by Linda Seals
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In my early twenties, I’d ignorantly gone tubing in the Poudre River at high flood, trying to impress some guys I was hanging out with. They soon got out, terrified by the height and power of the flood, but by that time I’d lost my tube and washed past them. I panicked as the crush of the river pounded me into rocks that cracked bones, and I was seconds from drowning in the angry, icy rush of water. Suddenly, my head was quiet, things slowed down. I had a clear resolve that I wasn’t ready to die, and I was fighting to the end. I knew what to do, knew how to survive, and was determined to do it.
That was what I was feeling at that moment, there on the cold ground, on my hands and knees in front of Barry Correda. I was determined to survive. I didn’t know what to do, but I was determined that Louie and I would survive. Barry Correda was there to make sure we didn’t.
I got up stiffly, and looked the bastard in the eye; and then motioned through the trees to where I’d parked the car. Eddie shoved Louie in the back seat of the Mercedes, and Phil Binder got in the driver’s seat. “Meet us at the road,” he said.
Barry bumped his gun in my back and pushed me off through the trees. I was glad now that Liz hadn’t taken the car or he would have known that another person was with us. That was probably the least of my worries, I thought, as we reached the clearing.
I worried that Liz wouldn’t know that we’d been moved or how to find us once, or if, she got through to 911. I didn’t know how long it would take her to find a neighboring house, or if they’d be home, or how much farther she’d have to go for cell reception, or anything else.
I took a deep breath. Liz Burzachiello was a marathoner, fit and determined. She was the best one to go for help, and I believed in her. The idea of leaving a clue had popped in my head, but I didn’t know where we were going, so how to leave a clue? What clue did I have anyway? It would have been a miracle if I had been able to do that, but no miracles were happening right then, so I tried to keep my attention on what was going on before me. I was worrying about a lot of things, and that didn’t help me stay calm.
“You drive,” Barry Correda demanded, and walked around to the passenger side.
I got in, and as I reached for the jacket piled on the passenger seat, I saw my phone underneath. I grabbed both of them with the jacket on top, the phone out of sight, and shoved them on the floor at my feet. Barry got in, pointed the gun at me and grunted, “Drive.”
I turned on the engine and the stereo came on, blasting the ABBA album I’d been listening to in town. Barry screamed angrily, “Whaddup wid dat shit?” and started pounding on the dashboard for the reject button. Cursing loudly, he yanked the CD out of the player, kicked open the door, and threw the disc out into the woods. “That is the worst fuckin’crap in the fuckin’ universe!” he howled out the open door into the empty forest.
I used his distracted moments to reach down on the floor next to the seat, turn on my phone under my jacket, and flip off the volume. I didn’t want any calls to ring in when we reached cell coverage again. At least the phone would be ready when I could use it. Besides, I’d just remembered something, and needed the phone on.
Barry Correda pounded the CD player one more time. “Drive, bitch!” he shouted and kicked the dashboard. “I shoulda popped you when I had da chance!”
We drove out on the track we came in on, past the client’s house, and Wanda still sitting there, through the gates and onto the road. Phil and Eddie were waiting for us, and I was relieved that I could see the top of Louie Burzachiello’s head from the floor of the back seat.
I turned to Barry and said, “Look, why don’t you let her go? She doesn’t know where she is, she doesn’t know who you are. She doesn’t know anything. Just let her go. I’ll go with you, wherever you want.”
Barry slapped me with the back of his hand. “Whadya think, I’m fuckin’ stupid?” he sneered. He looked over at the Mercedes and motioned for them to follow.
Barry scrunched down in the seat. “I know there’s security cameras on this fuckin’ road. It’s amazing the things those fuckin’ neighbors tell real estate agents. So I’m staying down here with this gun on yer face, bitch. I won’t be seen, and there’ll be nothin’ linkin’ me to you here.”
Apparently he hadn’t passed that information along to Phil and Eddie who were tailgating me on the dusty road. “Metal it!” he said. I didn’t know what he meant and looked at him, I hoped, stupidly.
“Metal it! Like, pedal to the metal? Bitch! Get some speed on! I don’t got all day!” So I stepped on it with Eddie and Phil close behind.
“Barry, uh, this—”
“How many times do I hafta tell you to shut the fuck up? Jesus! I never shoulda talked to you in the first place! You’re a fuckin’ liar, and I never shoulda believed yer little stories!” he spewed out.
I didn’t think it was the right time to confront him about the hypocrisy of that statement. “Maybe if—” I tried again.
“If ya say another fuckin’ word, I’ll have ‘em hurt yer little friend back there. Got it? Shuddup!”
So we drove in silence. Once we were onto a marked forest road Barry sat up in the passenger seat, and kept his gun pointed at me. We turned south on Stove Prairie Road and headed toward Masonville. The sun was just setting, but I could still see the layered red sandstone cliffs that indicated to me as we passed that we were on the back side of Horsetooth Reservoir. Somehow, focusing on the landscape helped me stay calm.
We continued south and east around Horsetooth, and then through the edge of town. Soon we were out in the eastern plains and it was full dark. Once on dirt roads Barry Correda snarled directions at me now and then, and seemed content to play games on his phone and honk loogies on my floor mat.
But his gun lay like a cold black snake in his lap, ready for me anytime.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
