Lovelady

by Wynne, Marcus

  My surroundings smelt like an old root cellar. I remembered the images from my dream. It could be the cellar of an old farm house. I tried to sit up and the pain that knifed through me made me reconsider. I lay still for a few minutes and fought to control my breathing, then cautiously crunched into an upright position. My head pounded.

  The hollow sounds of footsteps on a bare wooden floor boomed above me. I heard the snap and creak of an unlocked door. Sudden illumination filtered through my dark hood, and then there was low laughter.

  “You awake now, Frankie?” Armando said. “I see you’re sitting up. You behave, I’ll come take your hood off. You going to behave, Frankie?”

  Footsteps creaked down stairs. There was a presence over me, and hard hands tugged at the tape that held my hood closed at the neck. Then the hood was snatched off. I blinked in the light. One eye was crusted shut with blood. Armando stood well out of reach. His hand and his neck were bandaged professionally. He laughed, a promise of payback.

  “Oh, yeah. You cut me good, man. You and your little knife. Should have killed me when you had the chance. Because I’m going to kill you. Not right away. Somebody special wants to see you, talk to you about some bullshit. But when she’s through, you and me, we’re going to party.”

  He threw back his head and screamed. The echo rang loudly in the close space.

  “See? You can scream all you want down here. Nobody will hear you. Except me. I like to listen. I’m going to make you into a movie, man. Make you famous. After you’re dead. Lots of people buy that movie. So you think about that, eh? Because me, I’m thinking about it all the time.”

  He laughed. “I’ll bring you something to eat and drink. We want you nice and strong. That way you’ll last. You’re a tough one, Frankie. Not what I expected. Thought you’d be all bullshit and walk, but no, you’re a tough one. I like that. Surprised you held back with the knife, though, man. Should have gone for it, you’d have got away. Maybe. Or maybe I would have put a bullet in your back. Who knows?”

  He turned away abruptly and bounded up the stairs, laughing still. He left the light on. I was in an old style root cellar, dirt floors, concrete walls, the ceiling the sub-floor from the rooms above. Empty, dusty shelves lined the walls. The room was remarkable for its emptiness. Most cellars accumulate junk. There was none of that in here. In the center of the room was a heavy six by six post, a support pillar for the floors above. There were chains and heavy rings at neck, hand, and foot level. The rings were stained with something dark. The dirt around it had been plowed by feet or clawed by hands not long ago. Someone had been chained to that post.

  I didn’t want to think of a young girl, frightened and alone in the dark, chained to that post.

  I had to think of myself first.

  I didn’t see anything I could use to cut the tape binding me. If I could pull down a shelf I might get a nail. That could work. But they might hear me. Then I saw a gleam in the upper corner of the room, nestled discreetly beneath a support board on the subfloor.

  The lens of a video camera.

  So much for a discreet escape attempt. The camera was angled on the center post, but I was within it’s view, even if it wasn’t a wide angle lens. I heard the faint tin of laughter. Someone was watching me.

  The door at the top of the stairs popped open. Armando came lightly down the stairs. He seemed quite happy. Maybe the prospect of torturing me to death cheered him. He stood over me, a CamelBak hydration bladder with a long hose in one hand, a sandwich in the other.

  “I don’t trust you, Frankie,” he said. “I cut you loose, I know what you’re going to do. So guess what? I got my friends to help me out. You remember them, right?”

  There were slow steps on the stairs. Potato Face and Leroy came down, grinning.

  “Oh, yeah. My boys are going to help me now. You fight, we’re going to hurt you some more, Frankie. Can’t hurt you too much, somebody else wants to do that. We got to be nice to you and we don’t like that. So don’t give us no reason, eh?”

  “Don’t need a fucking reason,” Leroy said. He kicked me in the stomach till I dry heaved. Armando watched for a minute, then pushed Leroy away.

  “Cool it. We don’t fuck him up no more. You’ll get your chance.”

