Stealing Allie

by H S Russell

  “She’ll go to the FBI once you let her go, only then she can tell them where you live,” snarks Adam.

  I scratch my neck as I shake my head, trying to think of another solution. There is no win-win here; there’s only trying to find the best worst-case scenario. “I’ll keep her drugged for a while, something, I don’t know. But we’re not letting her go. She’s coming with me. Get the tranquilizer.”

  I pull out a prefilled syringe we always have on hand during jobs and pass it to Adam. Allie’s head is still buried in her hands, which is perfect for what we’re about to do. I squat down so we’re eye to eye. “You allergic to anything?”

  She peeks up at me from the side of her cupped hands, her confusion obvious. “No?” she says. “Why?”

  I don’t give her an explanation. I don’t have to. Adam plunges the needle into her neck and within seconds, she’s out.

  Chapter 4

  Allie

  I feel myself waking up, but my body feels so weighted down I can barely move. I don’t know anything, and I understand even less. I want to turn my head and look around, but it’s too heavy to move. Something’s not right, I don’t understand what’s happened, but I can’t stay awake long enough to figure it out. My eyes close without another thought.

  ✤ ✤ ✤

  Awareness comes slowly. I’m still weak, but not like before. Able to turn my head, I look around my unfamiliar surroundings. I’m in a bedroom somewhere, but I don’t know where. I look down at my body, wondering why nothing feels real. Why I don’t feel real. What has happened?

  Thinking is hard…laborious. My brain is filled with a sludge that slows everything down. My thoughts take so long to make sense of. Looking around the room, nothing is familiar. Not one item is mine. Something starts nipping at my brain, something I’m supposed to remember, something that’s important…it’s right there…and then it hits me.

  The construction site. The trailer. The guys. The him.

  Adrenaline finally courses through me as I begin to panic, the memories of what happened flooding my brain. Understanding dawns that I’ve been drugged. I’ve had surgery before, and I know what it feels like waking up afterward. Those men drugged me and brought me here—wherever here is.

  I look around the large bedroom. It has pale blue walls, one long dresser, some nightstands, and a patterned chair with a floor lamp next to it. There are two closed doors; I bet one of them leads to freedom.

  I spot an en suite bathroom and realize I need it. I slowly make my way there, looking at myself in the mirror when I go by it. My clothes are still on. At least I wasn’t stripped.

  Making it to the toilet, I sit down and stay long after I’m done, a thousand thoughts flying through my head. I have to rest a bit until I have enough energy to make my way back to the bed. When I do, I notice a plate of crackers on the nightstand, along with a few bottles of water. I eat a couple of the crackers, washing them down with the water.

  Sated and exhausted, I fall back into a deep sleep.

  ✤ ✤ ✤

  The next time I wake up, I finally have more energy. I turn on the lamp on the nightstand, finding the tray of crackers water. The crackers taste a little stale after being out for however long, but they take enough of the edge off and give me enough energy to get up and to explore the room.

  The first closed door I open leads to a large walk-in closet where a few men’s shirts and slacks hang. The other door has a newly installed dead bolt, which means this must be the door that leads to freedom. Despite knowing how useless it is, I pull and push on the door as hard as I can with no success.

  There’s a large window on the opposite side of the room, but it’s dark outside, so I can’t see much. I try, but the window won’t open, and even if it did, I can tell that it’s too far from the ground to be a means of escape. I pause and look out into the night, just able to make out a perimeter of trees, but seeing no other lights, I get the sense that the house is secluded.

  There’s nothing in the dresser drawers or underneath the bed. In the bathroom, all I find are towels and washcloths, and a mishmash of shampoos and toothpaste and other normal bathroom items. I make a note that there’s a box each of tampons and pads. I’d be grateful for the thoughtfulness if the situation were different.

  I scope out the walk-in shower longingly, wanting badly to take one, but I’m afraid that whomever is keeping me here is watching me. Plus I don’t relish the thought of being caught naked in the shower if whomever decides to make an appearance. Lying back down on the bed, I can only last for so long before the funk on my skin becomes too much.

  Starting the shower and letting the water run, I keep an eye on the outer door to see if anyone comes. When nobody does, I feel safe enough to get undressed, but only after I lock the bathroom door. The water feels heavenly against my skin, and even though I’d like to stay longer, I only allow myself enough time to scrub myself and then wash my hair.

  Once out of the shower, I can’t bear to put my dirty clothes back on, so I wrap myself in two huge towels. Making sure the bedroom is still empty, I climb into bed, telling myself I’ll doze for just a few minutes, then get dressed.

  Instead, I close my eyes and dream of a man with hazel eyes.

  ✤ ✤ ✤

  The next time I wake up is the first time I feel normal. There are no more hazy moments where my brain has to cobble together pieces of memories to figure things out. It’s a relief to feel like myself again.

  Getting up and still feeling refreshed from my late-night shower, I spot something on the dresser that makes me wish for the drugged numbness I’d felt before when I was so out of it. I’d given no thought to how the crackers and water got to the nightstand. I never once associated those items’ appearance with a person. But now, I know someone is here and has been coming in while I sleep. The thought terrifies me as nothing else could have. Walking over to the dresser, I lean over the note so I can read it without touching it. The handwriting is dark and sprawling, and very definitely written by a man.

