“Yes, yes, it was nice to see someone.”
The smile was back. He rubbed me on the shoulder where his hand had been, then cupped my cheek.
“Just try to relax and enjoy the sun, you look so stressed out lately.” When he faced the road again, he gripped the steering wheel with one hand and rested the other on my thigh. “You’re going to like it there.”
“Where? Where are you taking me?”
He began to hum.
After a while he turned down a little side road and parked. I had no idea where we were. He shut off the van, turned to me, and smiled like we were on a date.
“Not much longer now.”
He got out, walked around the front of the van, then opened my door. I hesitated for a second. He cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows. I got out.
He put an arm around my shoulders, the gun in his other hand, and we walked toward the back of the van.
He inhaled deeply. “Mmmm, smell that air. Incredible.”
Everything was so quiet, that hot summer afternoon kind of quiet when you can hear a dragonfly buzzing ten feet from you. We passed a huge huckleberry bush close to the van, its berries almost ripe. I started bawling and shaking so hard I could barely walk. He lowered his hand off my shoulder to grasp the upper part of my arm, holding me up. We were still walking, but I couldn’t feel my legs.
He let me go for a moment, tucked the gun into his waistband, and opened up the van’s back doors. I turned to run, but he grabbed the back of my hair, spun me around to face him, and pulled me up by my hair until my toes grazed the ground. I tried to kick him in the legs, but he was a good foot taller and easily held me away from him. The pain was excruciating. All I could do was kick at the air and pound my fists on his arm. I screamed as loud as I could.
He slapped his free hand over my mouth and said, “Now, why did you go do something silly like that?”
I clung to the arm that held me in the air and tried to hoist my body up, to take away the pressure from my scalp.
“Let’s try this again. I’m going to let you go, and you’re going to get inside and lie down on your stomach.”
He lowered his arm slowly until my feet touched the ground. One of my high heels had fallen off when I tried to kick him, so I was off balance and stumbled backward. The van’s bumper hit the back of my knees, and I landed on my ass in the van. A gray blanket was spread out on the floor. I sat there and stared out at him, shaking so hard my teeth chattered. The sun was bright behind his head, turning his face dark and outlining him in light.
He pushed me hard on the shoulders, pressed me onto my back, and said, “Roll over.”
“Wait—can we just talk for a minute?” He smiled at me like I was a puppy chewing on his shoelaces. “Why are you doing this?” I said. “Do you want money? If we go back and get my purse, I can give you my PIN number for my bank card—there’s a few thousand in my account. And my credit cards, they have really high limits.” He continued to smile at me.
“If we just talk, I know we can work something out. I can—”
“I don’t need your money, Annie.” He reached for the gun. “I didn’t want to have to use this, but—”
“Stop!” I threw my hands out in front of me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it, I just don’t know what you want. Is it…is it sex? Is that what you want?”
“What did I ask you to do?”
“You…asked me to roll over.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“That’s it? You just want me to roll over? What are you going to do to me if I roll over?”
“I’ve asked you nicely two times now.” His hand caressed the gun.
I rolled over.
“I don’t understand why you’re doing this.” My voice cracked. Damn. I had to stay calm. “Have we met before?”
He was behind me, one hand on the middle of my back, pinning me down.
“I’m sorry if I did something to offend you, David. I really am. Just tell me how I can make it up to you, okay? There has to be some way….”
I shut up and listened. I could hear small sounds behind me, could tell he was doing something back there, preparing for something. I waited for the click of the gun being cocked. My body shook with terror. Was this it for me? My life was going to end with me facedown in the back of a van? I felt a needle stab into the back of my thigh. I flinched and tried to reach back to touch it. Fire crawled up my leg.
Before we wrap this session up, Doc, I think it’s only fair I fill you in on something—if I’m going to climb aboard the no-bullshit train, I should ride it to the end of the line. When I said I was screwed up, I actually meant royally fucked. The I-sleep-in-my-closet-every-night kind of fucked.
