Chapter 28: Six Hours
Anna woke up in the familiar foggy sense that was becoming all too much like second nature to her. At least now she could automatically assume she had been chloroformed; it wasn't as discombobulating anymore, and that fact certainly saved her time and energy. Her head spun with nausea as she regained some semblance of consciousness under the darkness of her eyelids. With a deep groan, she stretched her limbs, wiggling her fingers and toes, trying to reorient her senses. A foreign fabric rubbed against her skin, a stark difference from the cold surface of concrete that she had only recently become accustomed to. She took a deep breath, taking in cool, clean air. Listening quietly, there was a silence, muffling the background noise of cars and people somewhere far away. A fan whirled somewhere nearby, sending waves of cool air through her hair.
This can't be another warehouse, she thought in the darkness. So where am I this time?
Hazarding a look, she opened her eyes, the dull gray light of day blinding her. Above her was indeed a ceiling fan, its white blades slowly rotating against a dark green background. Rolling over onto her side, she found herself in an empty apartment, its forest green walls chipping to reveal the white underlying plaster in small ovals. The sofa she had been laid on faced an old whitewashed door and a mahogany stained dresser. Straining her arms, she sat up, the stiffness in her neck returning her to reality from the drug-induced reverie. With a groan, she placed her feet on the cold wooden floor, slowly shifting her weight to her sore ankles until she could stumble up.
Letting her body adjust to the new change in position, Anna looked around the main room she had suddenly found herself in. It was minimally furnished, with very little else outside of the sofa and the dresser. On top of the dresser, her blue coat was folded neatly into a compact rectangle. Behind the sofa was an open archway leading into a small kitchen. Except for that initial white-washed door, there were two other doors, both opened enough to get a glimpse at the rooms inside: one leading into a bathroom, the other leading into a small bedroom. The remaining side of the main room had two large windows, the late autumn light streaming in through a pair of gauze curtains onto the two cushioned benches that provided a seat to anyone who wanted to look out of them.
Dominant scent in the air is alcohol: either a murder cover-up just concluded here, or this apartment was recently cleaned out for a new tenant. Anna scanned the room once more. Clean wooden floor, but covered with internal scratches, plus the chipping of the underlying plaster of the walls rather than the paint itself: old building. However, the ceiling fan and the new coat of paint around it suggest recent renovations. French-styled double window reminiscent of early 1900 fashion, which is not exactly efficient for temperature consistency. Why add a ceiling fan when it would be more efficient to change the window format? Answer: this building is meant to mimic a certain time period. There must be something special about the style of the apartment itself, but none of this is relevant.
Anna instinctively made her way to the whitewash door, jiggling the grimy gold door knob. Old-fashioned door knob: one-way lock. I can't get out of the room unless someone outside unlocks it with a key. Shit. But why does this apartment still have this kind of door knob? Growling at the ridiculous nature of the door itself, she peered through the keyhole, looking out into the hallway. Twisted staircase ends on this floor; I'm on the top floor of this building. Judging by the height of this ceiling, no one will likely hear me from below if I make noise; no use trying. How high up am I?
She went to the windows, pushing the gauzy fabric to the side. Sitting on the bench, Anna mustered the strength to open the first one. The panes shook as she pushed the windows out and open, the hinges squeaking as the window opened up into two halves. The cool autumn breeze blew through her hair, raised goose bumps aggravating her bare arms. Just beyond the horizon, a dark mass of clouds rolled along; it would rain soon, the moisture already building in the air. She could hear the sounds of the city, the quiet mumbling of the people and the cars below. Crawling up onto the bench, she hung her feet out the window until she was standing on a thin concrete ledge. Looking to both sides, she noticed the gray-bricked walls and old ivy that made the exterior of the apartment, accentuating the age of the complex, despite some of the interior renovations.
Deciding to take the risk, Anna looked down at the streets below her. Her feet tingled and her body screamed with every fiber of being to get down from that ledge, the adrenaline racing through her blood. But through her dulled perceptions, she remained standing, holding herself up with a hand wrapped around the window's frame. The cool air whipped at her face as she looked around. There was a green park across the street, with deep green trees that covered a vast field where small children ran around, chasing each other up and down the space. Mothers sat on small wooden benches, talking to each other hurriedly, pausing only momentarily in breaths to check their children. With a vague fear, Anna scanned the park's edge until she found what she was looking for.
There, under the tree closest the apartment building was the large, familiar figure, wrapped in a black coat. A shiver went down her spine at the sight of the Doll Maker. Her heart skipped at beat as she realized her vulnerability at the window's ledge; if he saw her dangling out of the window, there would certainly be consequences. However, his back was facing her as he watched the children, playing the role of innocent passer-by. Anna saw her backpack hanging off his shoulder, a thought suddenly flashing through her mind.
The antidote.
With that directive, Anna jumped back into the bare apartment, slamming the windows shut and drawing the gauze back over them. The Doll Maker was just outside the apartment; at best, she would have ten minutes before he reached her.
