Chapter 30

After Ethan Saltz had brought me lunch, then spoken at length about his accomplishments, all I had wanted to do was sleep. But he'd left me alone again, and I knew that I needed to at least explore every possibility of escape, however slim. I started with the cot that I was lying on. The frame was metal, and the musty mattress was filled with stuffing, no springs or anything like that. I slid down to the foot of the bed and stood up. I was still in the clothes that I'd been wearing when I walked into the Shepaug town center a hundred years ago. My shoes were still on my feet.

I took steps in every direction to see how far I could get. There was a framed print on the wall that was just out of my reach. It was a pop art illustration of a topless woman with short black hair and a black puma creeping around behind her. I could almost touch the edge of its white frame with a fingertip. Not that having access to the picture would be helpful. I could throw it at Saltz when he came back, but even if I managed to knock him out or hurt him, how would that help me?

What would be helpful was the nail that was probably holding up the print. I looked at the portion of the wall that I could reach. It was painted a deep maroon, heavily patched here and there where spackle had been used to cover up holes. I ran my hands along the surface, wondering if there were weak spots where I could punch through the plasterboard. Again, not sure how that would help me.

But my hand did detect a slight protrusion on the wall. I touched my finger to it and realized that it was a nail head, flush with the wall, that had been painted over. I scraped away at the paint and was able to uncover one edge, managing to slide a fingernail underneath it. I pulled at the nail head and my fingernail ripped. I shook my hand and tiny flecks of blood covered me and the wall. I put my finger in my mouth and with my other hand, searched my pockets. I was wearing jeans and there was a small pocket inside the larger one on the front right side. Inside was a single dime.

It took me about a minute, but using the dime I was finally able to extract the long thin nail from the wall. It was about an inch and a half and the tip wasn't exactly super-sharp, but it wasn't dull, either. I lay back down on the cot, no longer sleepy, my mind forming a plan. I took long deep breaths while experimenting with different ways of holding the nail. I put it between my index and middle fingers and closed my fist. I tried gripping the head using my thumb, and jabbed at my own thigh to see if I could get any purchase with the nail. I got some, but it wasn't great, so I used the nail to rip a strip away from the bedsheet, and looped the strip through my fingers, tightening it so that the fabric held my fingers together the way brass knuckles would. Then I slid the head of the nail between my fingers, making a fist and adjusting the nail so that the taut fabric held it in place. I jabbed at my thigh again, and the fabric made all the difference, the nail tip puncturing my jeans and pricking at my skin. I reached down and felt blood slowly sleeping into the denim.

I had my weapon. Now I needed a way to ensure that Saltz would get close enough to me so that I'd have a chance to use it.

I looked at my finger, still sleeping blood, then swiped it across my neck, probably leaving just a small streak. But if I was going to get Saltz to come close enough to me to find out if I was still alive, then I was going to need a lot more blood.

I thought about simply puncturing a small wound near my carotid artery. If I did it right, it would produce enough blood to make it look as though I'd cut my own throat and was lying dead on the cot. If I did it wrong, then I would actually be lying dead on the cot. I thought of cutting at my forearm, trying to hit one of the arteries, but even if it produced enough blood, what I really wanted to do was get that blood all over my neck area. I wanted Saltz to lean right over me, to look me in my eye. I wanted a shot at his carotid artery.

Then I thought of my ear. I had a fuzzy memory of a party my freshman year at Mather College when one of my three roommates—I think it was the goth version of Winona Ryder—got drunk and tried to pierce her own ear using one of the blades from a Swiss Army knife. She'd started to bleed, and it just hadn't stopped, so one of my other roommates, the one who looked like a preppy version of Winona Ryder (all three of my roommates oddly looked like Winona Ryder), had almost called an ambulance after the blood had completely soaked through several paper towels. We finally taped a tampon to my roommate's ear and eventually the bleeding stopped. My takeaway from that awful party had been that ears bleed a lot. I didn't know if that was a universal truth, or if it only applied to goth Winona Ryder, but it was time to find out.

I pulled down the lobe of my left ear with my left hand. I had never had my ears pierced, not being a fan of jewelry. I punched the tip of the nail through the lobe, pushing hard enough to break the skin and hurt my finger that was bracing the lobe from behind. Some blood trickled out, and I turned my whole body to the right so that it would run down the side of my neck. I needed the blood to be visible and I hoped it would look like I had somehow managed to slit my own throat. I felt the blood move across my skin, but there wasn't a lot of it, and it stopped before reaching the hollow of my throat. I held my ear again with my left hand, and this time after I pierced the skin with the nail I ripped at my ear. It hurt and tears pricked at my eyes, but I could feel the blood flowing more freely, and when I turned my head it rolled across my neck and began to drip onto the sheet under my head. After about a minute the blood slowed, so I reached up with my hand and pulled down my ear so the wound opened up more. My ear throbbed, but the feel of the warm blood tracing a line under my jaw and along my neck was strangely satisfying. I had made something happen.

When the wound had clotted, I licked my fingers and cleaned the blood from my ear. I wanted it to look like I had a fatal wound, not to look like I deliberately punctured my ear. I settled onto my back, turning my head slightly toward the stairwell, and covered my right hand, the one with the nail, half under part of the sheet. Then I waited.

It felt like two hours, but eventually I heard the creak of footsteps above me. I took several deep breaths, then listened to the sound of the basement door opening, the same footsteps now coming down the stairs, white light filling the basement. After blinking several times, I let my chin fall open, then stared blankly at the drop ceiling above me. I wanted to look dead. It worked, because I heard Saltz gasp, then race across the carpeted floor to get to me. He did exactly what I wanted him to do, leaning over me, studying me for signs of life.

I swung my fist and hit him in the temple. He reared back and slapped his hand to the bleeding wound. There was a slight smile on his face, as though he were pleased that I was fighting back. I hit him again, and this time it was perfect, punching him right up under his square jaw. When I pulled my hand away a small stream of blood sprayed out of the wound. The smile left Ethan Saltz's face. I thought he'd instantly try to stop the bleeding, but instead he wrapped his hands around my throat and started to squeeze. "Fucking bitch," he said as I watched the blood start to sheet down his neck and under his collar. I don't think he immediately realized that I'd punctured an artery, and by the time he pulled a hand away from my throat and grabbed at the wound, it was too late. His face was white, and he fell backward into a sitting position, one hand grasping at my shoulder to keep himself upright.

"You're going to die, Ethan," I said, my throat raspy.

Blood was coursing through his fingers, and he let go of me and fell to the floor, his head thumping against it. I sat up on the bed and we looked at each other. I'd already thought about this moment, thought about having a chance to say something to him, so I said it now.

"When I get out of here, Ethan, I'm going to go to your house and find your list of homicides and I'm going to burn it. No one will know what you did. No one."

Who knows if he heard me or comprehended what I was saying, but I like to think that he did.