Into the Night

by Marin Montgomery

  As I take the first step, he reminds me to change the toilet paper and scrub the porcelain bowl. “Oh, and little girl, don’t think about using anything else to clean with besides the toothbrush and soap.”

  When I enter the bathroom, I turn on the barely-there light, the wattage so minimal that a flashlight could do a better job. Changing the toilet paper out of the bulk inventory stored near the cleaning supplies, I notice the trash can is full.

  There’s no mirror over the sink, so I can’t watch the hall behind me, but an imprint of it remains. The Mole probably removed it so I couldn’t use the glass to stab myself...or him, I think dryly.

  Getting on my hands and knees, I fill the pail up with soap and water, pretending to scrub the faded linoleum. I move closer to the trash can. Holding my breath, I rummage through the contents. A crumpled newspaper’s shoved in the bottom underneath a bunch of used tissue.

  The date’s in the upper left-hand corner in black print.

  Overwhelmed, my hand automatically grabs at my heart.

  The year makes me nauseous.

  It can’t be. It just can’t be.

  It’s 2004.

  I’ve been here over six years.

  Nervously, I scan the contents of the newspaper, glancing over my shoulder every few seconds. Buried between the obits and an editorial piece, there’s an article that catches my eye, about a college student who went missing six months ago. She’s been happily reunited with her family after a massive manhunt.

  Her name’s Charlene Meadows, aged twenty, from Long Island, New York.

  She was drinking at a bar, and the name sounds familiar.

  The Ocean Club.

  According to the paper, a bartender saw her stagger out after a night of drinking at 1 A.M. but claimed she was alone.

  Her friends mention a red-haired, freckle-faced, twenty something she was flirting with before they left to continue on to the next bar. Charlene insisted they go ahead, she would catch up, liking the guy enough to stay put.

  I almost disregard the article until one of the girls mention what they had done earlier in the day. The owners of the condo had left a guidebook with suggestions on water activities.

  They chose surf lessons.

  My heart rams in my chest, thudding sharply against my ribs. There are a million surf instructors, could Will Loomis be theirs?

  One friend sent Charlene a text at 12 A.M., she responded, saying she was still good at The Ocean Club. Assuming she went home with him, it wasn’t until the next afternoon when warning bells started going off with her friends. She hadn’t come back to the shared condo and her phone continued to go to voicemail, text messages showed undeliverable.

  No one could find her, or her cell phone and purse, it was like the night had swallowed her whole when she vanished.

  Distraught, her wealthy family offered a handsome reward to the tune of five hundred thousand dollars, begging for information. This was after the detectives had no leads and the case dried up for a couple months. Shortly after, a man found her naked and curled up in a fetal position, near a popular cliff diving spot on the island. She was near an entrance to a cave and would’ve been missed had she not been mewing loudly like an injured animal.

  Wobbling underneath me, my knees shake as I read the next paragraph.

  Charlene’s memories are vague, the night in question plucked from her memory, except when she wakes up, she’s a prisoner, tied to a bed in a small room. She has such traumatic PTSD that detectives glean little other information from her.

  With no recollection of the night she disappeared or her captor, the case goes cold.

  My heart plummets when they mention a couple of other missing girls that have never been found.

  Shockingly, my name’s absent from the list.

  Silently crying, my tears slide into the pail, my existence in question.

  Doesn’t anyone care I’m still missing? I want to pound the dirty floor with my fists.

  Digging through the rest of the trash, it’s mainly strips of toilet paper, tissue, and gum wrappers. I find a broken shoelace and an apple core. At the bottom is a torn, cream-colored business card for a car dealership in Honolulu. It has a salesman’s name on it.

  Dean Morgan of Island Chevy.

  This gives me renewed hope that I’m still close to where I was last seen.

  Frantic I’ll forget the information, I consider hiding the paper and business card on me, patting my baby doll dress for a place to disguise it.

  What about in the band of my white underwear?

  No, not a chance.

