74

Once her eyes had adjusted to the sudden brightness, Darby saw the woman Williams called Sarah slipping out of her boots. They were wet with snow. Wherever Darby was, she wasn’t inside Williams’s house. Was she on his property or had he tucked her away somewhere else?

Darby didn’t know, but one thing was clear: Williams had designed this place with care and detail to prevent anyone from escaping.

Sarah wore a pink fleece top with matching sweatpants. ‘It’s time for your feeding,’ she said, slipping her stockinged feet into a pair of slippers.

That was what she called Darby’s meals: feedings. Like she was some sort of caged pet. That’s exactly what I am.

Sarah smiled brightly. ‘Did I tell you Ray belongs to Netflix?’

Darby said nothing, looking at the neatly made bed outside her cell. The woman slept here almost every night, and she spent the majority of the day down here too, reading her Victorian romance novels and watching TV series and movies on DVD. She left for a couple of hours at a time and always came back with supplies – at least Darby assumed it was a couple of hours. She had no idea. There was no clock down here; no windows to tell here whether it was day or night; no calendar to mark off the passage of days. She was buried underground, trapped inside the waiting room to hell.

‘Ray allowed me to get the first season of The Tudors. If you’re nice to me –’

‘How many women?’ Darby asked.

‘We’re not doing this again. I told you, no questions.’

‘I know who you are. Why do you keep denying it?’

‘Please, I want to have a nice day today. Please.’

‘Your name is Nicky Hubbard.’

‘Nicky Hubbard is dead. Ray killed her.’

She repeated the same words every time Darby brought up the subject.

‘No, he didn’t. You’re Nicky Hubbard,’ Darby said. The woman could deny it all she wanted, but there was no doubt in Darby’s mind. ‘That’s why he’s hiding you down here with me. Red Hill’s swarming with the FBI, and other cops –’

‘Wrong.’

‘Ray can’t afford to have someone stop by the house during the day and see you,’ Darby said. She felt sure the news about Hubbard’s fingerprint had been released. ‘Someone would recognize you if they looked carefully enough.’

‘Wrong.’

‘You have Nicky Hubbard’s eyes. Her nose and lips.’

The woman kept shaking her head. ‘I’m getting real tired of you –’

‘You have her ears too,’ Darby said. ‘You’re Nicky Hubbard.’

‘Enough!’

For the past few days, Darby had been playing around with numbers. Ray Williams had abducted Nicky Hubbard thirty-one years ago; Darby didn’t know the how and why, because the woman kept refusing to answer Darby’s repeated questions on the subject. And Darby knew Williams had abducted another woman not that long ago, the previous occupant of this cell, a woman named Sherrilyn O’Neil. If Ray had been abducting a woman every year, that meant he was responsible for disappearances of thirty other women.

And that was just a conservative estimate. It was more than likely he had been taking two women a year, which brought his lifetime record up to sixty. The frightening thing was that sixty was in all probability still too low a number. How many had he abducted and killed? Darby felt sure Nicky Hubbard knew. But did the woman know where Williams had buried the remains?

The woman who called herself Sarah had collected herself. ‘If you behave, I’ll turn on the TV so we can watch The Tudors. We can have a nice, enjoyable day together.’

As the woman got down on one knee and reached inside the big plastic bucket she’d brought down with her, Darby launched into the same script she’d been using day after day, hoping that it would release the memories buried somewhere inside this meek middle-aged woman who had been brainwashed into believing Ray Williams loved her.

‘You were seven years old when your mother brought you to the Carter & Sullivan department store,’ Darby said. ‘You were looking at Cabbage Patch dolls when Ray Williams kidnapped you. He was a teenager. He –’

‘I’m not listening to you any more.’ The woman began to transfer the contents of the bucket to a small cardboard box: clean clothes, a bottle of water and a meal-replacement bar.

‘Your mother’s name is Joan,’ Darby said. ‘She misses you and loves you, Nicky. She wants you to come home.’

The woman who called herself Sarah Williams stood abruptly. She reached inside her pocket and came back with a small handheld remote with a thick rubber antenna.

‘Your mother is alive,’ Darby said, struggling to keep her gaze locked on the woman. ‘I can take you to her.’

‘Say my name – my real name. You say it right now or you’ll force me to press the button.’

Darby had been repeating the script for God only knew how many days, but this was the first time she had seen the woman who believed her name was Sarah with the remote.

‘Let me help you,’ Darby said. ‘I want to help you.’

‘Say it. Say my name or I’ll do it.’

Darby had an idea of what was coming. Her muscles tensed, and she broke out in a cold sweat.

‘Say it!’

‘Nicky Hubbard. Your name is Nicky Hubbard.’

The woman pressed the remote’s side button.

Darby had been Tasered before, but this was a thousand times worse. Hundreds of electrified razors tore through her neck and limbs and exploded through the meat of her brain. She clutched the steel collar frantically, uselessly, trying to tear it off. Her legs gave out and then she fell against the floor, writhing. Screaming.

75

When it was over, Darby lay on the floor, quivering and gasping. As her vision finally returned, she saw that Hubbard had moved the cardboard box inside her cell.

Nicky Hubbard – and that’s who she was, Nicky Hubbard, not Sarah – Nicky Hubbard pressed her face against the bars. She looked sad. Apologetic.

‘That was the number seven setting.’

‘Nicky,’ Darby croaked.

‘I don’t want to hurt you again. Please, I’m begging you, stop calling me that. You’re wrong about Hubbard. She’s dead.’

‘It’s not … your fault. Battered women, abused children and cult members – they all undergo a very traumatic bonding process. Victims become loyal, even protective of the perpetrators.’

‘I am not a victim. I told you that before.’

‘Victims go on to develop their abuser’s beliefs, values and –’

‘Stop or I’ll press the button again.’

Darby was breathing hard, but she managed to keep her voice calm and empathetic. ‘You’re scared,’ she said, forcing herself on to her side. ‘I don’t blame you. I would be scared too.’

‘I’m not scared. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Darby remained quiet for a moment, waiting to see if Hubbard would retreat to her bed, pick up her noise-cancelling headphones and watch TV. The first few times she had confronted Hubbard, the woman was too terrified to speak. Then Hubbard tried to ignore her. When Darby refused to stop talking, to stop asking questions, Hubbard became angry. She shouted at Darby to shut up.

But Hubbard was still standing at the bars, looking down at her, like she was waiting for an explanation.

Good, Darby thought. Definite progress. ‘If I don’t know what I’m talking about, explain to me why he tried to kill you inside that bedroom.’

‘Why do you care?’

‘Why are you afraid to tell me?’

Hubbard held her head high. ‘I am not afraid,’ she said. ‘And Ray apologized for what he did. It was an accident. His mother had always wanted a girl.’

Darby remained quiet. This was new information.

‘Mother Sarah didn’t like boys. She’d always wanted a girl, and when Ray brought me to her car, she was so excited. She was very kind to me. Very, very nice. She named me after herself, you know.’

‘And Ray? Was he nice and kind to you?’