by J. E. Taylor
The agent’s eyes widened and he slammed on the brakes.
Priceless. Fucking priceless, Steve thought. He stood down, setting the safety on the gun and sliding it into his beltline. Without another look at the shaken agent, he headed into the cottage.
He changed into a pair of loose jeans and clipped the gun to the inside of his right calf. The other calf sported his grandfather’s hunting knife. His work boots covered the bulge when he stood, letting the pant legs fall. His handcuffs sat on the nightstand and he opened the drawer scooping up his badge before he swiped the handcuffs, tucking them both in the inside pocket of his brown suede jacket.
His jaw ached and he took a deep breath, unclenching his teeth.
I swear if he’s hurt you…
Steve looked at the ceiling of the cabin, stretched his fingers and cracked his neck, psyching himself into character. This had to be an academy award winning performance, otherwise he’d never find out what happened to Jennifer.
Stepping out of the cabin, Steve stopped. The agent had been bold enough to park next to Steve’s car. He leaned on his hood in the telltale FBI suit, his arms crossed and his eyes shielded by the FBI issued shades.
“Murphy wants you to stay put until he gets here.”
“Fuck you,” Steve said, and walked past him.
The agent grabbed Steve’s arm and Steve parried, twisting the agent’s arm and forcing him face first on the hood of the car. Steve kept the agent pinned and leaned in. “I’m not backing off. Tell Murphy he can throw me to the wolves when this is done, but for now, he’s gonna have to trust me. He knows damn well we don’t have an airtight case yet and I’m not waiting until we find my girlfriend’s body to get the son of a bitch.” He let go of the agent. “Tell him he can have my badge when this is through.” Steve walked to his car and got in, reached into the glove compartment, and handed the disc to the agent. Then he peeled out of the yard.
Pulling up to the fraternity, Steve sat in his car, staring at the Greek insignia for a moment, reigning in the wild beast pounding on the doors of his soul. At least he didn’t have to act like he was in a foul mood. He slammed the car door and stormed into the house, going straight to his room.
It only took a few minutes before knuckles rapped on his door and Steve closed his eyes, praying it wasn’t Bill because he wasn’t sure he could pull this off. Not with the angry beast roiling in his gut.
“What?” Steve snapped and yanked open the door.
Joe stood in the hallway and blinked, trying to hide his discomfort with concern. “You okay?”
Steve shrugged, staring out the window at the cemetery beyond the expansive yard. “She stood me up. No one has ever stood me up.”
“I’m sorry, dude. Women can be a little fickle.”
“Fickle? She’s not even answering my calls. I don’t know what the hell I did.” He crossed the room and sat on the bed. “Everything was fine when I left this morning.” He looked up at Joe wondering just how much he knew about what was going on.
“Come have a beer with us,” Joe said. “We’re talking to the pledges about the initiation ceremony.”
“What do you do for initiation?” Steve stood and followed him down the stairs, bracing himself at the sight of Bill.
“Camping. There’s an old creepy legend about a spot on the lake and we dare them to go take a picture. They’ve got to show us the Polaroid before we initiate them. Of course, that’s after we’ve told them all the gory details of the legend. The idea is to spook them enough to weed out the skittish ones.” He laughed as he rounded the corner and hopped down the stairs. “Let me grab you a beer.” He disappeared into the kitchen and Steve sat down as far away from Bill as the room allowed.
A few minutes later, Joe came out with a Corona with a slice of lime stuck in the neck of the bottle. He plugged it with his thumb and turned it upside down, watching the lime float to the bottom. Turning it right side up and handing the bottle to Steve he settled down with the remainder of his beer.
Steve took a swig, tasting an underlying bitterness, and held the bottle out to look at it. Glancing at Joe, he tried to place the taste but all that came to mind was witches and ancient taverns. “You sure this is okay?”
Joe nodded. “The limes are a little tart.” He downed his beer.
