I tell her about The Mole, the trade secrets I’ve learned.
“Do you know his name?”
“No. He’s never given me his first or last name.”
“Where did he take you from?”
“My hotel. But he was watching me earlier. I think The Ocean Club.”
“I haven’t heard of that place. I was at The Sandlot and the Island Breeze with a group of friends.” Bridget focuses on hatching a plan to break out. “We have to escape.” She taps a finger to her chin. “There’s gotta be a way to catch him off guard.”
“With two people, it should be a lot easier.” I give her a small smile. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“I’m not.” She gives me a gentle squeeze on the shoulder. “But I’m glad I’m not alone.”
She asks me lots of questions about the baby, but I’m pretty clueless about childbirth and what to expect. I just know what changes I’ve seen in my body.
At night, she rubs my feet or massages my back, trying to help me get comfortable as every position becomes awkward. “What do you think he’s going to do when you go into labor?”
“I don’t know. I’m trying not to think about it.”
“Will he let you keep the baby?” A look of horror crosses her face, “He won’t like kill it, will he? Or take it somewhere and dump it?”
To hear her vocalize what I’ve thought about so many nights makes me squirm with worry. I fear the unknown, his reaction to the baby unsettling to begin with. I don’t tell her how scared I am he’ll dump both of us in the ocean, the baby and I becoming fish food.
Nightmares plague my sleep as I get closer to the impending due date. She notices my discomfort and tries to re-focus my efforts on something else. To pass the hours, we play charades and make up word games, sometimes making up new definitions. Since her outburst, The Mole’s been firm on his resolve to not replace the damaged items.
This frustrates her enough that the next time he comes back, she’s polite and responsive, The Mole pleased with her change of heart.
We turn a corner, his visits continual, hands full of bags containing fruit and cereal, watered-down ramen, and oatmeal.
I can tell he’s pleased with her progress, bringing To Kill a Mockingbird on his next visit.
As he leaves, he stops in his tracks. “I also brought you a gift.” He gives me a light peck on the cheek. “I want you to try it on for me right now.”
Trying to heave myself up, my breathing ragged, I watch him sort through the bag he brought. Pulling out a long, white sheer nightgown, pink satin bow at the top, pink satin slippers for my feet, I shiver.
He lovingly caresses the fabric. “This is what you’ll wear tonight.” He adds, “and don’t forget the Baby Soft.”
Teetering to the dresser, I rub the perfume on. The scent becomes revolting the more my hormones shift. Pulling the nightgown over my head, the hem drags to the ground, the sleeves poufy and bell-shaped. I remove the credit card, ID, and cash out of the stocking, carefully covering it with my foot in the bottom of the pink slipper.
“Such a very special outfit for such a special day,” he claps his hands in excitement, “your burial outfit.”
I waddle to the red pail, vomiting a string of spit into the bottom. Nauseated, I wipe my hand across my mouth. Bridget’s sitting on the floor, staring at me in concern. The Mole looks repulsed, his back turned to me.
“Say goodbye, Bridget,” he tells her. “Thank her for helping you learn the ropes.” Her mouth drops in awe, realizing that this isn’t a semi-good-bye, but a permanent one.
She’s my replacement.
A new version, untouched by him, not carrying a child.
His child.
I walk over to where she sits. She stands to hug me, body trembling. Tears roll down her face as she buries her head in my shoulder.
“You’re my kindred spirit,” she whispers.
“Be strong.” I kiss her gently on the cheek. “You’ll be saved, I know it.” I squeeze her arm, willing myself to believe this, to place my belief in the words I say.
“How can you…” she starts to raise her voice, her anger directed at The Mole. Stepping back, I hold her at arm’s length, gesturing with a flick of my wrist over my throat.
There’s no point in her getting him riled up. It will only make it worse for me.
She stops, heeding my advice, her hand grasping my elbow as I turn to leave. I have to pull my fingers away from her death grip as she stares at me in trepidation.