  It’s a certainty that he will find it when he either undresses me or makes me change in front of him.

  Practicing mnemonic devices to remember the girl and area, the car salesman and location, I scrub the floor with renewed perseverance, my tears now dry.

  At least I’m still on the island.

  When The Mole comes to retrieve me, humming another one of his annoying tunes, his blue eyes narrow as he checks my work.

  “You missed a spot.” He points at the back of the porcelain bowl.

  “That’s rust,” I explain. “It won’t come off.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” He takes a step forward, I move one back, shaking my head.

  “I didn’t think so.” He gives a menacing stare, his height lumbering over me.

  When he reaches a hand to yank me back towards the hall and the room, I begin to violently shake. It’s not because of his strong grip or his fingers digging into my neck. It’s the realization of how much time I’ve spent here and the other girls that went straight to their deaths, never given a shot at survival.

  Grunting, he rips my dress off and pushes me face down on the bed. “You see anything in the trash?” He pushes my head further into the mattress.

  “Huh?” I close my eyes. “What’re you talking about?”

  “There was a newspaper in the garbage.” He straddles me. “Read anything good?”

  I open my eyes, voice muffled. “What?”

  “You see the date?” He chuckles. “You see how long you’ve been here?” He runs his hands down my body, searching every crevice for signs I’m hiding something.

  “You’ve been discarded.” There’s a twinkle in his greenish eyes. “They don’t even mention you in that article about the poor missing girls.” He shrugs. “You’re dead to everyone. Lucky you have me, your own family doesn’t even look for you anymore.”

  He pinches my cheek, hard. “You’re dead to them.” He motions to the bathroom. “Garbage. Leftover trash.”

  Holding my pain and emotions in, I nod in agreement. “I know.”

  Cocking his head, he doesn’t expect this response from me. He’s not used to me submitting so easily.

  I sense disappointment in his body language.

  “If you didn’t save me, I’d have no one.” I give him a small smile. “Can we read a book tonight? I know you’re wondering what happens next.”

  This suggestion turns off a switch in him, the battle brewing in his head starts to calm, his touch softening.

  He must’ve forgotten about the business card or not known it was there.

  I haven’t prayed in a while, but I do that night.

  Thank God I left the paper and card where it belonged.

  The Mole tried to trick me, break me.

  It almost worked.

  29

  Bristol

  Over the next few years, I’m on my best behavior, following the rules the first time, stroking his ego, and doing chores before being asked.

  All in good time, I tell myself.

  The Mole shows up one afternoon, a smile glued to his face. “I have a surprise for you, little girl.”

  Not bones, I hope.

  It’s a plastic bag.

  I assume it’s a sweet treat, his usual reward of gummy bears or chocolate bars.

  It’s a caramel apple. I hate apples, even with caramel covering their nasty skin. He’s testin
g me, circling his prey, ready to attack if I don’t roll over.

  “Thank you.” I beam. “I can’t wait to eat this later.” It’s hard to say with a straight face as my stomach grumbles in protest.

  “How about now?” He gives me a sly look.

  “What about dinner?” I bite my lip. “I don’t want to ruin my appetite.”

  “This is in place of dinner.” The yellow tooth grins at me. “I thought you deserved something special.”

  “You are so thoughtful,” I spit out. “I’m not hungry right now. Mind if I save it for later?”

  “Actually, I do mind.” He reaches back in the bag. “I thought you could enjoy it with a book.”

  I can’t believe my eyes.

  He’s holding five books in his hand.

  Library books.

  All with bar codes and the actual library name stamped inside.

  “Eat first. I don’t want you to get the books sticky.” He’s impatient as he sits on the edge of the bed.

  Sliding onto the small chair, I start licking the caramel on the outside. The Mole’s tapping his foot, waiting for me to bite into the skin. In my rush, I crunch down hard, except it’s not a bite of apple that’s shooting pain, it’s my back tooth.

  “Shit.” I groan, letting a dirty word slip, my hand reaching inside my mouth.