Think: this apartment was never used before this, meaning the Doll Maker rented it out for one purpose. This is where he is placing me, then. Her arms shook at the realization, her index finger immediately digging into the skin of her thumb. The adrenaline continued to run through her veins, her heart beating faster and faster and her breathing quickening. There has got to be a way to tell Sherlock where I am. Think, god damn it.
Anna ran to the singular dresser, flying through each drawer. Only the bottom one contained anything; a secondary set of clothing. Rummaging through the fabrics, Anna found a white box much like the ones she saw in the warehouses she was put in. Tearing it open, she saw exactly what she feared: five syringes, each one filled with a clear solution. She held one in her hand, raising it high above her head, letting the graying light run through it. A sudden temptation transfixed her; throw it to the ground, destroy any chance of his using it. Her arm lifted higher into the air, her back muscles twitching to bring it crashing down to the ground.
Stop it, Anna. You know breaking these will do nothing but make matters worse. You saw the warehouses: he was plenty more of these. If you destroy these vials, you'll only be showing the Doll Maker your fear.
She tossed the vial back into its white box, carefully replacing the cloth that hid them before. Instead, she ran into the kitchen, searching through the cupboards and drawers. But no matter how vigorously she searched, there was nothing in any of them. The cupboards were empty; the drawers had nothing but cloth in them. The most that was in the fridge was a bottle of water and two sandwiches, neither of which looked very appealing. Giving a small groan of frustration, Anna ran into the single bedroom across the main room, where the same problem plagued her. The Doll Maker had left her nothing, absolutely nothing to chance any communication with Sherlock.
Now officially panicking, Anna ran into the small bathroom. Flicking the light on, she threw out all the drawers, finally finding a pair of scissors. Taking it in her hands, she held it up in front of her, judging the dull blades. But something distracted her out of the corner of her eye. Looking at the reflection in front of her, Anna saw herself for the first time in a week. Her dark hair hung limply over her face and shoulders. Brushing them to the sides, her bony shoulders were revealed, the clavicle starkly lined under the harsh artificial light of the bathroom. Her wide eyes were framed by the dark circles of restlessness, and her cheekbones were far more defined than usual. Even in the extreme nature of her situation, there was something rather beautiful about her; she looked like a fading china doll, the youth mixing with the poignant paleness of her skin. It was something only the Doll Maker would find enticing.
Taking a deep breath, Anna calmed herself down. Rubbing her face, she steadied her breathing. Her fingers stopped twitching, and she looked down to see the jagged edges of skin beading with the familiar deep red of blood. It was a comfort; no matter what happened, her bloody fingers were always there, always coping. With slow clarity, she reached out and turned on the sink, the old faucets rushing to life as she dipped her fingers into the cool water. There was a reactionary shiver, followed by a singular pulse of blood rushing into each finger. It was strange that she didn't need her usual method to relieve the stress, but that moment was not the time to question the overwhelming sense of peace that overcame her. Twisting the faucet shut and drying her hands with the nearby towel, she looked into the mirror once more. Each heart beat sent a pulse through her head. With one more breath, the ringing silence filled her ears.
"I trust you, Sherlock," she said, shattering the silence. She was surprised at the weak nature of her voice, the quavering in her intonation. It had been a while since she had heard herself talk, but the underlying fatigue and fear scared her the most. This was fear, something she had buried into the depths of her mind until she believed she no longer felt it. Now she had no choice but to face it, the reflection stolidly depicting her as she stood tall.
"I trust you, Sherlock," she said once more, "and now it's time I play the game."
Flicking off the bathroom light, Anna made her way back into the main living room, its emptiness no longer making her uncomfortable. She heard heavy footsteps climbing up the stairway: her ten minutes were up. Diving to the bench by the window, she placed herself under the light.
You want to save me? she thought to herself, listening to the grinding of a key in the lock. Fine, save me; send me to my salvation. But I'll make the rules first.
The Doll Maker entered, dropping three paper bags onto the wooden floor and letting Anna's backpack slide off his shoulder. His black trench coat was a striking shadow; a large field of darkness that seemed to enlarge his tall figure. He looked at her curiously, noting the change in her posture. She was looking out the window, staring down at something on the street. In silence, he began to move towards her, but she stopped him.
"Those women down there, in the park," she mused, "they sit there on those benches, laughing away at their own lives, leaving their children to run around and around in circles. Look; I'm sure you've seen it. They talk and talk and talk non-stop and they pay no attention to their own children until they cry, practically screaming in pain. There's one now: a little girl was being teased by that little boy; only when he threw dirt at her did anyone intervene, did the mother step away from her trivial conversation. She's sitting there laughing, not noticing a thing about her daughter. And that's just in the park alone; what about everything else in life?" She turned to face him, the dark figure with the graying hair and deepening lines creasing his face towering over her. "Those adults," she continued, letting her voice rant on to match the style of the Doll Maker himself, "those so-called parents, don't realize how they utterly destroy those children, leaving them to rot in the lives that aren't even their own. It's pathetic, isn't it?"