The Mole watches our interaction with amusement, getting off on the fear in her eyes and the abandonment in mine.
“Let’s go, big girl.” He touches my shoulder, leading me to the door, out of the room and my prison. I give one last backwards glance to Bridget, her hands clasped in front of her as she watches us go.
Mustering up all the courage I can, I smile wide, wanting her last image of me to seem happy. We both know I’m not coming back, but I don’t want it to seem that way.
34
Bristol
Clasping my hand tightly, eyes blinded by darkness, the door slams shut behind us.
The key grinds in the lock, another victim to dispose of.
In the dank hallway, I lose my composure. “Wait,” I exclaim, “just wait.”
“There’s nothing more to say.” A look of sadness crosses his face. “You aren’t my little girl anymore.” He motions to the door. “She’s going to be my new Marian.”
I hiccup, frantically trying to think of a way to distract him.
I claw at his chest, trying to wrap my arms around his waist. “Can’t I help with Bridget?” I beg. “I can teach her everything she needs to know.”
Gently pushing me off him, he pulls the blindfold out of his back pocket, his eyes darting down to my swollen belly. “No,” he strokes my hair, “you’ve done a good job with her.” He glances down at me in surrender. “It’s impossible to manage both of you. More risk, less reward.” Binding my hands with duct tape, he shoves a wet rag in my mouth to stifle my questions from bubbling to the surface. He pulls the gray tape tight over my mouth. I stare at his facial mark, the strand growing longer, curling out of the follicle. He shakes his head, frowning. “This isn’t the right environment to raise a child.”
“If this hadn’t happened...” his voice drifts off. “You should’ve known better than to bring a baby into this.”
I’m surprised it didn't happen sooner. But I’m lucky my body rejected the idea – the starvation, the stress, and the fact he didn’t make it a habit all saved me from a quicker demise.
How many of them got pregnant, I wonder?
Probably all.
Unless he killed them first.
I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, reluctant, as if I’m navigating a gauntlet. Before I’m able to press my padded foot on a step, I become airborne, my breath whooshing out of my chest. Headfirst, I’m hanging over his shoulder, the woolly flannel of his shirt rubbing against my cheek, then rough denim.
Grunting, he stumbles for a second. “You're too heavy.” He pauses, regaining his balance.
We take a couple steps backward.
He turns, walking about ten feet.
I hear four beeps in quick succession before a shrill alarm goes off, his pace quickening until he stops, pressing another button.
He moves forward, a loud click and the sound of steel clanking shut. The floor moves out from under us, my weight still distributed unevenly over his shoulder. The sudden movement throws me off guard, my position awkward as I count three floors until there’s a beep and he slowly steps out.
A door opens and slams, followed by a breeze that rustles my hair.
Wanting to breathe it in, I can’t, the gag making it impossible.
Metal scratches against what must be a lock, then I’m pushed onto a seat, smooth hands strapping the seatbelt snugly around me, a door slamming to my right.
The rag tastes of sweat and moisture, my lips ch
apped around it. Being unable to see is terrifying to me, but also unable to speak, to communicate my fear, makes the isolation petrifying.
The other door cracks open, then whooshes shut. His seatbelt clicks into place, the engine turns and purrs, the radio abruptly goes silent.
“No music today,” he says, “but it’s a beautiful day out.”
I feel his hand fondle my belly.
Reeling in disgust, I shake my head.
Isn’t it nighttime?
He ignores my gesture. “I can’t wait until you can see it.” Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, he starts humming. “I’ve got a special place for you.”
I wonder where he’s taking me, if we’re going to the same cave or a new spot. I pray it’s where we already were and not a different place.
Frantically, I try and remember the cavern – it had an entrance that went straight to a walkway above the ocean.
All I know is this is my last chance at escaping. Whatever the outcome, I have to be ready to die for my potential freedom. My thoughts are slamming into each other, reality setting in –
I’ve been captive for almost a decade and now I’m going to die?
