by Cat Mann
****
Little by little consciousness returned and I came to, feeling groggy, head spinning. With it came the certainty that I had been drugged. My thoughts were incoherent and jumbled. There was a dull ache all throughout my body. My eyesight was fuzzy and I blinked several times before being able to make out that I was in a dark basement of some sort. The cement floor was cold, dirty and damp. A small, rectangular window near the ceiling let in the moonlight.
The basement was empty except for a small TV plugged into a corner wall across from me. I was on the floor, my feet tied together with rope. My hands were cuffed around the pipes of a water heater and my mouth was covered in duct tape. There was nothing that hinted of escape anywhere within view.
“Ah, Ava, I was beginning to worry that you actually might not wake up.”
I turned my head, startled, and saw a large, middle-aged man standing before me. He was bald on top and his belly protruded somewhat over his belt. He smelled of sweat and cigars.
“No need for introductions. I’m sure you know who I am and why you are here,” he spoke with a slight European accent. “I am just so pleased, Ava, that I get to be the one to kill you. I cannot wait to watch you beg, plead and cry. Mostly I cannot wait to watch you die.”
His eyes twinkled with delight.
“It’s a shame, for you, that you killed my brothers. You will pay for each one of them, Ava, I can assure you. Really, you would have done better to let them finish what they planned for you eight months ago. You might have been able to avoid the torture I have in mind for you now.”
My mind was going a million miles an hour. My eyes were wide. My mouth was dry and every muscle in my body was clenched tight.
I am going to die.
No. 6 took out a nine mm revolver and brushed the cold barrel against my cheek.
“Do you like games, Ava? Wait,” he said putting the barrel over the tape on my lips, “don’t answer that, because I don’t give a damn what you like. But before I kill you we are going to play a few games. We’ll start with a little video I want you to watch.”
I swallowed hard, my brain racing as I tried to plan a way to escape, but I came up empty handed. I was stuck. There was nothing I could use to break free and no way I could overpower No. 6 to get his gun. I was going to die in this basement and Ari would never find my body. He and I would never laugh, never touch, never kiss again.
No. 6 walked the short distance to the TV in the corner, and turned it on. There was Ari. My first thought was that No. 6 had kidnapped Ari, too, but as the TV picture came in clearer, I let out a sigh of relief. Ari was at home, in our living room, sitting on a chair. His family surrounded him. He was on the news talking with a reporter, Celina Sanchez.
Celina began her report.
“Ava Alexander, formally Ava Baio, granddaughter of fashion icon Margaux Baio, was reported missing yesterday afternoon. Foul play is suspected. It is believed that Ava’s captor is Damien Kakos, the last known of six Kakos brothers, five of whom have died in mysterious accidents this year. Damien is currently on the FBI’s most-wanted list, for murder. Ava was involved in averting a kidnapping earlier this year that involved two of the now deceased Kakos brothers. Their bodies were found in the harbor, here in Dana Point, New Year’s Day.
“Time is of the essence in this matter,” Celina continued. “Damien Kakos is believed to be armed and extremely dangerous. Ava was last seen running at two o’clock yesterday afternoon along the southern edge of Dana Point beach. If anyone knows anything or has seen something involving her kidnapping, please report it to the police immediately.
“Beside me is Ava’s husband of only three days, Ari Alexander. Ari, if Ava or her captor are out there listening, what do you want to say to them?”
Ari was pale and tired looking. He opened his mouth to talk, then stopped to regain his composure.
“Ava, I love you.” Tears streamed down both his cheeks and mine. Ari was so exposed, so broken. “I am going to find you, Ava. I won’t ever stop. You have my heart; I can’t live without it. I can’t live without you.”
“Any words for Damien, Ari?”
“Please,” he begged, “let her go. Take me instead, please.”
No. 6 shut off the TV and turned back towards me with a wicked, sleazy smile.
“Ava, do you remember how you killed my first brother? You shot him in the head; blew his brains out.” His smile grew larger.
“Well, that’s what I am going to do to you. Only I can’t decide if I am ready to let you die yet or not. Have you heard of a game called Russian roulette? I’m sure you have. See, I’m going to take this one bullet and put it in a chamber. One bullet in the gun; your odds aren’t bad,” he mused.
