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Waste not, want not.
In the bathroom, he found some nice-smelling soap, and took it for Clara.
So he wandered, taking what caught his eye, including a banana from the fruit bowl on the counter.
From the fridge he looked at the beer, but took a Coke instead. Keep sharp for the work to be done. Checking the time, he took the banana,the Coke, sat with them on the basement steps with the flashlight on his phone to ward off the spooky.
In town, Sloan ordered the pizza, started to text Nash she’d be home in about a half hour, but Charlene stopped by.
“Did you hear about Terry Brown?”
“Yes, and they’re doing everything they can to find him.”
“Do you know anything? I stayed with Hallie last night after she called me. She’s worried sick.”
“I wish I did. If you see her, tell her I’m doing all I can, too. She can call me anytime.”
Nothing else to do or say, Sloan thought. They hadn’t contacted her about the sketch. Either they hadn’t found a match, or they had and hadn’t told her.
She could only hope it was the latter.
She took the pizza out to the car, and as she had when she went in, looked up and down for the woman, the man.
Then texted Nash.
Home with pizza in fifteen.
Just finishing up for the day. I won’t be much longer than that. Pour the wine. I can use it.
Right there with you.
And thinking of home, thinking of Terry, thinking of too many things, she drove out of town.
Terry surfaced, groggy, disoriented, more than a little sick to his stomach. For a moment he thought he’d been struck by lightning again and unable to move his arms, his legs.
Then he remembered.
He looked around the room with wide, glazed eyes. Like a hospital room, but bigger. He was propped in a hospital bed, he realized. And strapped down.
Terror had him calling out. Coughing to clear his throat, then shouting. He saw the bed beside his, like his, with straps.
“What is this place!”
He saw a single window covered with a blackout shade. Someone had left the long tubes of florescent lights on overhead.
It might have been worse if he’d woken in the dark, but he didn’t see how.
“What do you want? Who are you?”
He twisted his wrists, strained. He was no weakling. He’d break the straps.
“Somebody! Somebody help me! I’m here!”
He fought the straps while his wrists, his ankles burned and bled.
When Sloan pulled up to her house, she considered contacting O’Hara, then dismissed the idea. She trusted if he had anything, he’d contact her. No point, she told herself, taking up his time when he could use it looking for Terry.
Was he still alive? God, she hoped so.