After all I’ve endured?
And pregnant, my baby without a chance at survival.
The baby’s foreign to me, it grows and kicks.
Internally, I’m terrified it will grow up to be him. I’m resentful at first, the fact his DNA could procreate, and angry at God for letting this happen.
My first trimester I hoped to miscarry, the circumstances dire for a child. I was terrified it would look like him, that I’d die giving birth, or that he’d deny me pre-natal care.
When I felt the first flutter in my belly, I lost a little apprehension. I started rubbing my belly, speaking to it, singing, reading, and daydreaming about being a mother.
You could say I even got a bit of baby fever, someone to talk to, look after, a purpose in this isolation.
By my last trimester, my fear had increased for the newborn’s safety, and my fury subsided. It’s a living, breathing miracle of life.
And I’m responsible for it.
For not letting The Mole hurt it.
But I don’t want to lose him or her.
And now, I won’t live to see childbirth. I’ll be thrown into the ocean to be eaten by sharks or die in a remote cavern.
Or maybe, my heart sinks, he’ll torture me, cutting me up or doing some crazy shit to me, pain he knows I can feel before I go unconscious.
He is, after all, a sick psychopathic Mole.
The drive before was terrifying and unknown. I imagined I'd be going somewhere better than the room. This time it’s ominous, my mouth tense around the spit-soaked rag.
We bounce over a rough road before hitting smooth terrain, the wheels squeaking in protest.
This can’t be it, I tell myself.
I’m desperate.
Are we speeding too fast?
Maybe a cop will pull him over. You always hear stories on the news about a dumb mistake a kidnapper or thief makes – they either leave incriminating evidence behind or get too cocky.
The Mole, for all his flaws, is not stupid.
Stay present, stay alert. I pinch myself.
“You getting tired?” I feel a nudge, then hear him chuckle. “Oh yeah, you can’t speak.” We spring over a pothole, another groan from the tires.
“Almost there. Then you can sleep.” His hand grazes my cheek. “You’ll feel better soon. Well-rested and able to dream.”
Mumbling, I cough, the rag sucked into my lungs.
“Careful,” he chastens. “You don’t want to choke to death. What good would you be to me then?” He pets my head, his fingers on my earlobe, tugging it gently.
I cringe, starting to shake as the vehicle slows down, crawling to a stop, then proceeding up a steep incline or hill.
Languid, my back sinks into the seat, thoughts starting to weave in and out of consciousness. Whatever the rag’s soaked in, it’s making me sleepy. Count, I instruct myself, play a game in your head. I start with one, the numbers blurred in my mind, jumbled together like the letters you shake during a Boggle game.
Again the truck halts before circling into a wide turn. I presume he’s twisting into a parking spot, the engine idling for a moment, humming before it shuts off.
Craning my neck, I listen for sounds – people speaking, birds, water rushing, anything that can save my life.
His door opens, thuds shut, and heavy footfalls on the ground as he makes his way around to my side. My hands are on my lap, the tape pulling at my wrists.
I move my hands to the side, fumbling for the lock.
“Not so fast.” He laughs, pulling open the passenger door. The seatbelt snaps off, his arms grab me under the armpits as he sets me down on the uneven pavement.
“Same as before. You’ll walk until I tell you to stop.”
I raise my arms in front of me, signaling I have a question.
“No need for words, the time for talking is over.” He clutches my hand, impatient.
I’m woozy, the steps feel awkward and cumbersome, his pace excruciatingly fast compared to mine. He tugs me along. I stumble, rocks and foliage nipping my heels, biting my legs underneath the nightgown.
The sole of the slippers is made for smooth surfaces, not for bumpy pebbles. Tripping, I feel myself hit the ground, my hands unable to pull myself back up. Staying on my knees, tears trickle down my lids. Snot drips down my nose, my lungs struggling to breathe as the panic sets in.