  They dragged me to the center post. The neck manacle went on first, then the hands, then the ankles. Then Leroy cut the tape off. I could stand, reach around to my front, but I didn’t have more than a step in any direction.

  “There you go, Frankie,” Armando said. He patted my face and waited for a reaction. I didn’t give him one. “Maybe now you’re a good boy? Too fucking late. Should have thought of that before.”

  He set the CamelBak down at my feet and laid the sandwich on top of the bladder. “Peanut butter. I dug some fresh out of the crack of my ass and put it in there just for you.”

  Potato Face and Leroy laughed loud. Then the three of them went up the stairs and closed the door behind them. The thump of their feet overhead faded as they went deeper into the house. The house stretched farther than the dimensions of this root cellar, that was clear. How far I couldn’t tell.

  I ate the sandwich and drank warm water from the bladder.

  And waited.

  Time passed. I slept slouched upright against the post, then woke with an aching bladder. I opened my pants and urinated away from me, but the slope of the floor brought it back to my feet. I squatted on my heels in the wet mud.

  Time passed. The CamelBak ran dry. It had been at least a day since I ate the sandwich.

  More time passed.

  I slept.

  I woke with a raging thirst. I’d slept with my mouth open, my crushed nose not clear enough to breath through. My lips were cracked. I held up the CamelBak and shook it at the video camera. No one came.

  More time passed.

  I recognized the signs of serious dehydration. I hadn’t urinated for long hours. The last time I had, I was only able to coax out a thick yellow dribble. My lips and throat were cracked and I was aware of the confusion that comes with advanced dehydration.

  I’d been off my meds for at least two days.

  After a long dreamy while, I heard the thump of feet on the floor above. Armando came down the stairs.

  “A little dry, man?” he said. “Those motherfuckers were supposed to give you water and food. They sat up there and watched you for laughs. Can’t blame them. You fucked Petey up good with that little knife of yours. But we got some good doctors, fixed us right up.”

  He picked up the CamelBak. “I’ll get you a drink, Frankie. I want you fresh when she’s ready to talk to you.”

  He went upstairs.

  She.

  I wondered when she would come. Maybe she was already here, watching me through the camera. Maybe she was studying my face in the monitor, looking for…what?

  I didn’t know.

  It was something to look forward to. Something to fight against.

  I slumped forward. The neck manacle bit into the folds of my neck. The dark substance on the manacles was dried blood. Someone else had slumped in these chains and tugged at them till they bled. Even if I’d had a pick, the manacles were locked with a rotary key. They were expensive custom made jobs, probably from a German or Belgian “security equipment” company. The kind of company that made a fortune manufacturing torture instruments for Latin and Middle Eastern and African countries. They made good products.

  Armando was gone for a long time.

  I waited. And while I waited I had a waking dream: I heard the dim sound of far off voices, not in the house, from somewhere else. I felt a stab of fear as I remembered my break down, how the hum of a refrigerator or a television voice had become a chorus of mocking voices, rising and falling with an insane melody. I could sense that din slowly growing and building, and out of that I heard a voice calling me.

  Frank, Frank, where are you? Come up to us, Frank…

  It seemed familiar. I could no longer tell.

 
; v.

  Armando came back. He might have been gone an hour, he might have been gone a day. I couldn’t tell. He dropped the bulging bladder in my lap and watched with amusement as I fumbled with the hose.

  “I pissed in that,” he said. “I don’t think you care now. You’d probably suck my dick for the wet.”

  I took the hose between my teeth and drank and drank, the water cool in my mouth. I drained half the bladder.

  “Where is she?” I said.

  Armando shook his head. “You’re very cool, Frankie. I like that about you. You got cojones, I give you that, man.”

  He squatted beside me so he could look me in the face. “A little while longer, Frankie. But before she comes we got to clean you up. You stink, man. Piss and shit. Even a little fear. I can smell that just like a dog. You don’t know what fear is yet, man.”

  I drank more water.

  He laughed. “So very fucking cool. I like that.”

