“Understand me, girl: as long as you don’t do anything stupid, you’ll be treated well. Do something stupid, and your whole family will regret it. I repeat: your whole family. Now, if you can quit whining about going home, do you have any practical questions?”
She stood still, wanting to bite a fingernail, but not wanting to be seen doing it. This man is crazy . . . well, never mind. If he’s telling the truth, I might get through this, if he doesn’t kill me. But what else does he plan to do?
She thought for a few moments, not wanting to anger him, then cleared her throat. “I have three questions. I think they’re practical.”
“Very good. Now you’re being sensible. I might not answer, but go ahead and ask.”
“How long have I been here? Unconscious, I mean?”
The man glanced at his gold wristwatch. “Since early this morning. You’ve been with us for . . . let’s say longer than eight hours, but less than twenty-four. Next?”
She hesitated. “Um, what are those chains for? Hanging on the walls in that other room?”
“Oh, the manacles?” He smiled, then became stern. “Those are just for use in case of emergency. Or . . . inconvenience.”
Oh, God! she prayed. Where am I? Where are you? “Okay, my last question . . . for now. Do you ever plan to let me go, or do you plan to kill me? I mean, I’ve seen your face and heard your voice. You’re never gonna let me go, are you?”
The man steepled his fingers and blinked his eyes several times, as if the question had caught him off-guard. “Killing you is the farthest thing from my mind, Cassandra. Murdering a teenage girl. . . .” His voice drifted off, a far-away look in his eyes. Then he cleared his throat. “Well, I’d find it very distasteful. As soon as we’ve concluded our business, I intend to release you. You’ll never see my face again. Of course, you’ll have learned a thing or two by then.”
Why did he hesitate? What was he thinking about? It’s like he went away for a few seconds . . . Can I believe any of this? What am I supposed to do? How did I get myself into this?
“Learned a thing or two? What are you talking about?”
“Let’s just say I’m going to help out with some of the education you’ve been missing at your mother’s knee. You might learn something about that infantile ‘Christianity’ your family has shoved down your throat. You might actually grow up a little.
“Now, Cassandra, I think you should go take a shower, and your clothes will be returned to you. And I meant what I said about the cameras in your room. There aren’t any.”
The giant TV screen went black. After standing for a perhaps a minute, she turned and walked back into the black chamber, to find the bathroom.
* * * * *
To Cassie’s surprise, it was just as the man had said. When she returned to “her room,” the fluorescent tubes in the ceiling had been turned on, apparently by remote control. At least I don’t have to fumble around in total darkness. She began to slowly make her way around the room, pushing at a wall here, another wall there, carefully avoiding the creepy looking manacles, until she found the slits that marked the entrance to the bathroom. Like the door to the white room, this one had no knob, so she pulled gently on the nearly invisible crack, and it swung open.
The tiny bathroom was also entirely black: even the toilet, sink, and shower stall were made of black porcelain. What’s with all the black and white? Who designed this place, anyway?
But she was in no mood to worry about something so unimportant. At least there was a mirror above the sink. She shut the door and leaned on the sink, studying her face. The girl looking back from the mirror looked frazzled and exhausted and very, very frightened.
How long has it been since I was in my little bathroom at home? Long enough. She peeled off her clothes, turned on the shower, and paused to use the toilet. Then she took the hottest shower she could tolerate. A fresh bar of soap and an unopened bottle of shampoo were waiting for her, and she scrubbed and rinsed and scrubbed some more, as if she could wash her way right out of this horrible place.
As promised, the room had a rack with a full set of fluffy, fresh towels . . . also black, of course. She turned off the shower and dried off, not even crying out when the towel scraped over the bump on the back of her head. Then she put on the same underwear she’d been wearing all day, and stepped into the bedchamber.
A surprise awaited her. While she’d been in the shower, someone had come in and made up the bed, with sheets, a blanket, and even a pillow. Lying on the blanket were her running clothes from this morning, clean and neatly folded. The vomit had been cleaned up from the floor.
She sprang for the bed, almost giddy at the sight of her own clothes. She stepped into the shorts and looked around the room for her shoes, but they were nowhere to be seen. As she pulled on the tank top, a nagging thought pushed its way to the front of her mind.
Something really weird is going on here. Dad’s got money, but he doesn’t have MONEY money. This can’t just be about a ransom. And why is this . . . man . . . being even halfway human to me? He could have just hung me up by those chains and let me starve. Or killed me. It’s like he’s trying to psych me out . . . but why? And what’s all this about religion, and growing up? Is he gonna try to brainwash me in some way?
She stepped back into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. She looked as normal as she had when this terrible day started . . . maybe better. No bed head, anyway. . . .
Her thoughts were interrupted by the man’s voice, coming from the speaker in the ceiling. “Cassandra? If you’re finally finished in there, come to the white room. It’s time for you to meet my assistant . . . and your assistant, too. Hurry up, child.”
Oh, this ought to be something. She felt a little ripple of fear. Instead of an image on a screen, she’d finally be face to face with a real live person . . . and not a very nice person, either, she guessed. But she didn’t have much choice. Still barefoot, she padded through the bedroom and pushed open the door. She wasn’t prepared for what she saw.