Without sight, I know I’m in some type of wilderness or outdoor area, but I have no sense of my surroundings.
Frightened, I cower, too scared to stand.
“Up,” he hisses.
I don’t move.
“I’m warning you…” A heavy object hits me in the chest with a thwack. I realize it’s his foot kicking me. “Get up now.”
His voice rises at the same time he pulls my hair. “I will drag you if you don’t get up now.” He’s forceful, causing me to lose my balance and fall backwards. He doesn’t let go, gripping my strands as tight as possible, the hair now falling past my shoulders, his breath hot in my ear.
My cheeks are soaked, perspiration dripping down my forehead. Adrenaline courses through my veins, fighting off the sinking feeling of whatever the rag’s covered in. I have to try. Think of your sister, your mom, your dad, I internally yell.
A cuss word escapes his lips. “Shit,” He grabs me from behind, yanking me backwards as loud voices carry over to us. I wonder how far away they are?
I attempt a scream, but it catches on the rag.
The Mole’s trying to take deep breaths, his hands firmly planted on my shoulders. “Don’t move,” he instructs. My fingers grip the rough bark of a tree, the duct tape loosening slightly.
I don’t want to draw attention to the slackened adhesive. I rest my palms on the surface, waiting as the sounds grow emphatic. “Look over here,” a male voice yells.
At first, I think he means us and my eyes widen behind the bandana.
I’m about to be saved.
I sink down lower, resting my head against the bark, relieved.
“Mushrooms?” Another booming voice.
“Yeah, these are rare,” a different male says.
Shrieks pierce the silence.
The Mole crouches beside me, his warm breath on the nape of my neck.
I shudder, willing the men to spot us.
A trickle leaks from my left foot. The Mole must notice, a sharp intake of breath as he contemplates my injury.
“Hey,” the voice grows stronger. “You over there. You got a light?”
The Mole, frustrated, hits me in the shoulder, his sign for me to be quiet.
I hear rustling and then footsteps as he walks towards them.
“Hey yourself,” he says. “I don’t have a light. Quit years ago myself.”
“You see these mushrooms?” the other voice asks.
&n
bsp; “They’re really something.” The Mole’s losing his patience, the strain apparent in his voice.
“You from around here?” One asks him.
I grab at the tape, stripping it away from my gaunt wrists, the pain like a Band-Aid being ripped off, except it lasts longer.
My hands are now free, except my foot is asleep, the awkward position I’m angled at causing a pins-and-needle sensation.
The men’s voices are farther away, The Mole leading them to another place to hunt for mushrooms. Away from me.
Stumbling, I reach out in time before I crash into a tree branch, my skin being sliced as I feel a sharp pain and more blood.
The Mole’s voice is getting closer to me instead of more distant.
I turn, running in the other direction. My legs can’t manage a full-on jog, weakness causing my muscles to cramp.
Pushing the bandana up, I can’t untie the knot at the back of my head. It stays around my forehead like a crown, the sunlight forceful even in this dense of a forest.
Yanking the duct tape off my lips, a burning pain follows the flaking skin. I spit the rag out, my mouth bone dry.
The men have stopped talking, that or I’m farther away from them. I can’t see their outlines or hear any sound. Did The Mole hurt them?
“Where are you, honey?” The Mole hollers in the distance.
“Oh, was someone with you?” The man’s voice penetrates the air.
“My teenager,” he lies.
I hear all three men screaming, my ear drums piercing as they hoot and holler.
“What’s her name?”
“Marian.”
All their voices consecutively yell for me, calling me the wrong name. Looking over my shoulder to gauge where they are, the hem of my nightgown catches on a fallen tree branch, pitching me forward. My elbow splits open, the pain sears as I groan. My belly hurts, the baby thumping in protest, kicking my inner walls as I push sticky strands off my forehead.
Into the Night Page 24