She looked up at him, letting her sunken eyes gleam. He stared at her, his lips still lined in a deep frown. "I won't fight you; it seems futile to do so now. I mean, you've won. I've been struggling against you for the past twelve years, and what good has that done me? None; absolutely none. Thinking on it now, it seems pointless to continue. Why push on through the suffering of life in a world with methods crueler than your own, Doll Maker?
"And I put all my faith in him, in Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps that was the greatest mistake of all: putting one's hopes on a man, a singular, human man. For all of his promises, he still can't save me. He can't do a bloody thing. So here I am, waiting for him and he is nowhere to be found. If Sherlock could find me, he would have done so by now, wouldn't he have? I don't know…I just don't know anymore." She felt a singular tear streak down her cheek, and she felt herself taken back for a split moment. Maybe for a moment she did doubt Sherlock, and as she brushed that tear away hastily, she looked up at the Doll Maker. If she was going to convince him on anything, it would have to be now, while she appeared emotionally vulnerable.
"I've been running away from you for so long because I was afraid; because deep down, even as a child, I knew you were right. I knew that, in one way or another, I was better off dying at five. Look at me, eighteen years old and an absolute wreck. I have nightmares every night now; I suffer from extreme forms of anxiety; I can't seem to connect to anyone my age, or any age for that matter. And nobody was there to help me; nobody at all. I live in a society where innocence is shot down from every angle and left to rot. You were always right, Doll Maker, whoever you are. You were always right; it just took time for me to accept that."
She stopped, allowing herself to take a deep breath; this was certainly taking things too far, but it was necessary when dealing with a madman. If she could get inside his head, she could do something, anything, to help her escape that apartment. If she could somehow prove she accepted his ideals as he believed them, then maybe she could switch the power in the game.
He reached out hand, letting his fingers brush against her cheek. He gave a weary smile, and Anna instantly knew she had done it: she had convinced the craziest person in the world that she could be just as desperate as he could. And as disgusting as she felt in that moment, she held back the pressing desire to grab that hand, snatch the blunt scissor blades from the bathroom, and slice his throat open and watch him bleed. She just wanted to watch him bleed.
"Alright," he whispered, his voice soothing. "Alright, my doll. I knew you would understand soon enough." He let her go, returning to the backpack and handing it off to her. "Go clean yourself up. It won't be long, I promise, but we have to do this the right way."
She opened her bag, noting the soaps, the makeup, a strange fabric that she could only assume to be a nightgown. None of those things were poised to assist her escape. As the Doll Maker made his way to whitewashed door, Anna abruptly made her demands.
"I won't fight you anymore. You can paralyze me, finish what you started, on two conditions."
He looked expectantly at her, stone cold in those faded eyes.
"One: you don't touch any of the children down there in that park while I am still alive. Restrain yourself; you can wait until this is all over to move on to them."
"And the second?"
"You give Sherlock Holmes a twenty-four hour notice."
He cocked his head, inclining it with a slight glimmer in his eyes. "Why?"
"You said you wanted to make him pay for taking me away. Fine, make him pay; make him realize he couldn't save me. I'm inclined to agree after twelve years of false hope from that man, and I know the best way to do it. Give him twenty-four hours of agony, let him panic at the prospects of failure. That is what he fears the most: not the just failure itself, but the knowledge he will lose no matter how hard he tries."
There was a pause he the Doll Maker considered her offer. Anna felt herself twitch slightly, stalking him with her eyes. With a dark nod, he turned away from her, pulling out the key and unlocking the door. "He has until five pm, but I will give him notice. We begin your process in two hours."
"Wait!" Anna repealed, but he was gone, his heavy footsteps already crashing down the stairs. Flying to the door, she grabbed the doorknob, shaking it in hopes that he would have forgotten to lock the door. He didn't. Racing back to the window, she watched him stride away, moving towards a bus and disappearing around the corner. In the distance was a clock tower, its yellowing face cut only by its black hands.
"Ten am now; assuming he gets a card within an hour, he'll only have six hours…I'm sorry, Sherlock," she muttered under her breath.
With nothing else to do, Anna made her way into the bathroom, twisting the shower head on and letting steam fill the room. Digging through her bag, she tugged at the bottom flap until she could pull out the blue glass cylinder. Holding it up to the light, she watched the solution slink along the edges; so the Doll Maker had never found it.
She remembered Sherlock's instructions perfectly, as if he had told her yesterday: Take that before the Doll Maker gives you the anesthetic and you'll be able to maintain all functions and consciousness. However, it won't work if you use it more than five hours before he gives you that first shot.
"He did say two hours," she muttered, breaking the blue glass and adjusting the syringe. She grimaced slightly as needle bit into her vein. The sharp stabbing sensation made arm throb, each nerve screaming aloud at the intrusive object. Slowly, she pushed the top of the syringe, watching as the solution was injected into her arm. There was a strange warmth emanating from that point, and a small dot of blood seeped out from where the needle had once cut through her skin. Wiping it away with the flat part of her thumb, she saw the smeared spot already shifting to a dark, brown stain.
"I trust you, Sherlock. Please don't lose this game."
