“Including you,” Jim had pointed out.
“You don’t have to trust me, Mr. Panco. You just have to do exactly what I tell you, remember? When you wake up tomorrow, wear the same clothes you have on now, or something you’ve not yet worn since your arrival here, and be sure to wash the rest of your clothes. That will damage the device, if there is one.”
“What does it look like?”
“You probably won’t find it. It’s flat and round, like a dime; only half as thick and much smaller in circumference. It’s also transparent. One side has a strong adhesive material, so a person could easily place it on you by giving you a gentle pat on the back or shoulder.”
“And you’re telling me that this tiny little thing is both a tracking and a listening device? Son, I think you’ve been watching too many movies.”
“It’s called nanotechnology. Feel free to look it up, as long as you don’t use your own computer or any internet account that can be traced back to you. And it’s better that you don’t look for the device. If it’s placed on one of your shirts, you would have to inspect one area at a time very carefully. The amount of ruffling you would create on the shirt would be heard by whoever’s monitoring you. They would immediately suspect that you were aware of its presence. And believe me, you don’t want that.”
It had been very intriguing, Jim decided, though he was skeptical by nature, and he suspected that the whole thing was bullshit; just a conspiracy scare to get him spooked and paranoid. Nevertheless, his daughter’s life was on the line, so he had done as he was told, having washed all his worn clothing at the motel, setting the washer’s water temperature to “hot,” without conducting a search for verification of the man’s claims.
Still, as he quietly drove toward the east coast, he couldn’t help but wonder, if perchance Fruitcake wasn’t full of horse manure, who would benefit from placing such an item on him? Could it have been Detective Harrison? If the police were keeping tabs on him, it could only mean one of two things: they were involved with Megan’s abduction; dirty cops who profited from a human trafficking scandal, or they suspected him of being responsible for his own daughter’s disappearance. Neither scenario seemed realistic in the slightest. Besides, this was just a kidnapping. He wasn’t an important figure, and neither was Megan. Why would anyone go through all this “cloak and dagger” baloney over a missing girl?
When he had shared these thoughts with the fruitcake two nights ago, the man had lowered his voice and replied, “This is much bigger than you could possibly imagine, Mr. Panco.”
“Yeah?” Jim had retorted. “Enlighten me.”
“I don’t have the time. Neither do you. Your only priority right now is getting your daughter back. My only priority right now is delivering the instructions that you are expected to follow.”
So, follow the instructions he had done, to this point. He had left Lancaster, after destroying his cell phone, which he never cared for anyway, and had driven back to Meadville, enduring over four hours of apprehension in isolation. Upon his arrival back to his quaint, little country house, he had immediately started packing again, having used every piece of luggage he would be able to fit in his pickup.
“When you get home,” the man had said, “prepare to leave the next day. Pack only certain items, as if there is a possibility that you may not be returning home. Ever.”
This had startled Jim the most. What in God’s name did they intend for him? “You can’t be serious!” he had exclaimed.
“Leave behind most of your possessions,” the man had continued, ignoring Jim’s outburst, “but leave nothing that can be used to trace you to the destination I’ve written on the index card.”
“Wait,” Jim had protested. “I have a lot of expensive equipment! Tools, a riding mower, a satellite dish for tele…”
“You won’t need those things. Just some clothes and toiletries. Most of what you need will be everything that you are personally attached to: all your photo albums and picture frames consisting of your loved ones, artifacts of family importance, such as any documents with information concerning yourself, Megan, or your late wife, as well as any jewelry or other items that had strong meaning for any of you. Your wedding rings, for example, and any possible item that any of you cherish greatly.”
“How do you know about my wife?”
“Irrelevant for the moment, Mr. Panco.”
Jim had stared hard at the man for several seconds as he had taken everything in. This demand was extremely out of the ordinary, and he couldn’t fathom why Fruitcake required him to meet it. Yet, automatically and immediately, his mind had started concocting a list of all such items he could recall from the top of his thoughts. Suddenly, his eyes had narrowed as he pictured the item that the man had dangled in front of his face minutes before…
“What about that necklace in your pocket?” he had blurted out as he held out his hand, vainly expecting the man to surrender the item. “That means a hell of a lot to me. And to Megan.”