* * * * *
The woman was probably six feet tall, give or take an inch. She was dressed entirely in black leather: a leather jacket, like a motorcyclist would wear, with the collar raised and zipped up in front, hiding her chin and mouth. Leather pants, very tight, covering thick thighs. Biker boots, with chrome studs running down each side. A leather belt, decorated with little chrome skulls all the way around. Her complexion, what Cassie could see of it, was deathly white, probably make-up, offset by deep black mascara around each eye. And, topping it all off, her black hair was swept up into spikes, thick and shiny with some sort of gel. Cassie might have thought that the person was a man, if certain curves weren’t visible under all the leather. The woman simply stood, looking steadily at her, unmoving and silent.
Cassie backed up against the door, her muscles tensing. A Goth! His “female assistant” is a Goth. And a really big Goth. Or whatever they call themselves. . . . This is the woman who’s gonna “take care of me?” Is he kidding?
She had only gotten a glimpse of the woman driving the car that hit her, but she definitely hadn’t looked like this. Was it the same person? Cassie opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t find any words. Her body was in “fight or flight” mode, but she’d prefer flight. The woman terrified her.
Just as she was recovering from the shock of seeing this strange creature, the TV screen flickered to life. Cassie glanced over, and there he sat, exactly as before, at his desk. No, not exactly: he’d removed his jacket, and was now sitting in his shirtsleeves and vest. Cassie noticed that the shirt had French cuffs and expensive-looking gold cufflinks. Who are these people?
“Hello again, Cassandra. I see you’ve freshened up a bit. That’s good. You’re almost ready. This is my assistant, the one I told you about. Her name is Skip. Well, that’s what I call her, anyway. . . . She’ll be looking after all your needs. Don’t try to pump her for information. She doesn’t like sweet little church girls, and you don’t
have the slightest chance of making friends with her. But she’s my assistant, and she’s here to help you, not abuse you or harass you. Isn’t that right, Skip?”
The woman nodded her head, never taking her eyes off Cassie.
“Very good,” the man continued. “Now, Skip, it’s time for you to do what we talked about. By the way, Cassandra, you might have at least said ‘hello’ to Skip. Your bad manners continue to disappoint me.”
“Huh?” Cassie blurted, glancing at the screen. “What are you talking about? I just came in the room.” She turned to the Goth. “Um . . . hi, Skip. . . .”
Skip pointed to the long, white couch. “Sit!” Her harsh voice was muffled by the collar of her jacket.
“Why? What are you gonna do to me?”
Instead of answering, the woman walked over and grabbed Cassie by the arms, her fingers digging into the girl’s biceps. With a grunt, she lifted her off her feet and carried her over to the couch, stepping around the glass coffee table. Then she simply dropped her, and Cassie’s butt hit the couch, hard. Owww! Her body, still aching from being cramped in the car trunk, seemed to be sore everywhere.
“Best not to question her, Cassandra,” came the man’s voice.
Cassie glared up at the screen, once again feeling anger and fear at the same time. Then, to her surprise, the Goth squatted down in front of her, looking up at her face. What? The girl wondered. What’s she gonna do now?
The woman, sitting steady on her haunches, slowly pulled a black plastic rat-tail comb from one of her many pockets, and, with surprising gentleness, began fluffing out Cassie’s hair, still damp from the shower. When she was satisfied with the hair, she replaced the comb in her hip pocket and pulled out a pink compact and flicked it open.
Huh? She’s gonna put on some blush? On herself, or me? Why — Her thoughts were interrupted when she looked into the woman’s eyes. Oh, this has to be a dream. The woman was wearing contacts, but not like Madison Andrews’ deep blue contacts. These were blood red, with tiny skulls and crossbones in the center. Cassie had heard of such novelty lenses, but she’d never seen them up close before. How can she possibly see through those?
The Goth pulled the little application pad from the compact, and furrowed her brow. She cocked her head slightly and studied Cassie’s face. Finally, deciding against the makeup, she snapped the compact shut and pocketed it. She stood up and faced the television screen.
“Excellent, Skip,” the man said. “She looks . . . well, she looks like herself, for what that’s worth. You were right about the cosmetics: if she wasn’t wearing any before, she shouldn’t be wearing any now. I assume you have the other things you need?” The woman nodded.
She turned to Cassie and reached into a side pocket, retrieving another item. “Does this look familiar?” she asked in a growl, holding out the phone, from which the “Hello Kitty” cover had been removed.
My phone! Cassie immediately reached for it, but the woman snatched it away.
“Cassandra, don’t be silly,” came the man’s voice. “We’re not returning it to you. We’re keeping it. It has so many uses. We threw away the earbuds. I’m afraid your playlist and apps were of no use to us. So much childish clutter. . . . But the camera is really state of the art, isn’t it? Of course, you had to make it look like a toy with that absurd pink case. . . . Now, go and stand against that far wall. It’s time to make our video. Skip, give her the newspaper, please.”
