Saving Rachel

by John Locke

  Creed is waiting for me to say something, but I’m trying to figure out how he knew I’d entered his code into my computer. Finally, he speaks.

  “Sam, you must be in a lot of trouble.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Sam, listen to me. Whatever you think your problems are, they’re nothing compared to dealing with me.”

  Creed has this eerie kind of voice. Just hearing him say my name sends a chill down my spine. He’s right; I don’t want to have to deal with him. I decide to come clean.

  “They’ve kidnapped my wife.”

  “Rachel.”

  How the fuck does everyone know Rachel’s name?

  “They’re hurting her,” I say. “She’s my wife. What would you do if you were me?”

  “If I were you?” he says. “If I were you, I wouldn’t fuck with Donovan Creed.”

  “What, you’re saying you’d let your own wife die?”

  “This discussion is going nowhere,” he says.

  “No,” I say, emboldened. “I want to know what you’d do in my place.”

  “Sam, we had this discussion two years ago, when I asked if I could trust you with my money.”

  I think about that, but the other thing is weighing on my mind— not Rachel, God help me, but the other thing. I can’t help it. That’s how my brain is wired. I have to ask him.

  “Mr. Creed, how did you know?”

  “About the code being entered? I had a frequency chip imbedded into my hip.”

  “You what?”

  “It’s tuned to the frequency of the digits.”

  I’m stuck at a traffic light, wondering if I should run it. Better not. I don’t need cops on my ass. “The sixteen digits have a frequency?”

  “Sam, you’ve got your specialty, but this part is way over your head. Let me put it this way: You put together a nice little money-moving scheme. It’s off the government’s radar. You tell me you can be trusted. I’m in. So I get my people to put together a little device that starts vibrating the minute you—or someone else—enters the code on your computer.”

  “What’s the range of this device?” I say.

  “The planet Earth.”

  The light turns green. Something else suddenly comes to mind. “Wait a minute. The computer I used today—it’s new. Your device can’t be keyed to this one.”

  Creed sighs. “Sam, I’m quite familiar with your computer.”

  “How’s that possible?”

  I’ve been living in your house for two years.”

  “What?”

  “You control a quarter billion dollars of my money. Do I really strike you as a hands-off type of guy?”

  No. You strike me as an insane type of guy!

  I turn on Frey’s Hill and circle Sawyer Park. I’m almost home.

  “Where are you?” I say, wondering if he might be waiting for me at my house.

  “Sam, we’re running out of time, so don’t interrupt. I know you’re almost home. I know this because someone’s placed a device on your car. I’m tuned to it now, just as they are. You and I need to make a pact. You’re going to do whatever I say, no matter how crazy it sounds, and I’ll come get you. I’ll save you, Sam. Provided you agree not to rip me off.”

  “You’ll come get me? You mean you’re coming to my house?”

  Creed sighs. “No, Sam, I mean, when they take you away, I’ll find you and save you, provided you refuse to give them my code.”

  “What about Rachel?” I say.

  He pauses. “Sam, when it all goes down, if that’s what you want, I’ll save Rachel too.”

  I wonder what the hell that means, but before I can ask, he says, “Did they give you a phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. They’ll expect you to go straight to your computer, but instead, you’re going to go down the first set of stairs to the basement. Then you’re going to run the length of the basement up the spiral staircase all the way to the top. Then you’re going to hide in the secret room you built for the little girl you never had.”

  “How did you know about—”

  “Sam, you’re in this deeper than you think, so do what I say. You’re going to take their phone with you. They’ll keep calling you, and at some point, they’ll force you to answer it. They’re going to want the codes. You’re going to refuse.”

  “What if I give them just one code? Not yours, but someone big. You think the gangster would set Rachel free?”

  “He doesn’t have Rachel.”

  “But I heard—”

  “What you heard was a tape of Rachel. He put the recorder up to the phone to make you think he had her.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It’s my job to know.”

  “Fine,” I say. “So where’s Rachel?”

  “That I don’t know. Not yet, anyway. But they’ll be taking you to wherever she is. And I’ll be following.”

