Long Live the Queen

by Ellen Emerson White

  “Must hurt,” he said.

  There was no sympathy in his voice, and she didn’t bother looking up, gently massaging her left hand with her right, hampered by the handcuffs.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  She slowly flexed her hand. “Did you throw away my shoes, too?”

  He bent down, picking up a pair of cheap blue sneakers and dropping them on the bed.

  Her legs felt very tired and heavy, and she maneuvered them over to the sneakers, slipping them on. They were only a little too big, and she tried to tie them, but couldn’t with the handcuffs.

  “Come on,” he said impatiently. “Let’s go.”

  She swung her legs over the edge of the mattress, uneasily, holding her wrists just above them. “Do I have to wear these?”

  “You should thank me for letting you wear anything,” he said.

  Instead of feeling embarrassed this time, she was only angry. “Yeah,” she said. “Thanks for the dental work, too.”

  He just looked at her, and she stood up, her legs unsteady. Standing made her so dizzy that she sagged back down towards the bed, realizing for the first time how much her head hurt, how much she—aware of how irritated he was getting, she slid her right foot forward one step on what felt like a concrete floor, then lifted her left one for another. Only—what if he was lying? What if he was pretending to take her to the bathroom, but was really going to kill her, or—she felt a wave of fear worse than the dizziness and stopped where she was, afraid to move.

  He made an annoyed sound and grabbed her arm, yanking her forward. Then, they were out in a dark, empty corridor, with a wall to her left, a door straight across from her, and a hall that went about ten or fifteen feet to her right before turning a corner. A storage building? Or a factory? Something industrial, anyway.

  “In there,” he said, indicating the door.

  She turned the knob and saw that it was, indeed, a bathroom. There was a light switch on the wall and she pushed it up, going in and closing the metal door behind her. She leaned against it briefly, feeling for—and not finding—a lock. Not that she had expected one.

  Okay, okay, she had to stay calm. Couldn’t panic. Couldn’t lose it. She forced herself to look around the room. Small, windowless, the sink rust-stained. Like a gas station, sort of.

  “Don’t take all night,” he said through the door.

  Night. Did that mean that it was night? Yeah, he would have said “day,” otherwise. Was it still today? Or had she been unconscious for a long time? Or—he probably wasn’t kidding about her hurrying up.

  She saw that they had—at least—put underwear on her. Men’s underwear, apparently new. She was very careful not to touch anything—especially in a place like this—but stayed at the sink as long as she could, washing her hands, her face, her neck, and then her face again. Her mouth really hurt, but what if they were in a place where the water was contaminated? She couldn’t risk—

  The man opened the door. “Let’s go already.”

  “Is this water safe to drink?” she asked.

  “No kidding.” He grabbed her elbow, pulling her roughly into the hall.

  “I can’t rinse my damn mouth, at least?” she asked, knocked off-balance.

  “Try shutting your damn mouth,” he said.

  What she tried to do, was get back into the bathroom, and he slammed her up against the wall, keeping her there with one forearm pressed into her throat, yanking a gun out of the back of his jeans and pointing it at her face.

  “You want me to kill you?” he asked. “You want me to kill you right now?”

  She stared at the gun—a real gun—a gun that he might—that he was about to—that—

  He jabbed the gun into her cheekbone. “Answer me!”

  She shook her head, too scared to open her mouth.

  “Answer me,” he said.

  “No,” she said, her voice so small that she could barely hear it.

  He looked at her for a long minute, then nodded, stepping away so suddenly that she fell, landing hard on her right elbow.

  “Come on, get up,” he said, kicking her, and she groaned. He kicked her again, so hard that it felt as though her entire ribcage was caving in. “Hurry up.”

  With an effort, she pushed herself to a sitting position, then all the way to her feet, hunching over her side.

  “Get in there,” he said, gesturing with the gun.

  She nodded, walking quickly into the room, not protesting as he used the extra pair of handcuffs to chain her to the bed frame before uncuffing her right hand from the other pair, testing the lock with one hard jerk.