“Then I am going to spin it like this,” he said, spinning the cylinder with his fat fingers. “Then I am going to aim it right here.” No. 6 held the barrel up to my temple and beads of sweat began to trickle their way down my face. I screamed through my duct tape and pulled at the handcuffs, but in vain.
No. 6 took the gun off my temple.
“You seem scared, Ava. If you don’t like my games, let me know and I will do as your husband requests. I will take him and let you go, just like that. At any point, if you choose to switch places with him, I’ll take care of it. I know right where he is.”
I frantically shook my head no and screamed, “Just shoot,” through my closed mouth.
“Oh goody, I like your spunk, Ava; I hope you live past this first little game. I really do,” he said, as he put the barrel back to my temple. My head flooded with thoughts of Ari. I wanted him to be the last thing I saw before I died. No. 6 pulled the trigger and I heard the click.
Nothing. The bullet had been in a different chamber. I let out a shaky breath and sobbed. My tears mixed with sweat and ran down my face. No. 6’s smile was sadistic and scary.
He got up and turned the TV back on.
“It’s on a loop,” he said cheerily. It can run all night, just to keep you company.”
He left me down in the basement tied up. I heard his fat feet pounding the floorboards above me. He was on the phone, talking with someone, telling the person on the other line about me, the gun and my cries. He almost seemed nervous. Who could make him feel nervous? I wondered briefly.
I sat in the dark, damp basement and stared out at the moonlight coming in through the little window on the far wall. The moon was full and luminous. It was taunting me, emphasizing the loss of my freedom, which was just beyond my reach. I was so scared, desperate and frantic. I kept trying to tell myself to think. Just think! but it was useless, there was nothing to think about. I could hardly move and I had no way to save myself. The only thing I had to cling on to was hope, the hope that Ari would find me. There was nothing left that I had any control over. Time dragged on and No. 6’s footsteps as he paced the floor above ebbed and then stopped. At some point, my sobbing pushed me over the edge to exhaustion and I succumbed to sleep.
I was awakened in what must have been mid-morning by No. 6 tying a noose at one end of a heavy rope.
“Ah, Ava!” No. 6 exclaimed cheerfully. His eyes had a wicked gleam to them. He clapped his hands together.
“Day two! This game is going to be such a fun one! First, let’s see what Ari said today.”
He turned the TV on to show Ari and his family, along with Margaux and August, at a press conference, begging for my safe return. A huge reward was being offered for any news that would lead to my freedom. Detective Scott assured listeners that they were doing everything they could to find and rescue me.
“Don’t entertain any false hope, Ava; they’ll never find you,” No. 6 interjected. “You are going to die here; I promise you that.” He smiled broadly as he came over to me holding the gun in his hands.
He untied the rope around my feet and ordered me to stand. My legs were weak and stiff, but I did as he said. He unlocked the handcuffs, just long enough for me to separate myself from the water heater, then re
-cuffed them back behind my back. My wrists were raw and tender. A few of my fingers were cold from the loss of circulation. He ordered me to stand on a stool that was directly below his hand-tied noose.
“Ava, you hanged my second brother. That was a sick and twisted thing to do,” No. 6 said with a tsk, as he tapped his greasy, sausage-like finger on the side of my head.
“You are going to have to pay for what you did to him,” he added through gritted teeth, then turned nonchalantly and added, “unless you want your hubby to do it for you. My offer still stands.”
I shook my head no and, after Damien slipped the noose over my head, he motioned to me to climb up on the stool. Without the use of my arms for balance, though, I simply couldn’t do it.
“Stupid bitch,” I heard Damien mutter and in the end, he had to help me. Finally I was on the stool with my feet as far apart as possible, my body swaying a little to keep my balance and the noose resting heavily on my chest. No. 6 threw the other end of the rope up and over a wooden joist above us and pulled the rope until the noose was tight around my neck. He secured it to an iron ring embedded in the wall behind him. If the stool fell over or if I lost my balance, my neck would break.