  “If the gangster doesn’t have her, who does?”

  “I’m not sure yet. But I’ll help you get her back, if that’s what you both want.”

  “Why do you keep saying it that way? Of course it’s what we want!”

  “Then do exactly what I tell you, and don’t question or second-guess me.”

  “Fine.”

  “Sam, why did you stop just now? Turn in your driveway. They’re coming.”

  “I was just checking the yard.”

  “Get in the house, now! Go to the secret room. I’ll get you through this.” He pauses and then says, “If what?”

  I think a second. “If I don’t let them steal your money.”

  The line goes dead. I click the button to open the garage door.

  Chapter 17

  I shut off the engine and rush into the house and down the steps like Creed told me. Then I run down the long, dark basement hallway at full speed. Before I hit the spiral staircase, the cell phone in my hand starts blaring like a weather siren. I could be shouting my location through a bullhorn, and it wouldn’t lead them to me any faster. I stop where I am and turn on a hallway light. I try to find the mute button. Suddenly, the driveway sensors are going crazy. The cell phone is still blaring, and I’ve got to find a way to mute it and set it to vibrate only. I fumble with it some more, but it’s not my phone, and I’m having trouble with it, and …

  Shit!

  I drop it on the floor. I hear men’s voices shouting at the front door one floor up.

  This fucking cell phone is ringing so loudly I fear for my eardrums.

  There’s a heavy banging sound above me as they try to smash through the front door. These are four-inch solid mahogany doors. If I were them, I’d try an easier entry point.

  There! I finally get the cell-from-hell phone muted. I run to the spiral staircase and take the steps two at a time. There are thirty-eight steps in all from the basement to the top landing, and I’m only halfway up when I hear the glass in the back door shatter. Within seconds, they’re swarming the kitchen, and I’ve still got a dozen steps to go.

  I hug the wall and continue climbing. When I reach the top, I tread softly because they’re in the hall below me, heading to my study. I enter the room we built for the daughter we never had. I leave both doors open—the bedroom and closet doors—so it won’t be obvious I’m in here. I creep to the bookcase and pull on one of the shelves, and the bookcase door opens. I flip on the interior light switch and nearly have a heart attack.

  Donovan Creed is in there, holding his finger to his lips. He hands me a small bottle of water and a piece of metal in the shape of a pill.

  “Swallow this,” he whispers.

  I start to protest, and his hand becomes a blur. Suddenly, he’s holding a knife to my throat.

  “It’s a transmitter,” he whispers. “If you shit it out before I find you, swallow it again.”

  “That’s disgusting!” I whisper.

  “So’s dying.”

  I swallow the pill and think about how normal my life had been just yest
erday. Creed motions me to get in the secret room and close the bookcase door. He turns his back to me and opens the attic access door. I haven’t been in the secret room since I can remember, but I do remember there wasn’t an access door when we built the house.

  The phone buzzes softly in my pocket. I put my hand on Creed’s shoulder and whisper, “Let me in there with you.”

  He shakes his head. “No. They need to find and capture you. Otherwise, we’ll never find Rachel.”

  I hear men running through the house shouting my name. They’re all over the place, but they’re concentrating on the main floor and basement for now. In a matter of moments, they’ll be charging up the steps. Creed ducks his head and enters the attic. He stops and holding the door open whispers, “They’ll probably take you somewhere and force you to enter the codes. Your job is to stall them till I get there.”

  I hear shouting at the base of the steps. I pull the bookcase door shut. There’s no lock on it because Rachel read somewhere that once upon a time, a kid got locked in her secret room, fell asleep, and got strangled in her blanket. But I doubt anyone is going to find me in here because on the closet side, the bookcase is filled with children’s books, and there’s no reason anyone would think it leads to a secret room.

  I whisper, “What if they force me to give the codes before you get to me?”

  “Resist as long as you can,” he says.

  I hear what sounds like at least a dozen men rushing up the stairs, shouting orders to each other. They’re coming for me. They’re practically on top of me.

