, a dirt track leading into some forestry, a badly lit and empty car park—so I can transfer her from the back seat to the boot and ensure she’s secure there for the rest of the journey.
Secureandquiet.
Which I do.
See? No superpowers required.
Of course, with you, tonight, it was different. You made it easy for me. All I needed to do to get you in my car was call out your name.
When the next night brought no break in the heat, it brokeher, and she decided to break the rules. In that moment, it felt like the consequences could not be as bad as continuing to feel like this, like she was sitting in front of an open, blasting hot oven.
As quietly as she could, she got to her feet and maneuvered her way around the sleeping bodies on the floor. She was barefoot and dressed only in her underwear; it was too hot to wear anything else inside this furnace. She moved in what she hoped was the direction of the door, keeping a hand outstretched in front of her, waiting for it to meet something solid.
She felt the stone first, unexpectedly cool, and then, a few steps to the left, the smooth wood of the door. She pushed on it before she could panic herself with the idea that he might have locked it from the outside.