“Now listen, Ava … you stand on that stool all day and if you are still on it when night falls, I will come and let you down. If you squirm or scream, that stool’s gonna tip or crack. And remember, if at any point you feel hopeless, as if you can’t handle any more standing on the stool, do yourself a favor and just kick it aside. Your death will be quick and painless; you remember how long it took my brother to die, I’m sure.”
Twelve torturous hours passed as I stood perched on that stool, my neck secured tightly in a rough rope noose, my wrists held firmly in metal handcuffs. My back screamed out in pain. The wobble of my knees got worse by the minute. Drops of blood oozing from the rope burns around my neck teased and tickled me all the way from my chest to my stomach. Images of Ari and me played on the TV all day. The national news showed pictures of us on our wedding day, candids of us in Montréal, and shots of us hanging out together on the deck in California.
News anchors and their crews sat around desks and talked about my life and my disappearance. Psychologists, police chiefs, anti-gun representatives and social commentators chatted back and forth in somber tones until I wished I could stick a leg down someone’s throat. The number for the police station flashed across the screen as the press repeated the story every hour. I wanted to scream at them, “I’m right here! Please, somebody!” It wasn’t long, though, before I tuned out all TV sounds and concentrated on the beating of my heart and the growing numbness of my calves. I was desperate and growing more broken and defeated by the minute.
Once again, I heard No. 6 as he talked to someone on the phone in what seemed to be a room directly above me. I heard him tell whoever was on the other end of the line that he had me tied up and that before too long I would probably just off myself. Responses echoed – the call obviously was on speakerphone – but the words were too muffled for me to make out what the other person was saying.
Worrying about exhaustion became less of a preoccupation as my body edged toward refusing to fight. My eyes kept fluttering closed and my legs became so weak that I could barely keep myself upright. At some point my bladder emptied and I felt the warm urine run down my legs. My body began relying more and more on the noose to stay upright. I pillowed my head on it and an inner voice kept telling me to let go, to accept the noose and let it end my life on earth.
Finally darkness fell, though, and with the rising of the moon, No. 6 came heavily down the stairs. He untied the rope and gestured at me to climb down; my numb legs gave out and I crunched down onto the cement floor like a rag doll. No. 6 reveled in my moment of weakness and kicked me repeatedly square in the ribs. I heard the crack of my ribs, my lungs begged for oxygen while tears rolled silently down my cheeks and mixed themselves up with my blood.
No. 6 laughed aloud and dragged my limp body back to the water heater. He undid my handcuffs and tied me back up, leaving my useless rubber legs un-done. He left me there as I cried myself to sleep.
When I awoke next, I had no way of knowing how long I had been unconscious. It could have been days, but it could have also been only hours. The window showed moonlight and I found myself faintly surprised that I had survived, that I was still alive and breathing. I had not had any water or food since my wedding day and I didn’t know how long ago that actually had been. I was weak but also disoriented and silly. My mind refused to focus and my nose itched like hell. I had to blink my eyes several times before No. 6 turned from a blur into a man. He un-locked the cuff from my left wrist, yanked my arm toward himself and pulled out a very long, thin, sharp looking knife.
“You must have thought you were pretty cute, Ava, having yourself tattooed like this,” he rapped on my tally marks with the sharp point of the knife. “Keeping tally of the people you killed,” he whispered. “My family.” Then, his face just inches from mine and his spittle showering me, he yelled, “Well, I bet there won’t be a tattoo for me, you stupid bitch!”
He took his knife and began to slice my wrist open, just to one side of the main vein. He made a jagged cut, creating his own tally mark of sorts. The pain was searing and intense but still surprisingly tolerable, almost as though I had entered a different body completely and was watching the scene from an aerial view. I looked down on myself and at Damien as he worked on my arm. Slowly he moved the blade until he had made a two-and-a-half-inch gash up my wrist. Blood oozed out surprisingly quick and started forming little pools on the cement beneath me. There was so much blood on the floor and soaking into my clothes that I didn’t see how I could survive. I was sure I had finally reached the end. This is how I am going to die. I squeezed my eyes shut, filling my thoughts of Ari as I slipped away into unconsciousness.
