by Abbott, Jeff
‘You haven’t gotten out much in life, have you?’ The man choked on a nervous laugh.
Luke couldn’t tell how to read this guy; one second he seemed like a hardened criminal, confident in his capacity for violence, the next he seemed nervous, fretful, as though he’d taken on the wrong job and he knew it. ‘Look. Mistakes were made. Things were said. It’s all in the past. I’m the world’s most forgiving dude. Also the most generous. Just let me go.’
‘We need us some bright and cheery tunes, and for you to shut the hell up.’ The man fiddled with the radio and spun past stations but found nothing he liked and switched it to silence. ‘I hate not having driving tunes. Or even the news. Except all the news is bad these days, it’s the way we’ve made the world, nothing but bad bad news.’
Luke drove on in eerie silence. The man just stared out the window, lost in thought. But the gun stayed steady in Luke’s side and he kept imagining the blood and torn intestines that would gush into his lap.
Luke saw a sign for Mirabeau, a good-sized town halfway between Houston and Austin. He remembered there was often a speed trap on the eastern edge of the town. He pressed gently but steadily on the accelerator. Rev the speed up past the limit, slow enough where the man wouldn’t notice. For the first time in his life, Luke hoped he’d fall into a speed trap.
Talk to him; don’t let him notice what you’re doing.
But before he could say anything, the man’s cell phone rang. He pulled it free of a pocket and read the display.
‘You stay quiet,’ he said. He flicked the knife up along Luke’s ribs and Luke winced and nodded.
‘Yeah?’ the man said into the phone.
Luke heard a woman’s voice crackle through the cell, saying, ‘Eric, this is Jane. How goes the project? Gathered the nerve to grab our boy yet?’ Her accent was British. Luke pushed the car to four miles an hour over the limit.
‘It’s - it’s under control. But I really cannot talk right now.’
‘Hard for you, I’m sure, to do two things at once,’ the woman - Jane - said. She gave a sick, cruel laugh. ‘But hurry - time’s running out.’
The man thumbed the volume control on the phone, making Jane’s words into a murmur.
Eric. His name is Eric. Luke kept his eyes on the road. Under control. This Jane woman must know what Eric was planning and why. A barely felt tap, and he was six miles an hour faster than the limit.
Eric, huddled, listening on his cell, wasn’t watching the speedometer or Luke, and Luke jolted the speed up higher. Eight over the limit. And then ten. He debated in his mind as to whether to push it higher, to risk it. No. He couldn’t risk Eric noticing. He squeezed the steering wheel hard.
Eric listened to the phone and finally he said, ‘I’ll call you when the rest is complete and you better keep your side of the bargain.’
The rest is complete. Keep your side. What did Eric mean? And why would a British woman be involved in his kidnapping when his focus was on finding American extremists? He didn’t look over as Eric switched off the phone without a goodbye to his caller.
Mirabeau spanned a few exits on the highway - the BMW shot past a McDonald’s, a bakery/gas station selling kolache pastries, an exit for the downtown business district. No sign of a patrol car. Please, please be up ahead, Luke thought.
Eric seemed lost in thought and didn’t notice. Let’s keep it that way, Luke thought. Let’s make him just a little mad. Enough to keep him distracted.
‘Was that your girlfriend?’
‘Shut the hell up.’
‘I bet she doesn’t know you’re carjacking innocent people at airports. She’d be so proud.’
‘This isn’t a carjacking.’
‘I thought most kidnappers did their own driving. You’re a cheapass kidnapper, making me do my own driving.’
Eric stared at him. ‘Are you trying to be funny?’
‘Yes. I want to lighten the mood.’ Luke risked a bad imitation of a smile. Where the hell was the cop that was, on every other trip Luke made through this stretch of highway, so ready to give out a ticket? He wanted to pound his fist against the steering wheel in rage. But he had to keep Eric’s mind engaged, his eyes off the dashboard.
‘There’s nothing funny about today.’ But Luke heard a jagged curl in Eric’s words, nerves on end. ‘The hell I’m trapped in is not a joke!’