  “Are you coming back?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer, turning to leave.

  Okay, at least he was wearing a mask. That meant that they weren’t going to kill her. As long as she couldn’t identify them, she would be safe.

  “I won’t try and look at you,” she said, as he reached up to turn the light off.

  He turned it back on. “What?”

  “I just meant—” She blinked from looking at the bulb. “I mean, I’m not stupid.”

  “Only wore it to scare you,” he said.

  She frowned. “I don’t—”

  Very slowly, he pulled the stocking mask off. “Maybe this’ll scare you more,” he said, and smiled.

  She stared at him, at his face—a surprisingly normal face—and her stomach both twisted and fell. His face. Jesus Christ, that meant—Jesus Christ—“I thought—” She gulped. “Y-you aren’t going to let me go?”

  “No.” He smiled again. “I’m not.”

  6

  AFTER HE LEFT, slamming the door, it was very, very quiet. Very, very dark.

  Okay, okay. She wasn’t going to cry. She really wasn’t. No way. She pressed her sweatshirt sleeve across her eyes, fist clenched, concentrating on swallowing—over and over—to keep control. Okay, okay, she had to try and be calm. To figure out what she was going to do. If there even was anything she could do.

  They would find her. Every damn security agency in the country would be working on this, and they would have to—except, they already would have. She could be anywhere in the world, and there was no way that they could—calm. She had to be calm. Her mother was the President—and would be able to do something. All she had to do was wait. And try to be calm. Cool. Brave.

  Her mother would be brave. Her mother would be completely, totally, amazingly—oh, Christ, what if something had happened to her brothers, too? And what if Josh really was—she couldn’t think about it. If she thought about it, she would start—wait, she was already crying. Oh, hell.

  She forced herself to lean back against the bed frame. To take a few deep breaths. She closed her eyes, tears still pushing out and down her face. Oh, God, her mouth hurt. Her mouth, and her jaw, and her head, and her side—her mother would be brave. Her father would be brave. Preston would be brave. She, at least, had to try.

  Jesus.

  Tentative in the darkness, she pushed down against the mattress with her free hand, moving herself into a more comfortable position. Her handcuffed hand was already falling asleep, and she moved her fingers a few times. Handcuffed. Jesus Christ, she was actually—she had to be calm. The only way to—very, very calm.

  The inside of her mouth was really aching and, very cautious, she touched the hole with her tongue. It was still bleeding—although not as much—and seemed very deep. Two molars, probably. Maybe even three. She shivered, remembering the light in her eyes, the cold metal on her teeth—thank God he had had them knock her out. It would have been—thank God.

  Maybe he was lying about killing her. Trying to keep her off-balance. Scared. Easy to handle. They’d have to be crazy to kill the President’s daughter. Kidnapping was bad enough. Even with Dennis’s help—Jesus, was he out there with them? Or, with all the blood she’d seen, was he—it was still hard to believe they had pulled it off. And they must have. If it was night, hours had passed, and she should have been located by now. B
ut, how had they managed—he was smart. Extremely smart, with the same aura of professionalism she associated with Secret Service and FBI agents and soldiers. Detached, clear, unemotional—what if he was an insider, too? What if—he didn’t seem like a terrorist. This guy was American; this guy was obviously well-educated. And there didn’t seem to be anything fanatical about him. Neat, dark hair; lighter, expressionless eyes; straight nose. Christ, he could be any one of the youngish ambitious men that overpopulated Washington, wearing well-cut suits and carrying briefcases.

  Actually, with a suit and a pair of Oakleys—had she seen him before? Had he maybe been around the school, or at one of her tennis matches, or—she had probably seen him before. He hadn’t planned the thing overnight.

  Her mouth hurt so much that she decided to concentrate on that for a while, resting her head against the wall. It was throbbing, like the beginning of a terrible earache, and the whole side of her face felt hot. He could have let her rinse it out, at least. Although that might have made it hurt even more. But, this way, it was sure to get infected.