The Goth took Cassie’s elbow and hustled her over to the wall, five or six feet away from the locked outer door, and showed her where to stand. Reaching up under the waistband of her jacket, she produced a neatly-folded copy of USA TODAY. She handed it to Cassie, who caught a glimpse of the front page. There were the latest headlines: JAPANESE PRIME MINISTER ARRIVES FOR PRESIDENTIAL MEET . . . HOLLYWOOD ANNOUNCES OSCAR NOMINEES . . . OKLAHOMA RAVAGED BY TORNADOS. Huh? What’s this all about? Why are they giving me a newspaper?
“Stand up straight, and hold that newspaper up in front of your chest, so they can see the headlines,” the man said. “That way, they’ll know you’re alive and well, and that this video is current. Skip is going to hold up a sign for you to read, sort of a cue card. You can greet your family in your own words, as long as you don’t say anything foolish. Remember, we can do this all day if we have to. But the sooner it’s done, the sooner you might get out of here.”
The Goth reached under the couch and pulled out several sheets of poster board, with a message neatly printed in black Magic Marker. Holding them up with one hand, she focused Cassie’s camera phone with the other, and began to record.
Cassie gulped hard, and in a voice that she hoped wasn’t too shaky, began to read the message.
CHAPTER THREE: Girls’ Talk
“Okay, so that’s it. Can you believe how easy it is?” The girl smiled into the camera and tossed her hair. “Maybe it’s not the most pleasant thing in the world, but it really works.”
She shifted slightly in her seat, running the fingers of one hand through her long, platinum blonde hair. “Like I said, there are lots and lots of great products out there to promote fast hair growth, and on my next video I’ll be talking about some of them. But I wanted to give you an idea of the natural way. Remember, the onion juice promotes blood flow to the follicles, and opens the pores, and your hair just loves the sulphur.” She wrinkled her nose. “But if that’s just too yucky for you? You can also try ginger or garlic juice. So, that’s it for today. I’m Platinum Cookie, and if you haven’t already subscribed to my channel, do it now! I’ll see you next time. And remember, keep being awesome!” She made a “sexy” fish gape at the hi-def camera, then giggled, clicked it off, and filed it in her “Edit” folder.
Madison Andrews pushed away from the computer desk and reached for the can of Red Rocket energy drink on the nearby dresser. Before she could take a sip, a snippet of rap thumped out of nowhere, and she grabbed her cell phone. The display read LYDIA BLEVINS. “Hellooo?” Madison cooed into the phone, as she always did.
“Hi, Madison. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important?”
“No, no, Lydia, I just finished doing a new vid. ‘Sup?”
“Oh cool, I can’t wait to see it! Your vids are really interesting. . . . Listen, I hate to bother you, but have you maybe heard from Cassie? She’s not answering her texts or voice messages, and I didn’t want to call her house. I’m kinda worried. Nobody’s heard from her since yesterday. . . . I mean, nobody heard from her yesterday, either. It’s weird.”
Madison studied her newly-painted fingernails, half bored by Lydia’s words, half intrigued. She wasn’t close to Cassie Hixson, but she was surprised by the news. “No, I haven’t heard from her either. Do you think something’s wrong?”
Lydia was slipping on her flowered sneakers, the cell phone lying on the bed beside her, on speaker mode. “Well . . . I don’t think so. I talked to Olivia. She’s talked to Cassie’s parents, and they don’t know anything, either. Some of us are gonna meet over at the Pavilion to talk about it. I thought you might want to be there?”
Madison grimaced. Olivia! She harbored a secret resentment against the girl, whose natural, mature beauty she envied. I work so hard to be hot, and it’s all so effortless for her. Such a snob. . . . But she pushed the thought away, curiosity overcoming her. If Cassie’s parents didn’t know where their daughter was, it could be real trouble.
“That’s so bizarre, Lydia. You know what? I need to upload this new vid. Then I’m gonna get dressed, and I’ll head over there in a few minutes. Do you know if Chad’s going to be there?”
“Chad? I don’t know. But anyway, I’m glad you’re coming.” Two years younger, Lydia envied Madison’s knowledge of makeup and fashion and, she guessed, just about everything else. “I’ll see you there.”
“Okay, Lydia, see you there. Bye.” She tapped the “End Call” icon and returned to the computer, then pulled up Twitter. Now, what shall I wear, she wondered, as her fingers flew over the keyboard
automatically.
* * * * *
“Right on, Roy. Slip and move. Manny, how many times do I have to tell you, keep your guard up!”
But it was too late. Even as the Mexican boy started to bring up his hands, Royal Skelly moved in with an uppercut, snapping Manny’s head back and sending him sprawling to the canvas. He moaned through his mouthpiece and tried to stand up, but his body had taken control of his brain. Why don’t we lie down for awhile? We don’t need this. And this canvas feels pretty good. . . . He lay back and closed his eyes.
“Time!” the man outside the ring called out, a note of frustration in his voice, as he punched the button on his stopwatch. Royal turned to face him, his dark face and chest dripping with sweat, and shrugged. He carefully pulled out his mouthpiece with his gloved hand. “Sorry, Boss. I wanted it to go longer, but . . .”
THE ABDUCTION OF CASSANDRA Page 4