  He left. I sucked down more water. It was a two-quart bladder and I’d drank over half of it. The water filtered to the dry places inside me. I studied my hand, fascinated by the dry skin and the subtle pulse of the vein on the back.

  My head was clearing.

  But there was still the growing buzz of far off voices.

  vi.

  Some time later the stairs creaked beneath three sets of feet. Armando, Petey Potato Face and Leroy arrayed themselves in a half-circle in front of me. Armando carried a long barreled .357 Colt Python loosely in his unbandaged hand. Leroy held a coiled garden hose.

  “Hola, amigo,” Armando said. “Time for a bath.”

  Leroy laughed. He went to a corner behind me and fastened the hose to a faucet I couldn’t see. Petey stood over me. The heavy bulk of him radiated heat.

  “Hey, asshole. Look at me,” Petey said. “I’m going to fuck you in the ass when she’s through with you.”

  I looked up at him.

  “You fight, I’ll cut you like you cut me,” he said. He took out a pair of EMT shears. Armando stood to one side, the revolver ready in his hand. Leroy stood beside him. Petey shoved my head back against the post, then cut my polo shirt right down the front all the way to my Levis, then cut into the pants. It took him longer to cut the ragged shreds of my clothing off me than it would have taken to uncuff me and let me do it, but they weren’t taking any chances. Leroy went up the stairs and returned with a plastic bucket full of sudsy water and a long handled toilet brush. Petey took the hose and sprayed icy water all over me, concentrating on my penis and buttocks.

  “You’re shrinking, Frank!” Petey said.

  Leroy swabbed the toilet brush around in the bucket and came for me. I raised my hands.

  “No, no!” Armando chided. “You’re going to get shot, Frankie. Be cool like you have been. Leroy, let him do it. You don’t want to wash no man. He’s not one of the pretty little bitches. Let him do it.”

  Leroy moved the bucket closer and stepped back. The soapy water was warm and smelled of disinfectant. I soaped myself and reveled in the sense of warm and clean, then trembled in the cold water as Petey rinsed me off. I stood in a muddy puddle and my feet and ankles were splashed with mud. The three men stared at me.

  “So what now?” I said.

  “He speaks!” Armando said. “I thought I’d shut you up for good.”

  I was cold. Goose pimples dimpled my skin. “Clothe me or shoot me. I don’t give a fuck.”

  “You are a cool character, Frankie,” Armando said. “You want to come in out of the cold? You’re going to have to behave. See, we’re going to have to take the manacles off to get you dressed, get you out of the mud. You’re a tough guy, you’ll have thought about this already and you’re thinking this is the only chance I’m going to get. So you’ll play the hero, go for the gun, try to take us out. Isn’t that how it goes? But we’re not going to play that shit. You’re going to get dressed and then you’re going to come upstairs and have a nice meal. You pull any bullshit, I got permission to kill you. But I won’t. I’ll put a bullet in your spine and keep you around to ass fuck till you die. You hear me?”

  “I hear you,” I said.

  The other men laughed.

  Leroy went back upstairs and returned with two towels, a set of mechanic’s overalls, a pair of Teva sandals – and a Remington 870 Police Model shotgun. Petey took the towels and clothing and Leroy racked the slide on the shotgun and pointed it at me.

  “Got a shotgun and a .357 here, Frankie. Don’t be a fool. Live long enough to find out what’s going on,” Armando said.

  Petey put the towels and clothes into a stack with the sandals on top. He handed the whole thing to me. “Hold these.”

  I took the bundle. Petey took out a rotary key and opened up all the manacles, then stepped back to give me plenty of room.

  “I need to get out of the mud,” I said.

  “Go over in the corner,” Armando said. He and Leroy positioned themselves where they each had clear shots at me.

  The cold mud squelched beneath my feet. I dried myself with one towel and then stood on it while I wiped my feet clean with the other. Then I stepped into the mechanic’s overalls. It fit well. Then I put on the sandals and snugged up the Velcro straps till they were secure. The sandals were the right size, too. I sized up the situation as I got dressed. I had no chance of getting to either gun before they cut me down.