Following suit, Steve drained the beer and handed Joe the empty bottle. “I think I’m going to head back upstairs,” he said, “I’m not really in the mood for a party.” He stood and his stomach did a small flip and it took a second for his brain to catch up. “Shit,” he said and the room tilted. His gaze landed on Bill’s Cheshire grin just before his knees buckled.
“What the fuck did you give me?” Steve asked as the room slowly flowed in and out of focus like an amoeba and his muscles refused to listen to his mind’s orders. The faces elongated and flowed into psychedelic colors. He blinked in slow motion; the back of his eyelids took forever to come back up.
“Combo of Peyote and LSD and a roofie just because I don’t want a fight,” Bill said. “It should wear off in time for you to participate in our little ritual.”
“Son of a bitch,” Steve mumbled. His muscles felt like someone hung a two-ton weight on each wrist to the point he couldn’t lift his arms. A slow understanding took hold and he did his best to retain the glare in his gaze. “What did you do with her,” he whispered, but no one caught his question.
They were too busy stripping his jacket and shirt and holding him steady while others blindfolded him. A cool wet substance brushed against his chest and face and he was helpless to flinch away. Every muscle ignored his silent commands to fight, to strike out before it was too late, even when his wrists were bound together.
His brain fogged and the colors played on his eyelids, distracting him. Vague sensations on his skin dimmed, and numbness replaced it. Pink Floyd filled his head and he blinked his eyes open against the blindfold before they fluttered closed again. The music took physical shapes under his eyelids and he drifted, enamored with the colors and music.
* * * *
Bill dragged him out the back door, carrying his coat and shirt with them. Jennifer’s raspy scream filtered out the door as they dumped Steve into the crypt and tossed him into the middle of the pentacle painted on the floor. He slumped on the floor with the headphones and blindfold still in place, his lips moving, repeating the words screaming in his ears.
“What the hell did you do to him?” Jennifer screamed.
“Gave him a little cocktail,” Bill said, tossing Steve’s shirt and coat into the corner where her pocketbook lay. “And he will do just about anything we say once the initial paralysis wears off. See you in a few hours.” He grinned and left with her tied to the rock and Steve muttering on the floor like a drunken fool.
* * * *
The unsteady equilibrium stopped and the hard cold flooring made his muscles ache. Awareness settled in and he had to concentrate to get a feel of his surroundings. The imaginary colors still bloomed on his eyelids to the beat of the music drowning out all cognitive thought. His mind jumped from one thing to the next as fluidly as an Olympic gymnast did, until one word registered like a slap. Jennifer.
A fucking roofie. Shit, how long does this last? If he was this bad off, there would be no stopping whatever those assholes had in mind. His breath grew harsh under the blaring music pumping in his ears. Concentrating, he used the ground to dislodge the headphones and with each movement, a new swell of disorientation took hold. Roofies and LSD. Fuck.
The headset fell from his ears, thumping on the floor behind him. Music still blared from the speakers, filling the small space, but he caught another noise in the room and tilted his head. Soft sobs sounded from behind him, and his heart hit an adrenalin high, pumping blood faster through his system, his arms and legs throbbing in time with his heartbeat.
He rolled toward the noise, pinning his bound arms under his back. “Jesus-fucking-Christ,” he hissed and rolled back on his side, testing the bonds
that held his wrists together. A measure of relief flooded him when he realized his wrists had some give, meaning it was either rope or tape and not the metal of handcuffs.
“Jen, are we alone?” he asked, hoping he was right and it was indeed her in the room.
“Yes.”
Her sob sent both relief and fear through him, giving him a little more control over his faculties. He worked his wrists in small circles, forcing pressure against the bindings.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to get some slack so I can get my hands in front of me.”
“Why?”
“So I can cut whatever they tied me with.” Assuming I still have my knife. The thought produced a moment of panic and he put his forehead to the floor, breathing through the debilitating attack locking his muscles into painful knots.
“It’s duct tape,” Jennifer answered. “What the hell did they do to you?”
He sighed and continued the rolling of his wrists, stretching the tape. “They drugged me. I’m tripping on LSD, Peyote and roofies. At least that’s what they told me before I blacked out.”
