by William Cook
She tried standing again, and this time it was easier. The dizziness was gone. Her stomach growled as she looked at the toast and the soup. When she unscrewed the thermos lid, the aroma of the soup made her mouth water. They don’t want to poison me, she reasoned. If they wanted me dead, they would have killed me already.
She sat and devoured the soup, dipping her toast in it and savoring every mouthful. She snapped open the cap on the water and took a long draft from the bottle. What do they want with me? Why lock me in a closet?
And then she saw them on the wall, tiny letters at floor level on the hinge side of the door, where they wouldn’t be easily seen by someone entering the room. Four small names scratched into the paint of the baseboard:
MARIE ELLIE JIMMY DEIRDRE
A sudden realization flooded her. She had read enough thrillers, watched enough TV and movies. Our client? A new life? She leaped to her feet and ran to the door.
“Hey!” She pounded on the heavy oak panels. “Let me out of here! You can’t do this to me!”
The overhead light snapped off.
“Calm down, Patricia,” came the smarmy voice through the door. “You’ll only bruise yourself and diminish your value to us. I’ll get your medicine.”
“I don’t want medicine! I want out of here!” The door remained immovable. She slid to the floor as the enormity of what was happening overwhelmed her.
An awful despair began to seep into her bones, like water soaking into a sponge. I’m totally alone. No one knows I’m here. I won’t be missed at the pizza shop until my vacation is over.
She couldn’t stop the tears this time. She hadn’t felt so alone since she was three-years-old and her father had stopped at his favorite tavern, forgetting she was strapped in the back car-seat. Unable to free herself, she had wailed for thirty minutes until a passerby saw her distress and ran into the bar to find her father. She would not be comforted.
Was this a judgment on her behavior? The broken relationships? The failed school career? The abandonment of her mother and sisters?
“No!” she shrieked. She had not escaped an abusive boyfriend to be taken like this. She fought back her tears and slammed her palms on the floor. The sudden pain hardened her resolve. I can’t let this happen to me. I can’t. Her impotence underwent a transformation, morphing into a rage that inflamed her. Bring me my medicine, you freak. I’ve got some for you, too. She felt her way to the door and stood up, positioning herself right in front of it. I may not have a gun or a knife, but I have fingernails and teeth. Come and get some, you bastard.
She heard the lock click and the doorknob turn. Before the door was completely open, she hurled all her weight against it. The heavy oak smacked her jailor in the face. He howled and fell backwards, blood streaming from his nose. Patricia was on him like an enraged cougar, clawing at his face, trying to pierce his eyes with her nails.
The man screamed in pain. He wrenched his face away from the attack. “Gideon! Help me!” he bawled, flailing his arms.
Patricia bit down savagely on his exposed ear lobe and tore it off. Blood spewed over her and her victim. He squealed in agony. “Gideon!” he cried, retching on his own blood.
In the uproar, she hadn’t heard the other man come running. He kicked her in the stomach, and Patricia rolled off the bleeding man, gasping for breath. The new attacker stooped down and hauled her to her feet, reaching his muscled arm from behind around her neck.
Before she would have passed out, Patricia rammed her heel down as hard as she could onto his instep. The surprised man yelped in pain and loosened his hold just enough that she burst from his grasp. Clutching her stomach, she ran from him and struggled to orient herself.
I’m still in the friggin’ warehouse! she thought. Through her blurred vision, she could barely make out the red exit sign over the door at the far end of the structure. She ran toward it.
“Gideon!” Paul wailed. “She broke my nose, and she bit off my ear!”
“Jesus! You let a girl beat you up? Go get some paper towels from the bathroom. I’ve gotta catch her.” He turned just in time to see Patricia escape through the front door. “Crap!” he bellowed.