  Not that she didn’t have worse things to worry about.

  There hadn’t been a mirror in the bathroom, and she reached up to touch her forehead, finding a huge bump. There seemed to be a split in her right eyebrow, and thick moisture, which had to be blood. The water from washing her face had been brownish-red, and the cut—which felt huge—must have opened up again. She let her hand drop, wiping the blood on her sleeve.

  Not even her sleeve. Or her sweatpants, or her underwear, or—time to think about something else.

  There was a tiny crack of dim light at the bottom of the door and she focused on it, afraid of the darkness. The light chain was somewhere in the middle of the room. If she could reach it, maybe—but, he wouldn’t like it, and he might come in and hurt her. Kill her.

  Kill her. Christ, this couldn’t really be happening. One minute, she was talking to Josh; the next—no. If she thought about it, or him, or—it just couldn’t be happening.

  And crying sure as hell wasn’t going to get her anywhere.

  Of course, it wouldn’t hurt, either. He might come in and laugh at her, but—to hell with him. There’d be something wrong with her if she weren’t crying in this situation.

  Only—would her mother be crying? No. Her mother would be plotting. Okay. She would try plotting. Do something constructive. Something to stay in control.

  Maybe the handcuffs weren’t fastened right. It was highly unlikely, but she pulled at them, anyway, the metal edges hurting her skin. First, she tried a slow, gradual pull; then a few quick yanks, the metal digging deeper. She traced the cuffs with her right hand, searching for the locks, tugging on the chain to see if anything was loose. Defective. But, predictably, nothing was.

  Okay. What about the bed? She felt the frame, shook the bars. Thick, solid metal. Iron, probably. What about weight? Maybe if she lifted the bed with her handcuffed hand, the weight would make them pop open. It was worth a try, anyway. She moved her legs over the edge of the mattress, not wanting to stand up in the dark and leave the security of the bed.

  Which proved that everything was pretty god-damn relative.

  She stood up carefully, letting the dizziness ebb away before turning her attention to the bed frame. She pulled on the cuffs—no result. Maybe, if she pulled really hard, she could—she tried it, using both hands on the chain. The bed scraped over a foot and she stopped instantly, afraid that someone might have heard the noise.

  She waited, holding her breath, but the hall was quiet. Would it be safe to risk lifting the bed? And if she could get over to the light, and turn it on for a second, she would feel a lot safer. Less scared. She reached out as far as she could, letting her arm swing in the darkness.

  Oh, Christ, what if there were spiders, and rats, and—she would have seen them before, when the light was on. This was just a room. A small, empty room. A room in God-only-knew-what, God-only-knew-where, that she would be in until these people decided that it was time to—she yanked on the bed to distract herself, dragging it over another foot or two, towards the middle of the room. She swung her arm again, and the light pull brushed over her wrist. She felt around, the darkness seeming more dense than normal air, until she was holding it tightly in her hand. Even doing that much made her feel better and she gripped the little chain, deciding whether or not to risk turning the light on.

  The hall was still very, very quiet.

  Okay. She turned the light on. It was just a room. Maybe ten-by-ten, no windows, the walls closer to grey than white. There was no furniture, except for an old wooden chair near the door, and the bed frame—black cast iron—was even more solid than she’d been afraid it was. The mattress was covered by a white sheet, and she elected not to look underneath it. The sheet looked brand-new and was perfectly clean, except for the blood-stains where her face had been.

  Her clothes smelled new, too, and it was strange to think of him, or someone, going out to shop for all of this unisex stuff. Strangely civilized. Smart, too, since a cashier would be likely to remember a man buying woman’s clothes. Not that this guy struck her as someone who would slip up on a detail like that. Not, apparently, a guy who had screwed up anywhere. So far. When he got in touch with her parents, though, that’s when they’d trace him. He had to have demands, or a motive, or something. And that was how they would get him.