“That,” the man had replied with no emotion, “will be returned in time, but not now.”
“Why not?”
The man had remained silent for a moment. He had then let out a small sigh, and continued, denying any explanation relating to the necklace: “The next morning, you are to load your vehicle with these belongings, and head directly to the address on the card. When you get there, use the information on the back of the card to get through the gate.”
“And when I get there?” Jim had asked with both fury and fear lodged in his throat.
“You will be given further instructions. That’s all you need to know for now.”
“You sure?” Jim had sneered with blatant cynicism. “Nothing else? You don’t want me to play the harmonica to the tune of “When the Saints Go Marching in” while painting lamb’s blood on my front door? Maybe build an ark in my backyard?”
“Nothing else,” the man had answered, showing no amusement to Jim’s attitude. “Just remember…”
If you fail to follow my instructions exactly how I explained them, you will most likely never see her again.
Jim had become quiet as he had taken in this threat. He had decided to retaliate with one of his own, with a venomous voice that lowered into a growl. “Fine, I’ll do everything you said. But you remember something, son: if I don’t get her back, if anything happens to her… anything at all, I’ll go to the police and tell them everything about you. And to hell with your instructions. You’ll be praying that they find you before I do. I promise you son, if anything happens to my little girl, I’ll never stop hunting you.”
Fruitcake had let out another sigh that signified he was unimpressed. “That would get you no justice, Mr. Panco,” he had replied as he turned and casually walked away with his hands in his pockets. “You’d only be killing the messenger.”
As the man had gained distance, Jim had glanced down at the back of the card. “I don’t understand this,” he had said aloud in frustration.
“You’re not expected to,” Fruitcake had called back as he continued to gain distance.
Jim had immediately thought of the man’s warning about the strange, supposed tracking device. “I don’t understand you!” He had shouted through the eerily peaceful night. “Are you using me? Or helping me?”
The man had stopped in his tracks, ever so slightly turning around toward him. “When the new moon has passed… you’ll see me again. Then you’ll know.”
The drive east had begun to slow when Jim neared the metropolitan, greater Philadelphia area. Route 76 transformed to madness as he maneuvered the section known as the Schuylkill Expressway; the interstate now a congested highway filled with commuters’ vehicles and semis transporting cargo. Fortunately, mid-afternoon was upon the region, and Jim would not have to worry about sun glare, given his direction. Furthermore, rush hour wouldn’t occur for a couple more hours, and Jim would be well away from the overpopulated city when traffic would be at its worst, so the stress of navig
ating the expressway at this time was not unbearable. Hence, a small percentage of his focus remained on trying to make sense of his unlikely meeting two nights ago.
Jim could still not fathom why it was important to bring all items of memorabilia with him, and why that should take precedence over the more expensive household goods. The personal documents, such as medical records, certificates, any paperwork that had personal information printed on it, he could understand. But everything else that familiarized him with his home was now left behind. The man had said that there was the possibility that he may not be returning home… ever. Although his prior military life accustomed him to picking up and leaving at the spur of the moment, he would not have so easily been able to detach himself from almost all of his possessions so quickly, without time to let everything sink in, if it weren’t for the fact that the word possibility had been used. In his heart, Jim could not believe that he would never return home to Meadville, where he had lived more than half of his life. Telling himself he would be back as he locked his front door behind him made it easier for him to get into his truck and drive away.
The rabbit hole in which he was now spiraling downward into only became more disorienting as Jim remembered the man’s encrypted comment about seeing him again after the new moon. Jim didn’t even know where to begin deciphering this comment. To retain his own sanity, he decided not to even try; merely dismissing the strange message as nonsense. The man may be a threat to him or his daughter, but he was a fruitcake nonetheless. Still, most of this ordeal made no sense.
Are you using me? Or helping me?
If Fruitcake was his ally, why would he claim to be delivering a message, as if he worked for whoever abducted Megan? If he was his enemy, why would he inform him that he may have had a tracking device placed on him? Why would the kid want him to have it destroyed? And once again, he found his thoughts coming back, full circle. Once again, he pondered the reasoning behind a possible tracking device.