  “What did you just say?” The Mole’s eyes bug out.

  “I hurt my tooth,” I mumble, feeling around, a bicuspid now loose.

  He abruptly stands. “No books.”

  “What?” I whisper, holding my cheek.

  “I’m taking them back.” He wags his finger at me. “You know better than to cuss.”

  “My tooth, I need a dentist.” I plead with my eyes as he shoves each book back in the plastic bag, one by one.

  “Guess you don’t deserve a special treat.” He closes the bag and sets it on the table. “Let me see your mouth.”

  “No, it’s okay.” I snap. The last thing I want is The Mole poking around, playing dentist.

  “Open up.” His tone brooks no argument.

  I try and scoot back in my seat. He jerks the chair, toppling me over.

  “Don’t fight me. You’ll never win.”

  He gives me a hard slap on the knee. “Now open up.” His fingers push their way into my gums, jabbing at the tissue.

  I’m tempted to bite down, the idea of clamping on his hairy fingers, causing pain to him, running through my mind.

  The consequences aren’t worth the action, I decide.

  He nimbly stretches my lips open, blinking rapidly at the detached tooth. “Don’t worry, I wanted to be a dentist.” As if his want of being one justifies his intent to practice on me.

  “Be right back,” he claps his hands.

  I’m still lying on my back, my feet in the air.

  When I hear the door click, I realize this is my shot.

  Sliding off the chair, I fumble for the plastic bag on the table. Pulling out one of the books, I notice the date on the check-out slip.

  It’s 2007.

  I don’t have time to let it sink in, instead I grab a blue magic marker that rolled under the table earlier. I scrawl a note on one of the pages.

  My name’s Bristol Bellamy and I was kidnapped in 1998.

  Please help me. I’m being held in a room in Honolulu but I don’t know where.

  It’s 2007 and I’m alive.

  Tell my family please.

  The key turns in the lock and frantic, I shove the book back in the bag, careful to keep my back turned to the camera. He might rewind the video and see I took a book out, but hopefully not that I wrote a note inside.

  A glass bottle’s in one hand, pliers, cotton, and a flashlight in the other.

  “This is gonna hurt.” He thrusts the vodka in the air. “We gotta remove the tooth.”

  “No, no, please.” I protest. “I’ll be okay. It’ll come out eventually. I’ll just keep wiggling it.”

  He stares at me, unconvinced.

  I hold my hands up. “Let’s just take a bath.”

  “We haven’t done anything to take a bath.” An evil gleam crosses his face. I’m at rock bottom if him violating my body sounds better than his idea of surgery.

  “Then what’re you waiting for?” I stand, starting to unbutton my denim dress.

  “Stop.” He holds up a forceful hand. “You’re not going to make me sin again.” He steps towards me. “You have two choices. Surgery or I put you in the box.” He squints at me. “I can’t promise you’ll be alive when you come out though.”

  We stare each other down, his blue eyes unblinking.

  I break eye contact first. “Surgery,” I murmur, the fight gone.

  He taps his nose three times. “I knew you'd make the right choice.” He pulls rubber gloves out of his back pocket. “Go sit on the bed. I’ll get everything ready just like a dentist would.”

  With a sinking feeling, I lay down on the mattress, hands folded across my chest, despising him. He hums his way around the room until he ends up at my side, his mouth sucking a peppermint.

  “Okay, first things first. You’ll take a shot of vodka now. Then one after.” He pauses to reconsider. “Actually, two now, two after.” He pours it directly in my mouth.

  Unprepared, I sputter as it burns down my throat.

  “This way you’ll hopefully pass out from the vodka and not the pain.”

  Petrified, I move my hands, gripping my upper arms, holding them tight. I can wrap my fingers, circling the width of them, my skin translucent and gaunt.

  I don’t want to close my eyes, wary of the ‘surgery’.

  I swallow the poison, my first drop in years since I was taken.

  It burns its way down, settling in an uneasy pit at the bottom of my stomach.

