Leprous brown patches undulated over a cratered gray surface. Molly blinked. Gradually, the water stains on the popcorn ceiling came into focus. She had been staring at them for two days now, but her eyes traced the meandering pattern again. How old were they? Had the roof leaked? Was there another floor above this one, a decrepit toilet sitting above this bed, oozing foul water?
Much better to consider all the possibilities than to think about what was going on in her body, much less what was going on in the other rooms on her own floor. Yesterday afternoon, after her film debut, when she had been tied back up on the sagging bed, she had heard the sounds from the other room. The clinks of metal, the jaunty whistle. Then he had appeared, dressed in green scrubs, wheeling in a metal tray…..no, she wouldn't think about that. She would think about the layout of the rooms again. This room: full-sized bed, metal headboard, window shade pulled down, small bathroom to her right. The "film room," empty and dark with both of its windows covered in dark fabric. There must be another room where he prepared the tray….
Focus, she ordered herself. Remember your Epictetus. She never thought she'd think about Stoicism outside the classroom, but hadn't Admiral Powell relied on the writings of Epictetus when he was shot down over Vietnam? Oh, stop it! You're not a POW, for heaven's sake. This isn't torture! But what else could it be called when you were kidnapped, tied up, and…and…
Smells and sounds might help. There was the unmistakable scent of manure whenever he entered or left the apartment. Central Valley? Images from childhood floated to the surface of her mind. Trips to Southern California, Disneyland and grandparents, her dad aiming the station wagon straight down boring Interstate Five, miles of farmland rolling by. Heavy cow smells as they passed the feedlots in Coalinga. She and her cousin would hold their noses and retch dramatically, but secretly she sort of liked the aroma.
Focus, dammit! Yesterday it had rained all day. She'd heard the raindrops against the window, and the squeaking of his shoes when he came in the front door. But today there was sunlight peeking around the edges of the window shade, and there was a new sound. A comforting, summer day kind of sound, so far in the background it almost didn't register at all. Molly closed her eyes again and listened. It was the sound of an airplane. Not a jet, just one of the small planes she associated with fine weather. She'd been hearing small planes all day, in a regular pattern over the house. This building must be under the landing or take-off pattern of a small airport. Was there any way to convey that information to her anonymous viewers? Would it make any difference?
He had said he was sending the videos to the police. He might be lying. Was he really stupid enough to mail evidence directly to them? Maybe not stupid, just colossally arrogant. His arrogance had worked in her favor, though. He fancied himself a surgeon. She had good reason to know he was no such thing, but the delusion was useful. He had collected little bottles of local anesthetic and antibiotics and something that had at least dulled the pain when the anesthetic wore off. His instruments looked clean, and he had put a clean towel under her foot before he had….
She glanced down at her foot, wrapped in white gauze. The pain felt something like that time in eighth grade, when she'd been horsing around with her friend and had stubbed her toe on the oak sideboard in the dining room. Hairline fracture. Geez, that had hurt. But that's how she knew the pain medicine he had given her today must be real. This time she had not broken her little toe. This time, it was gone. It seemed like that would hurt a bit more than a fracture, wouldn't it?
At least he hadn't given her enough medication to remove the pain altogether. He probably wanted to make sure she would be awake and scared enough to make a good video. But one side benefit of her alertness was that she could think about how to talk to whoever was out there. She pictured him as a kindly old cowboy, like John Wayne in his last movies. Or Clint Eastwood. Wise, sympathetic, but still dangerous enough to get the bad guys and save the day. God, that's moronic, she thought. But it was all she had.