“You’re high?”
“As a fucking kite,” he said and rolled onto his back and, pulling his knees to his chest, attempted to slide his wrists under his ass. His wrists caught at the back of his hips and he bellowed his frustration, pushing his seized muscles farther until he thought his shoulders were going to break. Just when he thought his arms wouldn’t budge any farther, they jerked forward, slamming into the back of his folded knees.
The exertion exhausted him and colors bloomed again, taking control of his concentration. He relaxed, laying his head back on the floor and concentrated on breathing. The colors swirled around him adding a spin to their hypnotic quality and his stomach followed suit, clenching and squeezing a moan from his throat.
“Are you okay?”
The concern in her voice cut through the fog and he shook his head. “No,” he said between clenched teeth, willing a lock-down on his stomach. When he was sure he wouldn’t vomit, he curled, using his knees to push the blindfold up onto his forehead.
Light blinded him and he clenched his eyes closed. Relaxing back on the floor and counting again. He blinked his eyes open, staring at a mural of Paradise Cove.
“Where are we?” His voice distorted in his own ears.
“In the cemetery,” Jennifer sniffled. “In one of the mausoleums.”
“That’s fucking morbid.” He ran his hands along his jeans, down his shins, and exhaled the breath he held in trepidation. His weapons were still there and the release of tension put the room into a tailspin. “Oh, Jesus,” he gagged, clamping his teeth together and swallowing the acid burning his esophagus.
When he closed his eyes this time, vivid visions of satanic rituals involving Jennifer danced across his eyelids, filling his entire form with a fear he couldn’t contain. The demon from his research chuckled in his ear and then drew closer to Jennifer, harmful intent in his form, and Steve growled, lunging forward in the dream before being backhanded into blackness.
“Steve!”
Her scream cut through the hallucination and he blinked his eyes open, disoriented. “God damn it,” he muttered, admonishing himself until his gaze landed on the bones on the wall. He stared, shock sending waves split through his head until her gentle sobs caught his attention.
He swung his head in the direction and all he could see was a wall of rock. “Jen?”
The scraping of chains filled the room and her face appeared briefly over the edge of the rock.
“What the hell?” he whispered and studied his surroundings a little closer. “Ah, fuck,” he swore and rocked into a sitting position. He almost fell back over from the head rush. “Whoa,” he whispered, trying to steady the sudden warp of the room. He glanced in her direction again, clearly making out the alter she was chained to.
He dropped his head to his knees, unable to consider the ramifications of their situation; instead, he concentrated on getting his pant leg up enough to access his hunting knife. Swirling colors in his peripheral vision kept distracting him from his goal and he bit down on the insane urge to giggle.
“What are you doing now?”
“I’ve got a knife,” Steve answered. The knife was now in view and he pulled it out of the sheath. It immediately clattered to the floor. “Shit,” he muttered and picked it back up.
“What…”
“Shush!” Steve interrupted. “I don’t want to slice my wrist open, so be quiet.” Ever so slowly, he ran the blade back and forth over the tape, intently concentrating. When the bindings finally gave, he closed his eyes and sat a moment, getting his bearings. Opening his eyes, he blew out a stream of air and tucked the knife back in the sheath, covering it with his pant leg again. Steve stripped the tape from his wrists and stood.
The world of swirling colors tipped and he lost his balance, side stepping until he slammed into the outer wall. He put his hand on the cool cement until the spinning stopped, and then he turned in her direction.
He was not prepared for the full view of her and his knees buckled, dropping him to the floor as devastation crushed his chest. The room wobbled as tears filled his eyes and he stood, stumbling toward her. “Oh, baby,” he whispered and picked up the chain holding her wrist, his dazed gaze transitioning from the bindings to her face and back.
Tears streamed down her cheeks. “He hurt me, Steve, and when they get back…” Her voice broke into choking sobs. “When they get back he said they all get to…” Another sob. “He said I’m Beta Theta Pi’s whore now.”
