Chapter thirty three

Her head hurt.  She was cold. She was lying on a bed or a couch that was soft, but lumpy.  She tried to put her hand to her head, but she couldn’t move it.  She opened her eyes. The room was dimly lit. She was lying on a small bed with a metal head and foot. Her wrists and, she discovered, her ankles, were tied to it with nylon rope.  She looked around her slowly, struggling with the ropes on her wrist.  The room was small, grey and sparse. There was a small kitchen. It was covered with dust. There was an old wooden chair sitting by a dirty window. There were scuff marks on the ledge, like someone put their feet up there. She struggled to see out of the window, but the dim light and the grim prevented it. Next to the chair was a wooden crate upended with a pair of binoculars resting on it.  She directed her attention to the other side of the room and gasped. He was sitting there watching her. He had his ankle resting on his knee and was toying with a long knife. He had his head down, but his eyes were on her. He looked very menacing and Payton felt the panic well up inside her again.

“I wondered how long it would take for you to wake,” he said quietly. He cocked his head slightly as if waiting for her to respond.

Payton’s head was spinning. Of all the people in the world, she couldn’t understand why he was sitting there opposite her. Why would he want to hurt Sid?  He grinned at her.

“Let me guess, you want to know why? How? Are you really expecting an explanation?” he laughed. He was clearly crazy. She’d never heard anyone laugh that way.  There was no other explanation for why Pat Brisson was sitting opposite her, fingering the point of a long knife with a wild look in his eye.

“But,” she managed to croak. She couldn’t find her voice.

“But what, Payton?” he stood, still playing with the knife. He took a couple of steps and leaned over her on the bed with his arms on either side of her. She was acutely aware of the knife in his right hand only inches from her side.

“You know, it didn’t start out this way,” he snorted and looked away from her almost bashfully. “I was helping him, getting a little press, making some headlines.  Just letting a little information leak out.  He is so damn protective of his privacy. Then he met you and this became so much fun.”

At this, Pat sneered and his eyes grew wide. Payton squirmed and pulled on her tethers.

“No, point in doing that. You’ll hurt yourself,” he said, and looked up and down her body, making Payton’s skin crawl.

“But, he’s your friend,” she cried.

“Ha, no, he’s not. Mr. Perfect doesn’t need friends. Mr. Perfect doesn’t need anything but hockey. Mr. Perfect…” he hissed and paused. “I know him very well, you know.”

Payton stared up at him, still completely confused.

“He has to be the best, you know. I never met anyone so determined to be the best, following the best to learn from them, hounding them about technique. All so he can take their place as the best.  And my wife calls me a parasite.”

He snorted a laugh, “I didn’t realize how much I hated him until you though. Mr. Perfect got himself the perfect girl.”

He raised the knife to her neck. She gasped and squirmed away from him as much as her bonds allowed. He pushed the point of the knife to her skin lightly and traced down her neck and chest and stopped at the button on her blouse. 

“I’d never seen him so happy before. Then the fun began. I made him jump through hoops trying to keep you safe.  It was funny, really. He was willing to anything for you. You were as much a gift for me as you were for him.”

Payton squirmed again, trying to get away from him.  There were tears in her eyes. The fear that crawled up her spine doubled, realizing that Pat was going to be able to hurt Sidney because of her.

“I wonder,” he said using the knife to pop off one of her buttons, “if the perfect girl could make that kind of change in me.”