It was night, made darker by the wind-driven rain that slapped her in the face. She ran. The pavement beneath her feet became rough, and she stumbled and sprawled headlong, skinning her palms and elbows. When she heard the door behind her open, she leaped to her feet and sprinted toward a light she saw in the distance. It was 101, the road she had taken into Depoe Bay. Footfalls behind her, running. With a final burst of energy, she dashed into the street. The town looked deserted. What time was it? Then headlights coming from the south. She was in the middle of the road, bouncing up and down, waving her arms. The man in the pickup truck stopped, and her pursuer ducked back into the shadows.
Without waiting for an invitation, Patricia yanked open the door on the passenger side and jumped in, spraying rain water everywhere. The startled driver shouted at her.
“What the hell are you doing? Get out of my truck!”
“Drive, asshole! Drive! He’s after me! He’s gonna kill me!”
“But you’re hurt. Your hands are bleeding.”
“Hit the fucking gas pedal, stupid, or you’ll be hurt, too! Get us out of here!”
Tires squealed as the truck sped away to the north.
A patch of deeper darkness detached itself from the nearby storefront and ran into the street. The man shook his fist at the sky. “Goddamn it!” he shouted over the storm. He ran back to the warehouse. His brother sat just inside the door, moaning softly. “Get into the car now!” Gideon yelled at him. “She’s on the move. Somebody picked her up and they’re heading toward Driftwood.”
“But I’m bleeding. I may need stitches. Antibiotics.”
“After we catch the girl, for Chrissakes. Hurry up!”
In moments, the men were in the SUV, accelerating up the coast road.
“Did you see who it was?”
“Hell, no. Too dark.”
“Suppose they’ll call the police?”
“If they do, that’ll be the end of our sweet little operation. You better hope we get to her before that happens.” He pounded his fist on the steering wheel. “I can’t believe you let her get away!”
“Why is it always my fault? I got her to us, didn’t I? Arranged the whole thing? You hardly know how to use a cell phone!”
“Shut up, shit-for-brains!” He drew a pistol from his waistband and aimed it at Paul’s face. “I know how to use this gun, asshole! I’ll splatter your brains all over the car if you don’t stop talking.”
He pushed the gas pedal harder and muttered a string of curses.
22. Carl Makes a Mistake
The man in the pickup truck had calmed down. “I’ll call the police. They don’t have anybody at the department right now, but somebody’s always on call.”
“Great. I feel better just getting some distance from those fuckers.” Her ragged breathing was beginning to slow. “They drugged me and locked me up.”
“Do you know who they were?”
“Brothers, I think. Paul and Gideon. That’s all I know. They had me in a warehouse. Said ‘Mid-Coast Seafood’ on the side.”
The man stopped reaching for the phone that was in his pocket. “Ah, shit! I must’ve left my phone at home. OK. I’ll call the cops from there. I’ve got a first aid kit. Maybe get your hands and elbows cleaned up.”
“Thanks, Mister. I owe you.”
“Carl. My name is Carl.”
“I’m Patricia. Sure glad you stopped. Didn’t mean to scare you like that. I’d call the cops myself but I don’t have my phone. My car.” Tears began to stream down her face.
“It’s OK, Patricia. I live in Driftwood. We’re almost there.” He spoke softly, as if trying to soothe his passenger. “I was down in Newport, visiting a friend.”
The young woman said nothing further. She stared out the windshield, watching the play of light through the rain as th
e wipers swished back and forth.
The driver turned right off 101 just south of town and climbed several blocks up a steep hill. A left on Chickadee Lane brought them to a driveway with a mailbox that had the name “Hamisu” painted in black letters along its side. It was a modest, ranch-style home that looked like it might have been built in the 70s, before mortgage rates went skyrocketing in the 80s.
“I’ll get the first aid kit, start a pot of coffee, and call the police.”
Carl unlocked the front door and invited Patricia in. He led her into the kitchen. “You look real wet, so maybe you should sit in this kitchen chair instead of on the couch. I’ll get you a blanket to help you get warm.” He took the red comforter from the couch in his living room and wrapped it around her. Then he loped off to the bathroom and returned in a moment with a first aid kit. He wet a washcloth with warm water at the kitchen sink and handed it to her. “Here. Get those wounds clean. There’s antibiotic ointment and bandages in the kit.”