Her words cut through the drugs and Steve tensed, his hand clenching around the metal. His mind reeling and the words surfaced, bringing her back into focus. “How did he hurt you?” His voice low and deadly, matching the fury lining his cobalt eyes.
“He hit me and he…” She looked up at the ceiling, trying to find the right words.
“Did he rape you?”
“No, not the way you’re thinking. He molested me, here and the night I had the dream about you. He took advantage of me on the couch while I was asleep.” Tears filled her eyes as she met his gaze. “But he’s going to. They all are going to.”
“Over my dead body,” he growled watching the slow track of tears leak from her eyes.
The full force of her words crashed down on him like a wrecking ball and his legs wobbled under him. The drugs crumbled what little composure he had and he fell to the floor under the hurricane brewing in his heart and soul. Anger, devastation, fury, sorrow, rage, and grief alternated, sweeping through him at an unparalleled speed. His harsh sobs echoed in the chamber in between curses and vows of violence spewing from him, drowning out the music still pumping from the headset.
Shadows danced on the floor, catching his attention, and his sobs caught in his throat. “I’m sorry, Jen,” he said, pulling himself to his feet and wiping his face.
Jennifer smiled a little. “It’s okay,” she said.
Steve shook his head. Even as high as he was, he knew it was definitely not okay. “It is as far away from okay as it gets. I need to sober up and get you out of here before it’s too late.” He scanned her naked form, unable to contemplate what would happen if he couldn’t. “What time is it?” he asked, holding his watch out for her to look at.
“Almost seven,” Jennifer answered. “It’ll be dark in a couple of hours.” She looked up at the stain glass window.
“Jesus, you’re telling me I lost six and a half hours?” The room tilted.
“I thought you were dead when they first brought you in,” she whispered and her voice hitched.
He cradled her cheek in his hand, the mere touch sent tendrils of fire through him. “I told you, I’m not dying today and neither are you.” He scanned the room again and his gaze landed on his coat. He stumbled forward and stood over the crumpled material. He clean missed the fabric, jamming his fingers into the floor on his first attempt to pick up the coat. “Damn it,” h
e muttered and tried again, this time fabric scrunched in his fist and he fumbled with the coat, finding the zipped interior pocket. The zipper proved difficult and the coat dropped from his grip.
A giggle caught his attention and he glanced at her. “I know, I must be a walking comedy show right now,” he smiled in her direction and then focused back on his jacket. This time he was successful and he felt around in the pocket for his cell, but only his badge and wallet were still inside. “Fuck!”
He closed his eyes and focused, fumbling with the other pockets until his hand clamped down on a small square object. He yanked his cell out of the pocket and grinned, holding in the air like a prize. His euphoria vanished the moment he flipped the phone open. Nothing happened. He pushed the on button and the phone turned on, but immediately blinked off.
“Shit,” he said, and looked at the phone again. “It’s dead.” He turned and kicked the headphones, sending them sailing across the room where they smashed into the wall and were silent.
“Check mine. It rang a few times earlier. It’s in my pocketbook on the floor.” She pointed her chin in the direction.
Steve picked up her purse and dumped it on the floor. He knelt staring at the swirling contents. Bright colors leapt out at him, capturing his attention.
“Steve!” she yelled sharply catapulting him back to reality.
Steve nodded and reached for the cell phone. He missed and glanced at Jennifer. “I’m surprised the combination of drugs didn’t kill me,” he said, “Especially since I’m still having real problems after six hours.” He tried again and this time he succeeded in grasping the phone. “I can’t see the numbers,” he muttered and just pressed redial, holding the phone to his ear and hoping it wasn’t calling his phone.
“Jen?” Tracy’s voice filled the line.
“Hey, Tracy,” Steve said and heard the shuffle of the phone.
“Hey, Steve, how’s it going?” Bill asked.
Steve didn’t react at first, but his blood pumped with poisonous venom. He stared at Jennifer. “I’m going to kill you, you son of a bitch,” he growled into the phone.
