by Mark Gimenez
The big man snorts like a bull and a stream of smoke comes out both nostrils. “Not as dangerous as me, pissed off as I get when I don’t smoke.”
He has a point, Gracie figures.
He flips a Twinkie back to her; it lands on the green blanket. Yuk, it isn’t even individually wrapped! It’s probably covered with cooties.
Still, she is hungry.
She pushes herself up, careful to keep the blanket wrapped around her, even though the Under Armour shorts and tee shirt cover her up. Her head feels heavy. She’s in a sports utility vehicle, a real POS: no plush leather seats or cherrywood trim, no Harmon Kardon stereo system or color-coordinated carpet, no TV built into the dash like Dad’s new Range Rover, and no CD player. This SUV is old and has bench seats instead of buckets, and crushed beer cans and cigarette butts and wadded-up fast food bags on the bare metal floorboards, the head liner is drooping in several places, and it sure as heck doesn’t have a heater that works.
She looks outside. They’re in a Wal-Mart parking lot, a long way from home. She recognizes the yellow license plates on the other cars, just like the ones on Ben’s Jeep.
They’re in New Mexico.
Gracie picks up the Twinkie and realizes she is not tied up. Her arms and legs are free. She scarfs down the Twinkie in three big bites.
“Um, you got another one of those?” she asks the big man before she’s swallowed the last bite.
He turns back in his seat and leans over. Gracie jumps to the door and yanks frantically on the handle. Nothing. To the other door. Nothing. The big man turns back and flips another Twinkie at her.
“Don’t bother, honey. Doors don’t open from inside. We ain’t stupid.”
Gracie considers debating that point with him, but she decides against it. She checks out the nearby cars. Maybe she can get someone’s attention, bang on the window and scream for help. But there is no one … except the blond man carrying a brown bag and walking toward his POS SUV with the kidnapped girl in it.
He doesn’t look much older than the boys on the high school football team. Dad took her and Sam to the big homecoming game last season; the blond man is cute enough to be the homecoming king, except he’s wearing a plaid shirt that looks like Dad’s pajamas. Homecoming kings don’t wear plaid.
He walks to the front of the SUV and lifts the hood. Smoke billows out. He steps back and waves his hand at the smoke like Dad when he tries to barbecue, then he ducks back under. After a minute, he slams the hood down and flings a yellow container aside. Wow, he doesn’t even recycle.
The blond man wipes his hands on his shirt, gets in the car with the bag, and says, “Ten goddamn quarts and we ain’t even halfway home.” He tosses a carton of cigarettes to the big man, who immediately tears into them like Dad into a new bag of Oreos. He then hands the bag back to Gracie. One of his fingers is just a nub. She empties the bag: pink sweats.
She sighs. “Well, kidnapping me is bad enough, but now my mom’s really going to be PO’d at you.”
“Why’s that?” the blond man asks.
“Making me wear clothes from Wal-Mart.”
The blond man chuckles as he puts the car into gear and drives out of the parking lot and back onto Highway 666 North, the sign says.
“Which reminds me—did you like, rape me or something?”
The vehicle suddenly swerves off the road without slowing down, sending the big man’s cigarettes flying—“Jesus Christ!” he says—and Gracie to the seat. The blond man slams on the brakes, stops the car, and practically climbs over the back of his seat. His face is red. He points the three fingers of his right hand at her.
“You think I would do that to you? You think I would let anyone do that to you? You’re pure and you’re gonna stay pure! Anyone tries to dirty you, I’ll kill him!”
She sat up. “You took my uniform.”
“I didn’t look! And you’re wearing them funny underwear, can’t see nothing anyhow. I put you in that blanket real fast.”
“Then why?”
“To throw the Feds off our trail. They ain’t never gonna take you back, Patty.”
“Patty? My name is Gracie. Don’t tell me you two morons kidnapped the wrong girl?”
“No, we got the right girl,” the blond man says, turning back in his seat. “That’s your name now.”