Patricia was shivering convulsively. Her eyes were wild.
“Let me start some coffee to help warm you up.” With the efficient moves of an established habit, Carl started the pot and turned back to her. “This will only take a few minutes.”
“Great. Let’s call the cops.”
“You say you were kidnapped?”
“Yeah. I thought I was auditioning for a new movie, but Steven Spielberg and Meryl Streep weren’t even there.”
Carl’s eyes went wide. “Steven Spielberg? Patricia, have you been drinking? Were you in an accident?”
“No!” she shrieked. “I told you I was drugged. Locked up. Call the goddamn police!”
“OK. I think I left my phone in the other room.” Carl ran down the hall to his bedroom, pulled his phone from his pocket, and touched a number from his address book. His heart was pounding.
“Gideon?”
The responding voice was garbled by road noise. “Hey, Carl. This isn’t a good time. I’m in my car, and I got a million things going on.”
“This’ll only take a minute. I got a girl here. Says you and Paul kidnapped her.” He heard a squeal of brakes as the driver must have come to an abrupt stop.
“What d’you say?”
“I said there’s a girl here. Says you kidnapped her. She wants me to call the cops, but she’s talking real crazy, so I thought I better check with you first.” There was a moment’s hesitation on the other end.
“Thanks, Carl. You did the right thing. That’s my niece, Patty. She went off her medication and ran away from my sister’s house. Wound up on my doorstep tonight, bat-shit crazy.”
“Yeah. She said something about Steven Spielberg and Meryl Streep.”
“You know anything about bipolar? Well, she’s got it bad. Last time she stopped taking her meds, she wound up in the hospital for two weeks. Hallucinating. Paranoid as hell.”
“Should I call the police?”
“No. I got hold of her psychiatrist. She told me to get her to the emergency room and she’ll have her admitted right away. Just keep her at your house. I’m right down the street. Be there in a minute.”
Carl tapped his phone off and turned back to the door. Patricia was standing there, shaking her head back and forth, fists clenched, her face contorted in rage.
“You called Gideon? You’re in this with him?” she howled. She did an about-face and bolted.
Carl ran after her, out the front door and into the pouring rain. Patricia was sprinting down the street, easily out-pacing any attempt of his to catch her. He stopped, already out of breath, and as soon as he did, he felt the cold grip his body like a vise. The wind-driven rain became a dirge, lamenting his failure. A screech of brakes and the glare of headlights transfixed him. He shielded his eyes with his right hand.
“Where is she, Carl?” yelled Gideon from the SUV.
“She got away.” He pointed in the direction he had seen her run.
“Jesus.” The car sped away.
The rain blinded her. She wiped her face with her hand to clear her vision, then clutched her side again where Gideon had kicked her. Her body shook in spasms of cold and fear. “Oh, God.” Her words were a hopeless plea. She heard a car speeding toward her and leaped into the brush at the side of the road, tumbling into a small ravine. She burrowed under the wet vegetation, willing herself smaller, forcing her body to be still. Smells of wet earth and decaying leaves filled her nostrils. The car stopped. A door opened and closed. A window rolled down.
“Enough, Patricia. We saw you jump off the road. You’ll catch your death out here in this rain.” Gideon paused, as if considering his next strategy. Rain rattled on the brim of his baseball cap. “You must watch the news. You know anyone in this country can be killed. Happens every day.”
Paul shouted from the car. “Shoot her, Gideon! Shoot her! She’s not worth the trouble.”
“Easy, brother.” He turned his attention back to the underbrush. “The thing is, Patricia, we know where your mother lives. You even gave us her phone number.”
She raised her head just enough to see a tall black figure silhouetted in the glare of the headlights, surrounded by bright streaks of rain.
“One last offer, honey. Come out now and I won’t kill you or your mother. Make me come in there after you, and I will kill you, but not until I call your mother so she can listen to your final, lingering moments. And to my promise that I’m coming for her next.” As his words were swallowed by the night and the rain, he added, “You have one minute to make up your mind.”