  Go to the bathroom when I knock. Come out when I leave.

  Too scared to wait around for the knock, I lock myself in the bathroom all day. Even though I know I’m silly to think that the thin bathroom door would actually stop anyone from getting in, it gives me the illusion of safety, and that’s enough. The tiled bathroom floor isn’t the most comfortable of places, but in no way do I want to be that close to my captor.

  Twice during the day, I hear the knocks signaling lunch and dinner’s arrival. Gathering all of my courage, I dart from my sanctuary to get the food, then bring it into the bathroom with me. Sanitary? No. But in this instance, I really don’t care. On the plus side, the bathroom appears sparkling clean, so I don’t feel as gross as one might expect.

  After spending the day and a good part of the evening hunkered down in the bathroom, I find my courage to go to bed where I sleep rather soundly considering how afraid I’ve been. When I wake the next morning, there’s a pen and one small, square sticky note with a Q? at the top. Again, the Q? has a very masculine slant to it.

  They want to know if I have questions? My god, where would I ever start? There are dozens of questions I could ask, so many that I find it hard to know what to ask. Where am I … How long are you keeping me here … Are you going to kill me … Why are you doing this …

  In the end, I squeeze two short questions on the note, then slide it under the outer door. I hate knowing that my need for answers brings my kidnapper right to me, but I’m at the point where I need answers.

  Locking myself back in the bathroom, I almost shriek when later on the note is slid under the door. Terrified that my kidnapper is right outside, I crawl to the other side of the room and stay there. It’s not until much later that I’m brave enough to inch forward to read the note.

  Are you the man with the hazel eyes? Yes.

  And then my other question.

  Are you going to kill me? No.

  He added another note, this t
ime with a statement.

  You don’t have to stay in here. I’m not going to hurt you.

  His note makes me wonder if he and I have the same definition of what hurting me would entail.

  Chapter 5

  Allie

  Over the following week, my captor and I trade notes back and forth. After learning that he’s the man from the trailer, the handsome but scary leader in the black waffle shirt, I feel a sense of empowerment that I at least know who is bringing me food and writing the notes.

  Feeling empowered is a silly reaction given I’m completely isolated and totally at his mercy. There is no more empowerment from knowing it’s him versus not knowing who’s keeping me here—it really makes no difference. Still, for some reason, I somehow feel more grounded from the knowing.

  He won’t answer my questions regarding where we’re at, despite having asked more than once. From what I can see out my one window, the geography isn’t any different from home. If nothing else, I don’t feel like I’ve been taken more than a few hours away from home…but that’s just a guess.

  Another thing he won’t tell me is his name. My very existence rests in this man’s hands, and I don’t even know his name. It doesn’t seem right, or fair. As if any of this could feel fair.

  When he brings my food, his knocks no longer send me into a panic like they did the first few days. Nor do the notes slid under the door terrify me. I don’t feel the need to hide in the bathroom as much as I did at the beginning. With over a week under my belt, I’ve figured if he was going to hurt me, he’d have done it by now.

  As the first week turns into two, I find myself becoming less and less afraid, and more and more bored. Restless. I’m not used to being inactive like this. My job kept me busy, constantly going from one site to the next. My first week after waking up from the drugs, I was too afraid to do anything except hide and sleep. But now, after so much time has gone by in relative quiet, the fear is giving way to a restlessness that I’m finding harder and harder to deal with. Which means I have to do something. I have to make something change, and for all my brainstorming, there’s only one way to make that change happen.

  I going to have to face my captor.

  Lucas

  I watch the camera feed of Allie’s room.

  Despite her being here for two weeks now, I still have no game plan other than keeping her away from the authorities. This unsureness of the path I’m on is unfamiliar territory for me. For the last twenty years, I knew every step I was going to take and exactly where I was heading. But with Allie, I have no clue what I’m doing other than watching her on the video and keeping her locked up.

  I look down at my desk, now decorated with dozens of small 3x3 squares covered in handwriting. I’ve kept all of our notes, every one of them. Every day I tell myself I’m going to throw them away, but instead, I find myself keeping them and rereading them as if they’re some strange hieroglyphics that if I study long enough, I’ll uncover the secrets to the universe.

  Scanning over the squares, one note in particular catches my eye.

  People will be looking for me.

  When we took Allie’s phone and tablet, we accessed and took over her social media accounts. All of her friends now believe she’s been on a spur-of-the-moment trip overseas. We’ve posted pictures of her in various places, photoshopping her in as necessary. We weren’t sure if people would buy it, but so far, nobody has said a word. Not yet at least.

  People will be looking for me. No, they’re not.

  I didn’t go into any other detail, and she’s never written about it again.

  Every once in a while, a note was more personal.

  What’s your name?

  Is this your home? Are there wife/children here?

  I never responded to them. The less personal information she has, the better.

  The last note of every evening has always been the same:

  Please let me go.

  I never respond to those notes, either. She already knows the answer.