And Gracie wonders why …
… The old man at the gas station is looking at their SUV kind of funny. He has a nice face. He’s standing on the other side of the gas pumps, shaking his head, gesturing at their SUV, and saying something to the big man, who’s smoking even though the sign says no smoking. The SUV’s hood is up. The engine must really be on fire now because an even bigger cloud of black smoke hangs in the air under the bright tube lights above. Gracie is wearing the pink sweats now. She inches her head higher. She wants to scream, Help me!
“Stay down,” the blond man says.
Gracie lies back down. But the old man saw her. And she saw him.
They’re in Idaho …
… And her head is heavy again, murky images and noises all around her, and the thick cigarette smoke suffocates her. A bed in a room but not her bed and not her room. She remembers being carried in the blanket and the same funny wet smell and the same dizziness and unable to resist when they tied her hands and feet again. And sleeping and dreaming and drifting in and out of dark and light for what seems like days, the TV blaring nonstop and mixing with men’s voices and the smell of—tacos?—and wondering if they will ever go to sleep.
“Me, I wouldn’t never win a million bucks, them questions is real hard.”
“That’s ’cause you ain’t never watched TV, boy.”
“That big guy right there, they call him Hoss—”
“Bonanza?”
“Why they got so many Mexican channels in Idaho?”
“Go to sleep.”
Laughter.
“That Elmo, he’s a funny sumbitch!”
“Shut up.”
“Gilligan’s always messing up and—”
“Shut the fuck up!”
“That guy there, he’s a doctor and he’s married to her, but he’s screwing the blonde, and—”
“Soaps? Boy, you like a kid with a new toy.”
“Hey, Patty’s on the news!”
“This here show, they put them people on a deserted island, see, then they vote one off each week. Last one left wins a buncha money. Was me, I’d tell them motherfuckers they vote me off I kill ’em.”
“I always liked that about you.”
“Paper says they arrested Jennings last night.”
“Good. The truck’s fixed, let’s hit the road.”
Now they’re back in the POS SUV and Gracie’s lying across the back seat and her eyes droop until …
… She opens her eyes to a greasy face pressed against the window and grinning in at her with several teeth missing.
“She’s a cutie,” he says.
“Get the shit loaded, Dirt,” the blond man says.
When the man called Dirt moves away, his face leaves a big smudge mark on the window glass. The rear hatch and tailgate open and the men push in green metal boxes with long shiny metal containers inside and letters on the side—USAF—and a word she had never seen before—NAPALM—then cover them with a heavy tarp.
“And the brass wonders why their inventory never comes out right,” the man with the missing teeth says.
They all laugh like he’s Jay Leno or something …
… And now she’s lying on a small bed in a small room in a small house. The sheets stink of foul body odor. She’ll have to bathe for a week to get this smell off. They think she’s asleep. She tiptoes to the door and peeks out. The two men are in the big room with another man with red hair who’s holding a long black rifle with a telescope on it and caressing it like a girlfriend. They’re drinking beer and smoking and laughing.
The big man says, “That red hair, ain’t no one gonna believe you’re some Muslim rag
head.”
“Don’t matter none,” the man with red hair says. “FBI ain’t never gonna find me. Hell, they can’t find their butts with both hands.”
The big man points a thumb at her room and says, “What does the girl say, Junior? ‘Like, duh.’ ”
They all laugh again; then they get real quiet and the big man says, “Easter Sunday, Red. Don’t fuck it up.”
Gracie goes back to the bed and lies down and thinks, Isn’t Easter Sunday this Sunday? …
… She sees a sign that says Cheyenne, Wyoming.
She’s lying on the back seat of the car again; the two men up front seem happy.
The big man says, “You believe that sumbitch give himself a necktie? Goddamn, we are home free, podna.”
“So can we go through Yellowstone?” the blond man asks. “That’d be real neat for Patty to see.”
“Why sure, Junior. And after that we’ll take her down to Disneyland.” The big man looks at the blond man he calls Junior like he’s nuts; he exhales smoke and says, “This ain’t no fucking family vacation!”