  Should she turn the light off? Not take chances? Or take a minute and check out the damned handcuffs a little more closely? That was an easy choice, and she crouched next to the bed, studying the shiny metal. Nothing she could break, nothing she could bend, nothing she could do. Where, for Christ’s sakes, had he gotten handcuffs? They didn’t sell them in stores, did they?

  Jesus, was she tired.

  Slowly, she straightened up, not sure what to do next. The smart thing, would be to turn the light off, move the bed back, and wait. If he didn’t know that she could turn the light on, that was an advantage. Of some kind, anyway.

  Okay. Even if the darkness was scary, she’d do it. As she reached out for the light chain, the door smashed open and he stood there, looking at her.

  Part of her wanted to burst into tears, wet her pants, cringe; the other part of her just looked right back at him. The same part was also, out of nowhere, mad as hell. “Got a problem?” she asked, and consciously turned her back, giving the bed an awkward kick towards the wall.

  He came over behind her, so close that they were almost touching. “Maybe you ought to think about being a little more scared,” he said quietly.

  She pushed the bed to get further away from him. “Maybe you ought to go to hell.”

  She saw his fist go back, then found herself crumpled on the floor, handcuffed arm twisted awkwardly, blood gushing from her nose and over her upper lip. She stayed there for a minute or two, disoriented, then lifted her free hand towards her nose, touching the blood. Then, she tried to get up, but was so dizzy that she had to sink back down.

  He smiled. “Need a hand?”

  “Fuck you,” she said, and blinked, surprised by the reaction—and that she was crying.

  He shook his head. “Mom and Dad wouldn’t like that much.”

  She kicked at him with her left leg and he stepped out of the way.

  “Getting angry?” he asked.

  “No!” she said.

  He grinned. “Not even a little?”

  Bastard. She wiped her sleeve across her face, an alarming amount of blood soaking into the cloth. “What, is that the part you get off on? Or just the beating me up?”

  “I’m getting off on just about all of this,” he said, his voice managing to be both vicious and pleasant.

  She slouched down, covering her face with her arm, still stunned by the fact that someone had just hit her. With his fist.

  “Crying?” he asked.

  She lifted her head just enough to look at him. “They have agencies you don’t even know about working on this. Agencies I don’t even know a
bout.”

  He nodded seriously, folding his arms and leaning against the wall. “Consider yourself pretty important, do you?”

  “No, I—” Frowning hurt, so she stopped. “I mean, I don’t have anything to do with it.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Good thing ‘family’ is such a big priority for your mother.”

  “No, she—” Meg stopped again. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “If she were a good mother, you wouldn’t be here right now,” he said.

  Well—yeah. There was some truth to that. “It could have happened, anyway,” she said, hearing the uncertainty in her voice. “I mean, they’re pretty rich.”

  “Maybe, but that would just be ransom. You’d get out of it all right. But now,” he shook his head, “because she doesn’t love you—”

  “It’s not her fault,” Meg said defensively, almost forgetting the blood and pain. “I mean, just because she’s—”

  He nodded again. “Worries about you kids first and foremost. Always there for you.”

  These were old arguments, old accusations. Things her family had worked to put to rest. To understand. Things that were none of his god-damn business. “I think you’re just trying to upset me,” she said.

  He shrugged. “Seems to be working.”

  Since she was upset, she changed the subject. “You know, you’ll never get anything. There’s no way they’ll negotiate with terrorists.”

  “Hmmm,” he said, and made a point of tightening his fist.

  “Wonder what it would take to convince them?”

  It was a good question—with far too many terrifying possibilities to explore. “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “They still won’t ever negotiate.”

  “Tough price to pay,” he said.

  Jesus, there were so many things he could do to her. So many things she assumed that he, ultimately, would do to her. She swallowed. “Especially because it’s her family, they can’t. You should be smart, and let me go.”

  He nodded. “That’d be smart, all right.”

  Her nose was hurting more and she ducked her head, despite the blood still streaming out, to try and ease the pain.