Patricia sat up, sobbing in grief and despair. Her tears mingled with the rain as her shoulders heaved.
“That’s a good girl. Now stand up and walk this way.”
She stumbled up the side of the ravine and into the street. Her motions were mechanical, as though some essential life force no longer animated her. He led her to the side of the van, opened the back door, and wrapped her in the blanket that was lying there.
“Get in. Don’t want you going and getting sick on us. You’re much too valuable for that.”
She sat rigidly as he buckled the seat belt around her, hands at her side, eyes forward. “Would you have really killed my mother?” The question hung in the air, emotionless, as though she had asked him if he liked cream in his coffee.
“Of course, my dear. I’m a man of my word.” He shut the door, opened the driver’s, and got in.
“I still think you should’ve killed her while you had the chance. Nobody would find her out there for days.” Paul turned around in his seat and scowled at her. “Bitch!”
“How’s your ear, faggot?” she shot back.
Paul roared and pounded on the dashboard.
Gideon leaned over and patted his brother’s shoulder as he might an overly dependent Labrador. “Easy, little brother. It’ll be OK.” He addressed their captive. “Just a word of advice. Don’t taunt him. He may look like a wimp to you, but he has a fetish for knives. My guess is he would gladly forgo our payment for the pleasure of slitting your throat. Isn’t that right, Paul?”
He growled in response.
They were silent for the remainder of the trip back to the warehouse. When they got there, they hustled her back into the closet.
“I’ll be back in a half-hour with some dry clothes and a thermos of hot soup. Give you a bathroom break, too.” Gideon locked the door. As he was about to leave, he turned on the inside light.
“Why are you soft on her? You know we should have killed her.” Paul still held bloody paper towels to his injured ear.
“I like her spunk. Better than that last one. Tell you what. I’ll drop you off at the emergency clinic so you can get stitched up while I get her settled.”
Paul cursed under his breath. “Let’s hope I don’t get rabies from that mad dog. What if she runs again?”
“Then she’s all yours. Do whatever you want. But she won’t.” He walked with his brother toward the exit, then stopped. “While we’re at it, why don’t we tak
e these lights and the stool back to my garage? Then it will look like we were never here.”
They carried the equipment out to the waiting SUV.
“What are we going to do about Carl?” Paul’s question stopped Gideon in his tracks.
“Right.” He pulled his phone from his pocket. “Hi, Carl. Yeah, I got her. Dropped her off at the emergency room, and they got her right into the psych unit. They’re evaluating her as we speak. Yep. My guess is they’ll get her back on her meds, and she’ll be as good as new in a few days. Thanks again for your help. You were a real life-saver.”
He started the car. “Well, he’s convinced she’s my crazy niece. Let’s just hope he’s too busy crabbing to watch the news when the cops find out she’s missing.”
“We’ve gotta do something before that happens.”
“Right you are, bro.” He sighed. “Our friend Carl has made a big mistake. Too bad he picked her up. I think he’s gonna have an unfortunate accident.”
23. Message in a Bottle
SATURDAY EVENING, DECEMBER 29, 2018. “You’ve talked to Volkov?” Paul fingered the bandage on his ear for the hundredth time. “What about the boat?”
“Afraid it’s gonna fall off, little brother? Your ear?”
“It still hurts, damn it. You should’ve shot that bitch. Or maybe I can take a knife to her out back.”
“A paycheck is the sweetest revenge. And yes, I’ve talked with Volkov. The Elysium has been getting some upgrades, getting all decked out for some big-ass New Year’s Eve party. Volkov tells me he has a very discriminating client, willing to pay top dollar for a young, attractive blonde.”
His brother harrumphed. “He talked to me about it last month. That’s how I got us Miss Mad Dog in the first place. Still not sure she’s worth it.”
“It’ll be the rest of the down payment on that new boat you wanted—a charter boat for tuna and halibut. That’ll be a whole lot easier than crabbing all the goddamn time.”
“We haven’t had to do that in a while. That crew we hired is doing a good job.”