Family? Did this Junior guy take her to be his …
… Gracie is cold. Her body is shivering uncontrollably. She is all alone. And so terribly afraid. She starts crying. She can’t hold it back any longer. But just when she’s about to lose it big time, she sees him, high up in the sky, floating under a white parachute. And he sees her. Coming closer now, the green beret, the uniform, the medals glistening in the bright sunlight, just like the picture on her desk.
Save me, Ben.
He is coming.
And for the first time since she was taken, she is no longer afraid …
8:51 A.M.
When Gracie woke, she was shivering. She had kicked the scratchy green blanket off. She sat up, reached down, and pulled the blanket up to her neck. They were on the highway again, but the car wasn’t making funny noises anymore. The blond man was driving; the big man was smoking and reading a newspaper. Outside, the ground was covered with snow. Distant mountains taller than those in Taos rose high into the sky. Her head finally felt clear.
“Where are we?” she asked. “What day is it?”
“Well, good morning to you, sleepyhead,” the blond man named Junior said. “We’re in Montana, Patty. It’s Thursday.”
“Okay, just so you know? That Patty thing is really starting to annoy me.”
In the rearview mirror, she saw a thin smile cross Junior’s lips. She coughed. The car was filled with cigarette smoke. (Does the big man ever stop smoking?) She tried to lower her window, but it was stuck. She waved her hand to clear the air around her so she could breathe. She said to the big man, “Those things are cancer sticks. They can kill you.”
Without looking back, the big man said, “So can a nagging woman. Shut up!”
She stared at the back of his big head. “Nice attitude.” She noticed another smile from Junior in the rearview. They rode in silence until she said, “He’s coming.”
The big man tossed his newspaper back to her. “Ain’t no one coming for you, girlie. Your case is closed.”
Gracie picked up the paper and spread it out on her lap like at home when she read the sports pages after school. Her picture was on the front page; next to her was the picture of a blond man. He looked sad.
“I know him. He works for my dad.”
“Not no more he don’t.”
She read about her abduction, the search for her, and Mom’s reward offer. “You two Einsteins are passing up twenty-five million dollars to keep me? That seems way dumb.”
“Way dumb is right,” the big man said, and Junior gave him a quick look.
Gracie continued reading about her case, the investigation—hey, Dad’s IPO went through!—the arrest of the abductor, the abductor’s suicide, and her soccer shorts.
“You left my shorts in the woods? So everyone thinks I’m running around in my Under Armour? That is like, so totally disgusting.”
“Everyone thinks you’re dead,” the big man said.
Gracie read more. “They found my jersey in this guy’s truck? And my blood?”
“From your elbows,” Junior said. “Pretty smart, huh? I thought of that myself.”
“Oh, yeah, real smart. This guy killed himself.”
“That was just lucky. We set him up pretty good, but we was only hoping for a couple days’ head start. Didn’t figure on him hanging hisself. Now we’re home free.”
The story said this Jennings guy had hung himself in his jail cell, and the police had closed her case. Gracie Ann Brice was presumed dead. Her body would probably never be found now that the abductor had killed himself. Gracie didn’t understand: Why didn’t Jennings just tell the police that he didn’t take her? Why would he kill himself? It didn’t make much sense to her, but it didn’t change what she knew.
“No, you’re not. He’s still coming.”
Junior was shaking his head. “That wimp ain’t coming to save you just like he didn’t save you from that fucking asshole yelling ‘panty check’ at the game. Was me, I’d’ve shot the son of a bitch. I about did.”
Ms. Fist made an appearance. Gracie wanted to pummel Junior just like she had the snot. “First of all, numb-nut”—she wasn’t sure what that word meant, but she had heard a boy call another boy that at school and he didn’t like it—“don’t call my dad a wimp. He may be a doofus, God bless him, but he’s a genius, smarter than you two meatbots put together.”
Junior: “The hell’s a meatbot?”
“And second of all, he didn’t even hear the big creep. He was multitasking. And third of all, do you really think that’s appropriate language to use in front of a child?”
“Aw shit, I’m sorry, honey,” Junior said like he really meant it. “I won’t say them words no more.”