  “That’s it?” I whisper fiercely. “That’s all you’ve got? Hold out as long as I can?”

  “There’s this,” he says. “If you’re forced to enter the codes, enter mine last. Say it.”

  “I’ll enter your code last.”

  “No matter what,” he says.

  “No matter what.”

  With that, he shuts the attic door. I hear a soft click and wonder how he had time to build the door and install a lock. Then I remember how he said he’d lived in my house for two years.

  Chapter 18

  I hear a dozen different voices, all angry and frustrated. Someone has a walkie-talkie in the upstairs hallway on the opposite side of the secret room wall. I hear him asking one person after another if they’ve found me. Then he sounds like he’s on the phone. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but a moment later, he shouts, “Ted! Hook up a wire to the speaker system. I want Sam to hear this.”

  Ten minutes later, a man’s voice—not the gangster’s—is coming through my in-home stereo system.

  “Sam,” he says, “we’ve never met, but I know you can hear me. I’ll give you thirty seconds to come out of your hiding place with your hands in the air.”

  For the next thirty seconds, the cell phone in my pocket vibrates softly.

  Then the man says, “Sam, I have Rachel here with me.”

  Bullshit! I think. It’s a tape.

  “I’m going to have a little chat with your wife, and you can listen in.” There’s a short pause, and then he says, “Rachel, I’ve got Sam on the phone. I told him you’re with me, but I don’t think he believes me. Tell him what time it is.”

  In a small, frightened voice, Rachel says, “It’s ten till three.”

  “You hear that, Sam? Check your watch.”

  I do. And it is ten till three. Still, he could have prerecorded this on a tape and waited until now to play it. I’m not sure I believe their timing could be that good, but I’m not ready to surrender yet; I need more proof.

  “Sam, I’m usually a patient man. Everyone says that about me. I had this whole thing worked out. It was incredibly elaborate. But you screwed up my timetable when you saw that situation in the trunk at the park a little while ago. I won’t give Rachel the details just yet. I’m not a monster after all.” He chuckles. “Well, some say I am.”

  The phone in my pocket vibrates again.

  “Answer the phone, Sam,” he says. “Now!”

  Go fuck yourself! I say to him, in my head. Another half minute passes, but I still don’t answer the phone.

  “Sam, for the next thirty seconds, I’m not going to call you. I’ll be too busy beating your wife.”

  Ten seconds later, Rachel’s screams are playing throughout my house. She’s being tortured. I try to drown out her shrieks by focusing on what Creed told me, to hold out as long as possible. I wonder what he could be doing in the attic to help me. Does he have someone on the outside, triangulating the cell signal? Rachel’s screams die down. I hear her whimpering.

  “Sam, you’re a stronger man than I am,” the voice says. “If this were my wife, I’d be dying inside. Perhaps when this is all over, you’ll want to reevaluate your relationship.”

  The phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it.

  “Very well, Sam. It’s only going to get worse.” I hear him sigh, which means everyone in my house hears it too. “Rachel,” he says, “take off your clothes.”

  “No,” she says. “Please.”

  My fists clench so tightly it feels like my knucklebones are going to burst through the skin. I shut my eyes and wince.

  I hear him slap her. She cries out in agony. “That’s right,” he says. “Start with the blouse … good girl. Okay, now the skirt …”

  I shift my weight from my right foot to my left and back to my right. I feel like throwing myself through the wall. I’ve got to give Creed as much time as possible to do whatever it is he’s trying to do. But I don’t want this man to hurt my wife.

  “Now the bra …”

  “Please,” she says.

  He hits her again. But this time, it’s not a slap. I think he punched her. It sounds as though she slammed into something and crumbled to the floor. Maybe I’m reading that into whatever happened, imagining the worst, but I’m not imagining her sobs. I hear her whimper, “Please. Don’t hit me again. I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever you want.”

  The man’s voice says, “You hear that, Sam? Okay then, Rachel, show me the rest.”

  My heart is in my throat. My breath is coming out in short gasps, like a pregnant woman giving a Lamaze birth. Just when I think I’ll get through this part, I hear Rachel’s voice say, “Sam … I’m so sorry.”