  Moving to my computer, I open the PDF report I’d ordered when Allie arrived. I read through it two times to be sure I haven’t missed anything. Her parents… I wince when I read the deputy’s accident report about her parents’ deaths, how the semitruck crossed over the lane without any warning, killing them instantly, leaving her alone.

  Completely alone.

  Nobody is looking for Allie because there isn’t anyone to look for her. The friends in town she has aren’t close friends, and the ones that are close to her all live out of town and are busy with their own lives.

  I know what it’s like to experience loss like Allie suffered, except hers was doubled. I can’t imagine what it would have been like if both of my parents had died. Or maybe I could since my father all but checked out when Mom left.

  Looking back at the video feed, I feel something new for Allie…something that feels like respect, or comradery. A desire to comfort her. Not understanding any of those emotions, I shove them aside. She’ll sleep for about another half hour, so I head to the kitchen to gather up her breakfast for when she wakes up.

  Allie

  When I was greeting people after my parents’ service, I overheard many of them comment on how brave I was. I wasn’t brave though; I was numb. I guessed then that bravery and numbness look the same. But standing at the bathroom door after my captor has just knocked to warn me he’s coming in, this is brave. And I’d give anything to feel numb right now. It would be a welcome relief from this bottomless pit of nerves and terror.

  I close the bathroom door loud enough for him to hear, just like I always do, only this time, I’m on the bedroom side of the door. My stomach clenches as I hear the key inserted into the lock, and then the bolt slides open. He comes in quickly as if he’s in a hurry or something. Perhaps he has somewhere to be.

  Tray in hand, he stops short, shocked, when he sees me. It’s obvious from his face that he didn’t expect me to do something like this. It’s small and petty, but it makes me feel good to know that I’ve gotten one over on him. I just hope I don’t end up regretting this. I don’t know this man, nor his temperament. He could be a woman-beater for all I know.

  His face tenses, awash with what I could only call hard purpose as he prepares to deal with me and my little rebellion.

  “Allie,” he says. That’s it, just my name.

  I didn’t think I’d be this afraid of him, not after so many days of notes and meals. But hearing his voice again, so deep and gravelly, and seeing his too-handsome face, it causes two very different reactions. One of those is the need to run and hide from him, as far away as possible. But the other thing I feel, the one that utterly surprises me, is desire. I’d forgotten how potent his masculinity is to me.

  “This is a surprise,” he says, setting the tray down with a loud clap. He’s not exactly happy with me if the look on his face is anything to go by. “What’s the purpose of this?” His hands go to his waist, taking the reins by confronting me while I’m confronting him. He stands there, watching me, his eyes almost glowing with their intensity. I’d forgotten how piercing his stare could be.

  When I don’t respond quickly enough, he turns to go.

  Finally, I find my voice. “I want you to let me go,” I tell him, as if I haven’t asked him to let me go dozens of times in our notes to each other.

  “And for the twelfth time, the answer is still no.”

  Twelfth? Apparently someone has been keeping count. I don’t smile, but something inside of me finds this information…interesting.

  “Then when?”

  He shakes his head at me, frustrated at my line of questioning. Or maybe just frustrated at me in general. “I don’t have an answer to that. But it won’t be anytime soon.”

  A rush of emotions overwhelms me at his words. As tears threatens, I look up at the ceiling, trying to ward them off. My voice is choked when I speak again. “People will be looking for me.” Because surely by now, they are. When I’m able to lo
ok at him again, the threat of tears no longer pressing into my eyes, he’s already turning away.

  “Again, as I’ve said before, that’s been dealt with.”

  Before I can ask him anything else, he leaves the room, locking me in.

  I go into the bathroom, lock the door, and turn on the shower.

  Then I sit down and cry.

  ✤ ✤ ✤

  On day fifteen, after having spent an entire day dealing with the fallout of him telling me nobody is looking for me, I feel strong enough to face him by the time dinner rolls around. This time, he’s not as surprised when he finds me in the room. He glances up and down, stopping on my face, seemingly wary that I’m about to attack him with more female emotion.

  “Feeling better today?” he asks kindly but with typical male cluelessness.

  I can’t help but roll my eyes at the sheer ridiculousness of the question. I will never be “feeling better” while he’s holding me captive. “I’m fine,” I tell him, going with the simplest answer so we don’t prolong this. Instead, I get straight to the point. “I need to wash my clothes. It’s been over two weeks.” I’ve washed my underthings in the sink, but there’s only so much one can do with hand soap and shampoo.

  He looks me up and down, and judging by his expression, he’s less than impressed with my work attire. “They don’t fit you,” he baldly states.

  I look down at them and tug at the loose waistband. He’s right—they aren’t fitting right. “They’re stretchy for comfort. After wearing them for so long, they’ve stretched out too much. But I’ve probably lost weight with eating as little as you give me.”

  I look up at him in surprise as it hits me that this is almost a real conversation.

  Seemingly unaware of the significance of this moment, he frowns. “Are you going hungry?”

  I think about it, then answer honestly. “No, I haven’t had much of an appetite.” I don’t think anyone would in this situation.