Trapped With A Killer

Chapter Four

I was sure it'd been hours since the screaming had ceased, but no matter how hard I strained my ears I couldn't hear any movement from the other room. It was shitty, but I could only hope and pray that the sick bastard kept his word, and that against all odds Quinn would be okay. So, I just sat there in the dark, clutching my knees to my chest.

I think I nodded off for a little bit because my head jerked up from my knees at the sound of the door opening. I wasn't surprised I'd fallen asleep. Nearest I could tell about three days had passed in this place, and, besides being unconscious for a short period of time, I hadn't slept a wink.

As he entered, he rolled behind him a large, nondescript trash can on a dolly, which he opened the lid to and pulled out nylon rope and some cloth. A bad feeling started to bubble up in my stomach. He didn't seem very talkative today, but I just had to check.

"Is she safe?" I whispered. He didn't even look at me as he started unrolling the rope and checking it for damage.

"Yes, it's already on the news, actually. So, I guess they found her." Wheaton knelt down beside me and motioned for me to show him my ankle, and I obliged. Part of me hoped this trash can and everything meant he was going to let me go too. But deep down I knew that was a frivolous hope. I had seen his face, knew his name, there was no chance in hell he'd release me now.

"Where are you going to take me?" I choked out while he began to unlock my ankle and wrists.

"My house. I need to deep clean this place, and I can't bother coming back to it everyday just to feed you, too inconvenient," he muttered. At least that meant he was planning on keeping me fed. It would be a lie to say I hadn't considered the possibility of him depriving me of food and water. I was glad to be leaving this dingy, muggy room, but for all I knew I was jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire.

I didn't ask any more questions as he began to bind my hands, elbows, knees, and ankles. Maybe I should've kicked up a fuss, but honestly I didn't really see how that would help anything. Even as my limbs began burning, I obediently opened my mouth and allowed him to gag me. It seemed to be the almost constant mantra of my mind recently, 'I just want this done, and the less I struggle the sooner it will be.'

I'd never been particularly claustrophobic, but when he dumped me inside that trash can, closed the lid, and started wheeling it around I felt my lungs constrict. I just couldn't get enough air in me, and my legs burned, my position pressing my full body weight onto them.

My quick, shallow breaths and pounding heart were drowned out by the steady rumble of the wheels below me and then a door opening and the jostle of rolling over a door frame. After rolling for another thirty feet or so he hoisted the trash can off the dolly and onto the floor of the van with a grunt of effort and closed the doors.

I remember hearing that transportation was a volatile situation for criminals. Some things are always out of their control and they are bound to slip up and make a mistake, an opening. But Wheaton had managed to kidnap and transport almost twenty people by now in a crowded city without being caught. It seemed he had about as airtight a method as you can get. I guess he did mess up in the parking garage, but I kind of doubted he'd be leaving such obvious evidence of his crimes in full view of his windows anytime soon.

Before he'd left, he fiddled around the middle of the trash can, and I'd hoped he'd secured it with something. I didn't like the thought of sliding around the van's floor before toppling over and breaking my arms or something.

He started the van, and I could tell by the echo that we were still inside a large room. Then I heard the sound of an old, commercial garage door opening, and the van rolled forward until we were outside.