  It’s more than I can bear. The cell phone vibrates in my pocket again, and I answer.

  “Where are you, Sam?” the man asks.

  “In the upstairs closet,” I say. “Please. Stop hurting Rachel. Tell your men not to shoot. I’m coming out.”

  Thirty seconds of silence pass before he comes back on the line. “Okay, Sam, come on out. They won’t hurt you.”

  “Where’s Rachel?”

  “We’ll take you to her.”

  “Promise you’ll leave her alone?”

  “I’ll promise nothing. But if you cooperate, it’ll go easier for her.”

  I push the bookcase open and exit the closet; eight men are standing in a semicircle, pointing rifles at me. I don’t know much about guns, so I can’t give you the makes, model numbers, calibers, or whatever. I can tell you that all the rifles are equipped with silencers, but that’s about it.

  Someone orders me to get facedown on the floor with my hands behind my back. I do what they say, and someone else ties a couple of pieces of plastic around my wrists. Then that person—or someone else—plunges a hypodermic needle into my neck.

  Chapter 19

  I don’t know where I am.

  I’m lying on my back on a hard surface, and it’s so dark I can’t see my hand moving in front of my face. I lift my head slightly and try to look around, but I get nothing, like I’m caught in a black hole.

  How can anything be this dark?

  I have a strong sense of breathing stale air, like maybe I’m in some type of enclosure.

  Where’s Rachel?

  I shout, “Rachel!” and listen to the sound my voice makes. It’s muffled, but not extremely so, which tells me at least I’m not in a coffin. I’m in an enclosure o
f some sort, but thank God it’s not a coffin.

  Where’s Rachel?

  I call her name again but get no response. I raise my arms up, like I’m doing a bench press, and get nothing but air, so I figure there’s probably enough height to sit up. I jerk myself up to a sitting position and raise my arms high above my head. There seems to be plenty of height, so maybe I’m not in an enclosure, though possibly a small room of some sort.

  My inner voice says, How long have we been unconscious?

  I have no way to tell. It’s too dark to see my watch. Hell, we—I could have been here an hour, a day, a week …

  No. Not a week. Not even a day. I would have had to pee by now.

  If I’d peed in here, surely I’d be able to tell. I sniff the air and touch my clothing. No, I haven’t peed. So I’m guessing I’ve been unconscious a couple of hours—however long it took them to carry me out of my house and transport me to wherever I am.

  I slowly attempt to stand. My legs are wobbly, but I manage to get to my feet. I reach up until I touch a smooth surface, which I estimate at about seven feet high. I put my arms in front of me and take a few tentative steps before touching a glass wall. I follow it sideways a few steps until I feel the intersection of another glass wall. I follow the surface the entire length of the rectangle and realize I’m in a glass cage, approximately eight feet wide and fourteen feet long. I wonder if Rachel is in a similar cage. Wherever she is, she doesn’t deserve this shit.

  Suddenly, a light comes on and then more lights. Lots of incredibly bright lights are coming on above and around me in all directions. The sudden brightness is too much for my eyes. Though I’m desperate to see what’s happening, I have to shield my eyes for more than a minute before they can adjust. While I manage a few short peeks, all I gain is watery eyes and only the blurriest information.

  I allow enough time for my vision to acclimate. I blink a couple of times to finally bring the world around me into focus. I wipe the remaining tears from my eyes with the tail of my shirt and see that the walls of my cage are not made of glass, but rather a thick slab of Lucite. Beyond the walls that hold me captive, I see that my Lucite enclosure sits in the middle of a huge, empty room that looks like an indoor parking lot. The bottom of my enclosure is made of wood and metal and is elevated several feet above the parking lot’s concrete floor. I try to see what’s holding up my cage, but I can’t find any angle that allows me to glimpse the structure beneath me. But wait, I turn to one side and look through the clear material. I see something that takes me by surprise: the giant cab of a truck, the kind of cab used to haul large flatbed trucks across the country.