‘Exactly what hell are you trapped in? You have the gun.’ Luke screamed back in his face. They shot under a bridge and on the opposite side, a Mirabeau police cruiser sat, waiting like a spider in the heart of its web.
Yes, Luke thought, thank you Jesus and the patron saint of speeders. He was saved.
Eric glanced in the rearview, saw the blues and reds flash to life. ‘Slow it down!’ Eric yelled.
Luke obeyed but it was too late. The cruiser launched itself off the incline onto the highway.
‘Oh you rotten prick!’ Eric screamed.
‘I’m sorry. You made me nervous. I didn’t watch … should I pull over?’
‘If I have to kill this poor stupid cop it’s your fault!’ Eric hissed. ‘Don’t kill anyone. You don’t really seem to want to do this!’
‘I can’t, I can’t! You don’t understand! You don’t know what you’re doing!’ Eric steadied his voice. ‘Pull over and say nothing. Not a word.’
‘And he won’t notice the gun in your hand.’
‘I’m going to put the gun out of sight.’
Luke thought: Good because then I’m going to yell my head off.
‘Because if you say a word I don’t like, if you do anything other than take the ticket and thank the officer, I’m going to shoot you both. You just put this cop’s life in needless danger, because, yes, I will kill him, and if I have to kill him, you die, too. I always have a Plan B and this is it. Right now that cop is walking into a trap you set for him, you stupid heartless moron.’ An icy certainty colored Eric’s tone now, unmistakable resolve.
‘Heartless? You’re the goddamned kidnapper!’ Luke stopped the BMW, the police car halting behind it.
Bile clouded into Luke’s throat. In the rearview he saw the officer get out of the car and start to approach.
‘Get out your insurance and registration. Now. I have the gun where I can reach it instantly. You warn him, you both die.’
Luke gathered the papers. The rising courage he thought he’d feel if he could attract police attention felt crushed. He powered down the window as the officer reached the door.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Luke said.
The officer was middle-aged, tall, heavy-built. He wore the professional look that said he’d already heard every excuse a hundred times before. His nametag read Moncrief. ‘You didn’t pull over very fast, sir.’
‘No sir, I didn’t.’ Luke handed the officer his license and registration.
‘That’s my fault, officer,’ Eric said with a crooked, wan smile. He sounded like a disappointed big brother. ‘I was yelling at him about his speeding and he’s already upset. We just got word of a death in the family, our grandma, and we were heading fast, too fast I guess, to Houston.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ the officer said, real sympathy in his voice. But still, he began to write the ticket.
Luke watched the pen move across the paper; the cop’s hands busy and not near his gun. The chance had passed. Luke squeezed the steering wheel with frustration. If he called for help now Eric would shoot Officer Moncrief before he could react. He glanced at Eric and the barest smile of triumph flickered on Eric’s face.
Officer Moncrief handed Luke his ticket and Luke signed. He wanted to write HELP ME on the signature line but he could feel Eric watching him. He paused halfway through his scrawl and he could hear Eric’s very quiet intake of breath, readying the gun.
He wrote his last name, handed the pad back to the officer.
‘Slow it down, gentlemen. If you’re dealing with one tragedy, you don’t want another.’
‘Words to live by, office
r, thank you,’ Eric said.
‘Yes,’ Luke said. It was true. As soon as the officer turned away and started back to his cruiser, the gun moved to Luke’s hip.
‘Back on the road. Now. Speed limit.’
Luke obeyed, his hands shaking on the wheel, raging at himself for his lost nerve.
‘I’ll make you a deal,’ Eric said, breaking the silence as they left Mirabeau behind them.
‘You and your deals. Your deals only benefit you.’
‘Another stunt and I shoot off your big toe. I don’t have to deliver you in perfect condition. We don’t have much time.’
Deliver, Luke thought. He was now a delivery. Who wanted him?
4
Houston.
The city spread out across the vast coastal plain, a seemingly endless quilt of shopping centers, office buildings, housing developments, all connected by a stitching of highways. Haze moped above the horizon. It was a city of drivers, a constant thrumming jolt of energy and movement. As the afternoon rush hours approached, I-10 traffic headed east into the city slowed in fits and starts.