It was tricky as hell when I first got home and was staying in my old bedroom at my mom’s, slipped out in the morning so no one knew. Now that I’m back in my old place, some shit is easier since I can control all the variables. But I won’t set foot in a building unless I know where the exits are. It’s a damn good thing you’re on the ground floor. I wouldn’t be sitting here if your office was any higher than I can jump.
Night…well, night’s the worst. I can’t have any people around. What if they unlocked a door? What if they left a window open? If I wasn’t already waltzing with crazy, then running around checking everything while trying not to let anybody see what I’m doing would guarantee me a dance.
When I first got home, I thought if I could just find one person who felt the same as me…Dumbass that I am, I looked for a support group. Turns out there’s no such thing as SAAMA, no Some Asshole Abducted Me Anonymous, online or off. Anyway, the whole concept of anonymity is bullshit when you’ve been on magazine covers, front pages, and talk shows. Even if I did track down a group, I’m willing to bet one of its wonderfully sympathetic members would be cashing in on my shit as soon as she walked out the door. Sell my pain to some tabloid and get herself a cruise or a plasma TV.
Not to mention, I hate talking to strangers about this stuff, especially reporters, who get it ass-backward often as not. But you’d be surprised how much some of the magazines and TV shows are willing to pay for an interview. I didn’t want the money but they keep offering it, and hell, I need it. It’s not like I could keep doing real estate. What good is a Realtor who’s scared to be alone with a strange man?
Sometimes I go back to the day I was abducted—replaying my actions up until the open house scene by scene, like a never-ending horror movie where you can’t stop the girl from answering the door or walking into the deserted building—and I remember the cover of that magazine in the store. So weird to think that now some other woman is looking at my picture, thinking she knows all about me.
SESSION TWO
On my way here today an ambulance came screaming up behind me—guy had to be doing over a hundred. Just about gave me a heart attack. I hate sirens. If they’re not scaring the crap out of me, which isn’t exactly hard to do these days—hell, Chihuahuas are probably more stable—they’re sending me into family-flashback mode. I’d rather have the heart attack.
And before you start salivating over what possible hidden issue my ambulance hostility could be pointing to, thinking you’re going to have me shrink-wrapped in no time, chill. We’ve just started digging through my crap. Hope you brought a big shovel.
When I was twelve my dad picked up my older sister, Daisy, from the arena where she had skating practice—this was during Mom’s French cuisine stage and she was making French onion soup while we waited. Most of my childhood memories are wrapped in the aroma and flavors of whatever country’s food she was into at the time, and my ability to eat certain foods depends on the memory. I can’t eat French onion soup, can’t even smell the stuff.
As sirens passed by our house that night, I turned the volume up on my show to drown them out. Later, I found out the sirens were for Daisy and my dad.
On their way home Dad stopped at the corner store, and then, as they pulled out into the inters
ection, a drunk driver ran the red and hit them head-on. Asshole crumpled up our station wagon like a used Kleenex. I spent years wondering if they’d still be alive if I hadn’t begged my dad to pick up ice cream for dessert. Only thing that made it possible to move on was thinking their deaths were the worst thing that could ever happen in my life. Wrong.
After the injection into my leg and before I passed out, I remember two things: the scratchy blanket against my face and the faint scent of perfume.
Waking up, I wondered why I didn’t feel my dog beside me. Then I opened my eyes and saw a white pillowcase. Mine were yellow.
I sat up so fast I almost blacked out. My head spun and I wanted to throw up. With my eyes wide open and my ears straining to hear every sound, I scanned my surroundings. I was in a log cabin, six hundred square feet or so, and I could see most of it from the bed. He wasn’t there. My relief only lasted a few seconds. If he wasn’t here, where was he?
