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Fuck, his head hurt.
Well, not hurt so much as felt like he was peeling back layers of cloth and blindfold. Muzzy.
Yeah, that was a good word for what he was feeling right now. Alan held his breath as his broken ribs made themselves known, along with a few bruises along his sides. His bashed leg began to throb. Gingerly, Alan tried to stand up, but a pressure along his throat became more prominent the higher he tried to stand from the bed...
Wait.
Alan blinked his eyes. The fog was lifting slowly from his mind, and his vision began to clear. There was a scent of...must, and a hint of cedar, and...was that peppermint?
As the doctor gained his bearings, he noticed that, just like Dorothy in Oz, he wasn't in his basement cell anymore. Which was good, a step in the right direction, but...
Where the hell was he?
As Alan took a step from the bed, the pressure on his throat intensified. It almost felt as if...
No. No. He wouldn't.
Would he?
Alan wriggled his right ankle, where he knew the shackle remained. The tell-tale chain rattled, tinkling its solid links in response to the motion.
Okay. That hadn't changed.
Then what did? Why would Sam...
A deep breath forced its way out of Alan's battered chest. He sat back on the bed, and for the first time began to actually see his surroundings.
Gone was the dated wood paneling. There was fresh drywall instead, painted a light butter yellow. Beneath his feet lay a thick carpet, carefully stretched along the flooring to the edges of the sizable space. It was a light gray color, one that complemented the walls. Alan wriggled his toes, covered only in a pair of black cotton socks. He glanced around and found his shoes in a small cedar wood shoe rack inside a cutout closet that looked like a recent addition. There was a new night table, made of a single piece of solid oak. It wasn't anything Alan had a hope of breaking apart in hopes of a makeshift weapon, and far too heavy to lift in his current physical condition.
The mattress Alan sat on was extremely soft. It reminded him a lot of the one on his bed at home, his home, with Beth. A thick pillowtop cover seemed to be the only real difference. The pillows were fresh, as were the soft sky-blue sheets. An oak headboard pressed against the wall, a sleigh style frame. Beth had had one, just before they married. It belonged to a niece now, a housewarming present for a first apartment.
Taking a deep breath to steady his still-muzzy head, Alan tried again to stand up. There was soft tack of something striking wood, and the pain around the doctor's throat intensified. Alan's fingers flew to the site of the pressure, and nearly stopped breathing at what his fingertips found.
A collar.
A collar made of what felt like strong, sturdy wire. It had been looped and padlocked in such a way that it allowed Alan to lie down, to sleep, even to sit up – but the slack allotted did not allow the therapist to do more than stand upright and stretch.
Getting a better look at the contraption, Alan stilled.
It was more than a collar.
It was practically a fucking noose.
The implications of Alan's find made him want to sob. Here he was, out of the basement, off the ground, in a fresh, clean, well-appointed room...and he had even less freedom than before.
The whole thing made Alan just want to cry. How was he ever going to win his release if Sam felt this paranoid?
Something warm crossed Alan's thin shoulders, and he turned to see the bright rays of sunlight that streamed in through a solid glass window. Turning around, Alan stared at it. He was able to see out of the window – a large back yard, bits of rotting wood and frame that might once have been a barn, soft waves of wheat far in the distance. A windbreak of tall poplars and willows stood between them, as though guarding the house and its secret captive.
“You like it?”
Alan startled, letting out a noise of fright. “Sorry,” his captor said, coming closer. “The door's pretty quiet. Made sure.”
“It's okay, Sam,” the therapist said. “I was just admiring the window.”
“I hope you like it. Lots of sunshine. It's one way glass, so people can't see in. I put in in all the rooms. Now there's no worries about nosy neighbors.”
Alan forced a smile. “Um, Sam,” he began, his fingers tapping a little at the steel cord around his throat. “What's this for? Have I...have I done something wrong?”
“Oh, no, no, Doctor Strauss. I, um...” Sam holds up a length of chain, one that is noticeably longer than his previous one and has some sort of rubber coating around the individual links. “...I had to go into town for this. Just...stay still, and I'll swap that old one out.”
Like the doctor had any other choice. A few moments later, the sounds of two padlocks clicking graced Alan's ears, and then Sam reached for his therapist's throat. “Hold still,” the killer said softly, working a minuscule key into an even tinier keyhole. A sharp click and the release of pressure around Alan's Adam's apple was his reward.
“I wanted to show you around,” Sam explained. Two strides to the left, a clean white door stood. Alan's captor opened it. “Come have a look.”
It took a minute for Alan to rise from the bed. He slowly shuffled his stocking feet towards the opening and peered inside.
It...wasn't what Alan expected.
Before him, a pedestal sink and stool stood. Both were a plain white. On the other side of the small space, a yellow shower stall stood, equipped with what looked like an adjustable spray head. On the farthest wall, near the toilet, stood a small towel rack that was firmly embedded into the wall. A large lemon-yellow bath towel hung brightly from it. An oil burner hung from the bottom plug near the medicine cabinet, letting the soothing smell of peppermint wash over the room and into the adjoining one.
“Best part is, the new chain length will let you reach everything without reaching the door going downstairs. You can clean up whenever you want.” Sam smiled a small, shy smile. “The walls are soundproof. I did that myself. Plus, I'm working on some things so you can come downstairs once in a while. Oh, and I checked – gardens are within the zoning rules. Just let me know what you want to grow and I'll get it for you. There's a good-sized plot already made; I just have to sink a stake in the ground so you can walk around. Also, I'm working on getting us hooked up to the internet. If you want, I can see about getting a smart TV for up here later.”
If it had been his children talking with him about an in-law apartment, Alan would have been over the moon. The fact that he was having this conversation with his jailer...
A small, even smile crept onto Alan's face through sheer force of will. “Thank you, Sam. Really. This is...this is very nice. I can see you put a lot of thought into it.”
Sam beamed. “Only thing it's missing is a table and chairs. Gotta wait on those until I find some steadier work.”
Ah, yes. Ghost writing food critiques. How could he forget?
“Well, Sam, it's going to be a couple more weeks until I'm back in form. Have you considered something on the side, just in the meantime?”
“You mean, like, delivery? Doordash, that sort of thing?”
Alan shrugged. “It would give you an exposure to more restaurants. Ones you maybe didn't have a chance to inspect?”
“I'll...I'll think about it. Might be an idea. I hadn't thought about it like that.”
Well, Alan thought, it's at least a start. More exposure would mean more people to notice what he's up to...and maybe I could slip something out that way.
I hope.