The creeping pace of traffic gave Luke a fresh hope. He kept cussing himself, inside his brain, for his fear in not trying to escape when the Mirabeau police officer was there to help him. But he believed it would have gotten them both dead. The desperation in Eric’s eyes was a fierce, awful fire.
They’d hit their first real traffic now. If the car came to a full stop maybe he could bolt. Eric might not be eager to shoot him in front of dozens of other people. Or he could mouth a plea for help, if anyone would look at him. The drivers kept their eyes on the road. Strangers did not exchange glances in cars in Houston.
‘The knife likes you to have your eyes forward,’ Eric said.
‘The knife likes to not stab me when I’m driving because we’ll crash. But God knows we want to keep the knife happy.’
‘Stay calm. Tonight you’ll be safe.’ Eric sounded hollow. He had shushed Luke the few times in the past hour when Luke had tried to speak again. ‘Stay in the middle lane until we get to the downtown exits.’
Traffic slowed again. And, for the first time, Eric clutched Luke’s shirt, grabbing the seat belt in his fist as well.
‘You’re considering making a run. I’m telling you I will kill you.’
‘You don’t need the threats. I’m done fighting you.’ He was gripped by a panic that someone would see Eric threatening him and try to help him, making it worse. Luke glanced at the car on his left. He saw a woman driving a minivan, a bored teenage girl in the passenger seat, texting on a phone. To his right, an older man in a pickup truck drummed a beat on the steering wheel. None of them looked over at Luke’s car, lost in the world of what was directly ahead of their windshields.
‘Strange to be so alone, each of us, when surrounded by thousands of others. We don’t even know who we can reach out to, who will understand us.’ Eric gave a ragged laugh. ‘That’s why the world’s going to hell.’
‘Then let’s not take one further step into hell. Please. You’re not a bad guy.’
‘You need to be afraid of me, Luke.’
‘I am. But … you don’t want to hurt me. I can tell. You’re not a criminal, you don’t want to do this. Let me help you get out of whatever mess you’re in.’ He had to convince Eric it wasn’t too late to stop, to let him go.
‘You are helping me. You just don’t know it yet.’ Eric’s jaw clenched.
‘But …’
‘It changes you, breaking the law,’ Eric said quietly. ‘I can’t go back. I made my choice. And I want you to shut up now.’
They had to work past a traffic jam caused by a chain reaction of fender benders, and by the time they reached the heart of the city evening had begun its slide over the sky. Eric got more agitated, checking his watch every half-minute. Sweat was bright on his face. Downtown Houston rose in light-bejeweled towers. Downtown had undergone a renaissance in recent years; old abandoned hotels and buildings reborn into new establishments, lodgings and office space. Luke steered the BMW through the weaving pedestrians - office workers heading to the light rail and bus stops and parking garages, or to trendy new bars and restaurants. Luke had always thought Houston a place of unbounded energy and bustle, but right now he just wished someone would slow down long enough to notice he was in trouble.
‘This is about to get dangerous,’ Eric said. He leaned forward, as though scanning the pedestrians for a face, for a threat.
‘Like it wasn’t already.’
‘Turn here.’
They drove past Minute Maid Park where the Astros played, then deep into a neighborhood that had not yet benefited from the economic renaissance of downtown. The buildings were older, the businesses humbler. Unrepaired potholes, the by-product of Houston humidity, pocked the pavement.
Luke reached a small parking lot and Eric said, ‘Pull in here.’
Luke did, parking in a slot closest to the street at Eric’s order. They had a view down the street. The sidewalks were less crowded; fewer pedestrians strolled to their evening’s entertainment. Luke saw an old couple ambling slowly, carrying grocery bags; a young woman hurrying past, chattering on a cell phone and gesturing wildly; an older woman dressed too young, venturing into the twilight with her painted, pained smile. Down the street Luke could see a small bar, a homeless shelter operated by an Episcopal charity, a liquor store, a clothing resale shop, a neon-signed Tex-Mex eatery. The storefronts were weathered and worn.
‘Now what?’ Luke asked.
‘We wait.’