I could see part of a kitchen area. In front of me was a woodstove and to its left, a door. I thought it was night but I wasn’t sure. The two windows on the right side of the bed had shutters on them or were boarded up. A couple of ceiling lights were on and another was mounted to the wall by the bed. My first impulse was to run to the kitchen to look for some kind of weapon. But whatever he’d injected me with hadn’t worn off. My legs turned to jelly, and I nailed the floor.
I lay there for a few minutes, then crawled, then pulled myself up. Most of the drawers and cupboards—even the fridge—had padlocks on them. Leaning heavily on the counter, I rifled through the one drawer I could open but couldn’t find anything more lethal than a tea towel. I took a few deep breaths and tried to come up with some clue as to where I was.
My watch was missing and there were no clocks or windows, so I couldn’t even guess at the time of day. I had no idea how far away from home I was, because I had no idea how long I’d been unconscious. My head felt like someone was squeezing it in a vise. I made my way to the farthest corner in between the bed and the wall, put my back into it as far as I could, and stared at the door.
I crouched in the corner of that cabin for what seemed like hours. I felt cold all over and couldn’t stop shaking.
Was Luke pulling into my driveway, calling my cell, paging me? What if he thought I was working late again and forgot to cancel, so he just went home? Had they found my car? What if I’d been gone for hours and nobody had even started looking for me? Had anybody even called the cops? And what about my dog? I imagined Emma all alone in my house, hungry, wanting her walk, and whimpering.
The crime shows I’ve watched on TV cycled through my mind. CSI—the one set in Las Vegas—was my favorite. Grissom would’ve just gone to the house where I was abducted and by taking close-ups inside and analyzing a speck of dirt outside he’d know exactly what happened and where I was. I wondered if Clayton Falls even had a CSI unit. The only time I ever saw the Royal Canadian Mounted Police on TV was when they rode their horses in a parade or busted another marijuana grow-op.
Every second The Freak—that’s what I called him in my mind—left me alone, I imagined more and more brutal deaths. Who would tell my mom when they found my mangled body? What if my body was never found?
I still remember her screams when the phone call came about the accident, and from then on it was rare to see her without a glass of vodka. I only recall a few times when I saw her outright drunk, though. Generally she was just “blurry.” She’s still beautiful, but she seems, to me anyway, like a once-vibrant painting whose colors have bled into one another.
I replayed what might be the last conversation we’d ever have, an argument about a cappuccino machine. Why didn’t I just give her the damn thing? I was so pissed at her, and now I’d do anything to have that moment back.
My legs were cramped from holding one position too long. Time to get up and explore the cabin.
It looked old, like those fire ranger cabins you see up in the mountains, but it had been customized. The Freak had thought of everything. There were no springs in the bed. It was only two soft mattresses made from some kind of foam, lying on a solid wood frame. A large wooden wardrobe stood on the right side of the bed. It had a keyhole, but when I tried to pull on the doors they wouldn’t budge. The woodstove and its rock hearth were behind a padlocked screen. The drawers and all the cupboards were made of some kind of metal, finished to look like wood. I couldn’t even kick my way in.
There was no crawl space or attic and the cabin door was steel. I tried to turn the handle, but it was locked from the outside. I felt along its edges for brackets, hinges, anything that could be undone, but there was nothing. I pressed my ear to the ground, but not one sliver of light came through the bottom, and when I ran my fingers along the base I couldn’t feel any cool air. There had to be one hell of a weather strip around that thing.
When I rapped on the window shutters they sounded like metal, and I couldn’t see any locks or hinges on them. I felt all around the logs for signs of rot, but they were in good shape. Under the windowsill in the bathroom, I felt coolness on my fingers in one spot. I managed to remove a few pieces of insulation, then pressed my eye to the pencil-sized hole. I could see a blur of hazy green and figured it was early evening. I stuffed the insulation back in and made sure there were no remnants anywhere on the floor.