The big man turned in his seat to face Gracie. He wasn’t smiling. “I will. Listen up, sweet cheeks. If that boy calls himself your daddy’s smart enough to figure out Jennings didn’t take you and stupid enough to come looking for you, I’m gonna take my Bowie”—he held up what looked like an oversized steak knife—“and gut his scrawny ass from his dick to his neck and use his innards for bear bait, you understand? So sit back, enjoy the trip, and shut the fuck up!”
He was big and ugly and scary and he smelled bad. Gracie’s chin began quivering and her eyes watered. Just as she was on the verge of blubbering uncontrollably, she thought of her mother, the toughest, strongest, meanest person she knew. Gracie wasn’t like her mother, but it was in her genes—she could be if she needed to be. She recalled more of her mother’s advice: curse. Unexpected profanity from a woman, she had advised, intimidates men. Gracie remembered that word her mother often used when she thought Gracie wasn’t around and sometimes even when she was. She jutted her jaw out, leaned forward toward the big ugly scary stinking man, and enunciated each letter deliberately, which would have made Ms. Bradley, her English teacher, very proud.
“Fuck you.”
The big man gave her a hard look like he wanted to backhand her into next week, but Gracie’s chin held its ground; he abruptly broke into loud laughter.
“Where’d you learn to talk like that, girl?”
“My mother. She’s a lawyer.”
The two men looked at each other and shrugged. “Oh.”
“And FYI, A-hole—”
The big man just shook his big head. “You’re a piece a work, girlie. Makes me glad I didn’t have no brats—except maybe with some whores in Saigon.”
He thought that was funny.
“Anyway, FYI, I’m not talking about my dad. I’m talking about Ben.”
“And who the hell’s Ben?”
“My grandpa.”
The big man laughed again, even louder, and slapped Junior on the arm. “Her gramps.” He sucked on his cigarette like Sam sucking on a Slurpee, then he started coughing smoke like he was choking and his face got all red. “Damn angina.” He bent over and dug around and came back up with a pill bottle.
He put a little pill in his mouth.
Junior said, “No one’s coming for you, Patty. You’re dead.”
“Ben knows I’m alive.”
“How?”
“He just does.”
After a few minutes the red left the big man’s face. He threw his left arm over the seat back again and said, “Well, shit, Junior, gramps is coming to kill us all and save her sweet little ass. We might as well give her up right now.”
A stern voice, her best imitation of Elizabeth A. Brice, Attorney-At-Large: “Yes, you should. Because he’s on his way right now. And if you two idiots had the sense God gave dirt, you’d let me out of this car so he never catches up with you.”
“Well, sweet cheeks,” the big man said, “I ain’t gonna lose no sleep over your gramps coming after me.”
“You should. He’s got one of those, too.”
“One a what?”
He was looking right at her now. His eyes followed her hand as she extended it and pointed her finger at the big man’s tattoo, almost touching his gross arm.
“One of those.”
The big man’s eyebrows crunched down. “Your grandpa’s got a tattoo says ‘viper’?”
“Yep, he sure does.” She gestured behind her with her thumb. “And he’s somewhere back there right now, catching up fast.”
The big man’s eyes shot up; he stared out the back of the car, as if Ben were tailgating them. His face was different now.
Because Ben was coming.
9:28 A.M.
“We’re never gonna get to Idaho in this piece of shit!”
“Try it again!” Ben yelled from under the raised hood of the Jeep. John turned the ignition and pumped the gas pedal, filling the engine well with the smell of gasoline; the image of a Vietnamese child drenched in napalm flashed through Ben’s mind.
The jet had arrived in Albuquerque at 0900 local time. They had retrieved their bags and located the old Jeep in the parking lot. But the damn thing wouldn’t start again. Ben was under the hood and tweaking the carburetor, which usually worked. John was sitting in the Jeep, impatient and annoyed and becoming more of both by the minute.
Ben slammed the hood shut and came around to the driver’s side. John climbed over to the passenger’s seat. Ben got in, determined that the Jeep would start this time. He turned the ignition and pushed the accelerator to the floorboard.