‘For what?’ Was someone coming here to meet them? To collect Luke? This might be his one remaining chance to escape. But no way he could get clear of the car without Eric shooting or knifing him. ‘What are you going to do?’
Eric glanced again at his watch, tugged nervously at his lip. ‘Everything will be okay. Trust me.’
Twenty minutes passed; sundown completed its glory. The night threw its stars across the dark-purpled sky. Eric’s gun rested back in its second home, Luke’s ribs. Luke’s legs ached from sitting so long. Hunger rumbled his stomach, but he kept fighting off a fear-induced nausea. He’d already decided that if he puked he was aiming at Eric’s rotten face. Puke and run for his life. A mark of real heroics. He thought he was starting to lose his grip.
He closed his eyes. He wondered if this sinking acceptance in his chest that the end was close was what his father felt like in the moments before he died, if Dad had realized the plane he was on was doomed.
Luke’s hand found the medal under his shirt and clutched at it. He thought of the conversation he’d had with his father, his mom asleep in the sleeping bag, he and his dad sitting by the soft flicker of the campfire.
‘I want you to have this, son, keep it close to you always,’ his father had said. ‘Always. It will shield you from danger.’
‘Dad. Seriously? You’re not religious.’ His father had been raised Episcopalian but he wasn’t a churchgoer, except maybe at Easter and Christmas, when Luke’s mom insisted.
‘No atheists in foxholes, Luke,’ Warren Dantry had said.
‘We’re camping, this isn’t a foxhole,’ Luke said. He raised the medal to the firelight’s glow: a faceless angel, muscular wings, holding a sword and shield.
‘Saint Michael the archangel is an emblem of strength and determination, of order and reason overcoming chaos and violence. He’s special in that he figures in Christian, Jewish and Islamic traditions. He’s a hero for the world, good overcoming enormous evil.’
‘Evil. Like Darth Vader?’ He didn’t remember the story of what Saint Michael had done, what evil he had defeated.
‘Worse than Darth Vader,’ his father had said. ‘Saint Michael will keep you safe, Luke. If not now, then someday.’
‘Safe from what?’
‘From whatever darkness comes into your life. You might be called to fight one day, Luke. Think of Michael. Think of strength and know you can win.’
‘Brains are better
than strength, Dad.’
His dad smiled at him. ‘Yes. But together, they’re unbeatable.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’ Luke didn’t like jewelry of any sort, he thought this a goofy gift and most unlike his dad and he put the medal in his pocket. His father had said nothing more, poking at the fire with a stick.
And a month later his father was dead, and Luke had worn the medal every day.
‘What are you doing?’ Eric’s voice rose.
Luke opened his eyes. ‘Nothing.’
Eric jabbed the gun hard into Luke’s side, pried his fingers from the medal, pulled it from Luke’s shirt. A flat circular medal, with an angel armed with a fiery sword. The angel’s wings were wide, strong, like an eagle’s.
‘What’s this?’ An edge came to Eric’s voice.
‘Saint Michael. The archangel. My dad gave it to me.’
‘You … you don’t need to be praying. Everything’s cool if you do what I say.’ Eric let go of the medal as though it burned him; Luke tucked the silver back into his shirt.
Eric put his gaze back to the street. ‘Saint Michael. He’s the one who casts Satan out of Heaven, right, sends him plummeting to Hell?’
‘Yeah,’ Luke said. ‘Who sent you to this hell, Eric?’ This might be his only chance to reason with him. They were waiting, for God knew what, and Eric was scared. He swallowed past the broken-glass ache in his throat. ‘The woman on the phone? Who is she?’
‘Shut up.’
‘She’s giving you orders.’
‘Shut up.’
‘She ordered you to kidnap me. Why?’
Eric kept his eyes locked on the street. ‘Hello,’ Eric said. Luke followed Eric’s stare and saw a flicker of light as the homeless shelter’s door closed. A tall older man approached their car, his weathered face lit by the juxtaposition of passing headlights and the pool of a street-lamp. He was dressed in the uniform of the homeless, a shabby coat, a bandanna secured over greasy hair.
They waited in silence as the man approached.