  “Round two.” His peppermint-laced breath hovers over me.

  Closing my eyes, I gag.

  He thrusts my chin back, clutching it. “Don’t spit it up.”

  My body convulses but The Mole ignores it. “Okay, now for the removal of your tooth.” He winks. “Should the Tooth Fairy pay you a visit?”

  He grabs the pillow and pushes it over my eyes, removing the sight of him. “Be a good girl and hold this tight,” he instructs. I don’t know if I should be relieved or terrified. I hold each end, arms pressing it over my lids.

  “Open your mouth wide,” he guides my mouth. “No, wider.”

  A hard object’s shoved in my mouth…what the…it’s the flashlight.

  “This reminds me of playing doctor with Marian,” he muses.

  My head starts to pound, the vodka making me dizzy and nauseous. Or maybe it’s a combination of both the alcohol and the back-alley surgery.

  What if I can’t hold still and I move while he’s removing my tooth? The thought fills me with dread. He could seriously injure me, leaving me without any medical help.

  My fingers tighten on the faded edges of the pillowcase, hugging it to my forehead.

  I barely have time to consider this when cold metal’s shoved in my mouth.

  Choking, he chastises me.

  “Shhh...don't fidget. I don’t want to cut half your face off.”

  So he’s considered this outcome too?

  He starts to hum, his gloved fingers feeling around inside my cheek. He’s playing with the tooth, yanking it back and forth.

  The pounding in my temple becomes a splitting headache. I can feel my face flushing, my temperature rising. Helplessly, I start to tremble.

  “Calm down, little girl.” The Mole strokes my earlobe, tracing his finger down my neck, latex on my skin making me shudder. “Marian used to listen to my heartbeat, the plastic stethoscope we had tickled, and then she would give me my yearly exam.”

  Something wet’s rubbed on my gums.

  It tingles, anesthetizing the spot – I realize it’s numbing cream.

  “I polished her teeth, or at least I pretended to, when we played dentist.” He pushes a wad of cotton in my cheek, hi
s fingers poking the ball into place. “We’d use toothpaste as the tooth polish.”

  With no warning, a sharp tug pulls at the tooth, the rusty pliers twisting it from the root, exiting my mouth in one quick motion, a twinge replacing the jagged hole.

  Blood, the taste metallic on my tongue, fills my mouth, soaking the cotton.

  My throat’s dry and I’m unable to swallow.

  Tears leak into the fabric pillowcase. The Mole starts speaking again, his pace rapid and indignant. “We had fun until she caught us. Then she locked her in the closet…this time for a couple of days.”

  Running my tongue over the void where the tooth was, jumbled thoughts twist in my head but I’m unable to speak.

  “I tried to sneak food to her, but Mother found out, and I had to eat kitty litter for a whole week.”

  Nervous laughter fills the silence that follows.

  The Mole’s going to lose control if I can’t calm him.

  Pushing the pillow off my forehead, I watch his facial expression as he examines his handiwork. His mouth gapes, the yellow tooth visible. Wrinkles form across his forehead, the lines around his eyes pronounced. He needs a haircut, the sandy blond shaggy on the sides.

  “Good girl.” He pats my cheek, handing me a cup of water to rinse with. “You were so brave.” He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket, wrapping the bloody tooth in it to take with him.

  “What’re you going to do with it?” I mumble.

  I know I should go back into character, thank him, build up the hero complex he’s imagining in his mind, but I can’t.

  He feeds me a pill that must be Vicodin or a similar type of strong pain med, his hands caressing my hair. “This’ll help you sleep,” he reassures me. “Let’s get you ready for bed.”

  “But what about Marian?” I ask. “What happened after she went in the closet that time?”

  He doesn’t respond, instead he moves, drifting out of focus.

  I start to repeat myself but something’s wrong, my vision blurs, numbness crawling up my body, leaving me paralyzed.

  Startled, he slaps me gently on the opposite cheek, calling my name. I can’t respond, I try forming words, nothing comes out.