  Go for it, Frank.

  The buzz in my head cleared for just an instant. But that wasn’t the thing to do.

  Not yet.

  “I see what you’re thinking,” Armando said. “Don’t go there. We just got you nice and clean, think how fucked up you’ll look with a hole in your chest.”

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  “Fucking Frankie, thinks he’s in charge,” Armando said. “What a hard lesson you got to learn.”

  He turned for the stairs. “You next, Frank. Remember that shotgun, right up your ass.”

  I followed him up the stairs, acutely aware of Leroy behind me, out of reach, the cocked shotgun aimed at the small of my back. We came up into a storage room, with walls of empty shelves, all of them conspicuously clean. There was a short hallway that led into a big, brightly lit kitchen complete with industrial oven and refrigerator. A big wood block table sat in the middle of the floor. Off to one side was a simple table with one chair. I stopped and looked around. There was a rack of chef’s knives on the wood block table.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Armando said. “I know how you like knives.”

  On the side table was a bowl of oatmeal, a small plate with wheat toast, and another plate with eight strips of bacon.

  “A nice breakfast,” Armando said. “Sit down and eat.”

  “Don’t mind the pubic hairs,” Leroy said.

  They laughed while they positioned themselves around me. Leroy kept the shotgun pointed directly at me. Armando let his revolver droop in his hand. I sat down and ate. The food was cold but I was starving. There were no windows in the kitchen, so I couldn’t tell if it was night or day.

  “Drink,” I said.

  “Bossy,” Armando said. He filled a glass with tap water from the sink and set it down on the table. He kept the barrel of the Colt in my ear while he did it. “Don’t forget my tip.”

  I washed the food down with the glass of water. I held the empty glass up. Armando filled it once more.

  “That’s all you get, Frankie. We don’t want you to wet the bed.”

  I finished my water, set the glass down, then folded my hands on the table.

  “Time to see your new room,” Armando said.

  They stepped back to cover me. Armando led the way through swinging doors that opened into a large and opulent dining room. We went through the dining room to a long corridor that passed by a living room with big picture windows that looked out on the dark of night. Then to the left down another long corridor with doors set at even intervals across from each other. At the end of the corridor were large double doors
. Armando stopped three doors from the end of the corridor.

  “This is you, Frank.”

  The door was made of painted metal and secured with a keypad locking plate over the knob. He punched in a combination, blocking my view with his body, then turned the handle and opened the door. I followed him in. It was a cell. The floor and walls were concrete. There was a stainless steel toilet stool and a small sink. A steel shelf protruded from the wall with a thin pad on it for a bed. A video camera was mounted in the upper corner where the ceiling met the wall.

  “Home sweet home for the time being,” Armando said. He backed out of the room. Leroy covered me with the shotgun. “Sweet dreams.”

  The door swung shut and locked with a solid sound.

  The cell was brightly lit from caged fluorescents set in the ceiling. The toilet worked, the tap water ran, the bed was soft enough. But what the hell were they doing with prison specification cells? I sat down on the bed and looked up at the camera monitor. There was a small speaker grille inset beside it.

  Where are you, Frank?

  It seemed as though it came from the speaker. But I knew it was in my head.

  Where are you, Frank?

  That was enough. I didn’t need that.

  The speaker crackled into life. “Hello, Frank.” Miss Emerald’s voice was slightly distorted from the speaker.

  I glared at the camera.

  “Are the accommodations not to your liking?” A distant tinkle of laughter.

  “No, they’re not. Maybe you could do something about that.”

  More laughter. I hated that sound. “We’ll improve your situation in the near future.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to work for me.”

  “Interesting recruitment strategy.”

  “A human resources executive must have many tools in her tool box.”

  “One way of putting it.”

  “Yes.”

  “You crossed a line here. There’s no going back from this.”

  “I’m well aware of that, Frank. You should think through the options before you. I offer you something much more interesting and rewarding than writing articles for a few small magazines. Travel, money, sex…you can have all that.”