At first the bathroom with its older white tub and toilet seemed standard, but then I realized there was no mirror, and when I tried to lift up the lid on the toilet tank it wouldn’t move. A steel rod ran through the fabric hoops of a pink shower curtain with little roses all over it. I gave the rod a good tug, but it was bolted in place. The bathroom had a door on it. No lock.
An island in the middle of the kitchen had two barstools bolted to the floor on either side of it. The appliances were stainless steel—those aren’t cheap—and they looked brand-new. The white of the double enamel sinks and countertops sparkled and the air smelled of bleach.
When I tried one of the burners on what appeared to be a gas or propane stove, all I heard was a clicking sound. He must have disconnected the gas. I wondered if I could get any pieces of the stove apart, but I couldn’t lift up the burners, and when I looked inside the oven I discovered the racks had been taken out. The drawer underneath the oven was padlocked.
There was no way I could protect myself, and no way out. I needed to prepare for the worst, but I didn’t even know what the worst might be.
I realized I was shaking again. I took a few deep breaths and tried to focus on the facts. He wasn’t there and I was still alive. Somebody had to find me soon. I walked to the sink and put my head under the tap for some water. Before I’d even taken a mouthful I heard a key in the lock—or at least what I thought was the lock. My heart lurched as the door slowly opened.
His baseball cap was off, revealing wavy blond hair and a face devoid of all expression. I studied his features. How had he made me like him? His bottom lip was fuller than the top, giving him a slight pout, but other than that all I saw was vacant blue eyes and a nice-looking face but not the kind of face you’d notice at first glance, let alone remember.
He stood there as his eyes landed on me and his whole face broke into a smile. Now I was looking at a completely different man. And I got it. He was the kind of guy who could choose whether he was noticed or not.
“Good, you’re up! I was beginning to think I’d given you too much.”
With a bounce in his step, he walked toward me. I ran back to the farthest corner of the cabin, by the bed, and, crouching, pressed myself into it. He stopped abruptly.
“Why are you hiding in the corner?”
“Where the hell am I?”
“I realize you probably aren’t feeling a hundred percent, but there’s no swearing here.” He walked to the sink.
“I was looking forward to our first meal together, but you slept past dinnertime, I’m afraid.” He took a huge key chain out of his pocket, unlocked one of the cupboards, and picked up a glass. “Hope
you’re not too hungry.” He ran the water for a while, then filled the glass. He shut the tap off and turned to face me, his back against the counter.
“I can’t break the dinnertime rule, but I’m willing to bend things a little today.” He held the glass out. “Your mouth must be so dry.”
Sandpaper was smoother than my throat right now, but I wasn’t taking anything from him. He jiggled the glass. “Can’t beat cold mountain water.”
He waited a couple of seconds, an eyebrow raised in question, then shrugged and turned slightly to dump the water in the sink. He rinsed the glass out, then held it up and rapped his knuckle on it. “Isn’t it amazing how real this plastic looks? Things aren’t always as they seem, are they?”
He carefully dried it and put it back in the cupboard, which he locked. Then, with a sigh, he sat down on one of the barstools at the island and stretched his hands over his head.
“Wow, does it ever feel good to finally relax.” Relax? I’d hate to see what he did for excitement. “How’s your leg? Sore from the needle?”
“Why am I here?”
“Ah. She speaks.” He rested his elbows on the island and steepled his fingers under his chin. “That’s a great question, Annie. To put it simply, you’re a very lucky girl.”
“I don’t consider being abducted and drugged lucky.”
“You don’t think it’s possible that people can sometimes come to realize what they thought was a bad event in their life was actually an extremely good event, if they knew the alternative?”
“Anything would be a better alternative than this.”
“Anything, Annie? Even if the alternative to spending some time with a nice guy like me was getting into an accident when you drove away from the open house—say, with a young mother coming home from the grocery store—and killing a whole family? Or maybe just one of the children, her favorite?” My mind flashed to Mom sobbing Daisy’s name at the funeral. Was this creep from Clayton Falls?
Still Missing Page 2