The man’s words suddenly echoed in Jim’s head as he neared the Walt Whitman Bridge that took him away from the city of Philadelphia, leading east into New Jersey: This is much bigger than you could possibly imagine. He realized just then, that if it was in fact the police who had bugged one of his shirts, it may not have been due to his two previously assumed, possible reasons. Perhaps Jim was not the first person in the area who had a loved one taken from him. Perhaps there was a group of terrible, powerful members of organized crime, who selected certain, innocent people to carry out their bidding by holding such loved ones for insurance. And the police may be on to them, whoever they were. If they bugged him, it could have been because they feared that he and Megan were one of those who were selected by such an organization, and they were hopeful that he would be contacted by them. If that were the case, then this messenger was a member of their group, and his accomplices were aware of the technology. Fruitcake had known about the device, if it even existed. His people must have somehow received inside information… maybe from a mole placed within the law enforcement agencies.
Fruitcake had also seemed to have a knack for devices himself. Somehow, he had jammed the use of his motel phone and his personal wireless. Both worked just fine after the kid had left the area. Whatever magic trick he had claimed to have up his sleeve, it must have been some highly advanced technology, most likely supplied by the ones behind this conspiracy. It was the only way to explain what happened. One thing was for sure, these people must have both power and money if they had access to such things.
Jim shook his head, trying to shake the thought. Part of him started to feel as if it were he who had seen too many movies. Still, it might be possible, what he suspected. And if it were true, then this meant he had blown any chance for the police to find these people and take them down the moment he followed his instructions to run his clothes through the motel’s washing machine. But, with Megan being held captive, what choice did he have?
If you fail to follow my instructions exactly how I explained them, you will most likely never see her again.
Though it was difficult for the old electrician to shut his mind off from these tormenting “what-ifs,” rationality commanded him to give it a rest. He would be reaching his intended destination in under two hours, and it was time for him to consider what he should anticipate once he arrived. The truth was, he had no idea. He felt that he had little control or choice over anything at this point, but he refused to leave himself completely vulnerable to whatever these people had planned for him. It was highly likely that, based on the instruction to pack his personal belongings, that this ordeal would not be over for quite some time. Therefore, Jim took it upon himself to include in his list of personals, a Kevlar vest, which he currently donned under his flannel shirt, and his Beretta M9 pistol, loaded with a full magazine of hollow point rounds, and stowed secretly under the seat of his truck. Two spare magazines currently resided in the glove box, also loaded.
Nothing was guaranteed at this point, but Jim hated the idea of being led blindly into the unknown. Being prepared was in his nature, even if such preparations were limited. If he had to, he would use deadly force to turn the tides. Taking his military-style sidearm with him was considered a necessity in this situation. He would follow the instructions exactly as they had been explained, but he was never instructed not to arm himself. Nevertheless, Jim sensed that this precaution would do little to get him through the coming storm that most likely awaited him in Toms River.
Chapter XIX
Megan slowly sat up upon the dirty, old mattress on the dungeon floor. She could hear footsteps descending the stairway outside the thick, wooden door, the one with no handle, the only one of the two in this prison cellar from which anyone had entered. And she had thus far been visited by only three different men. First it had been Sonny, whose visits had always left her in anguish: physically, emotionally, or both. The second, once her false boyfriend had left for good, was a large man whom Megan had never seen before. He never tormented or toyed with her; in fact, he never spoke a word. The giant of a man only came occasionally to bring her meager sustenance, empty her toilet bucket, and leave.
She had tried to speak to the man, to ask him who he was, why she was here. She had even pleaded with him, that if there was any goodness in his heart at all, to set her free. But for all she knew, he was a deaf mute. The man never even acknowledged her as she begged him, eyes filled with tears, to help her. He had an empty, mindless look about his face, and he never once even flinched with so much as a hint of compassion for her when she cried. All the same, he also never showed any enjoyment in keeping her prisoner, as if it would make no difference to him whether she remained there to rot or were set free. In some warped sense, he was a breath of fresh air compared to Sonny.
The only time the silent man altered his robotic routine of delivering her food and water was when Megan tried to run. During his third visit to her room, he placed her plate of bread and bottle of water in the usual spot near her mattress, then as always, stepped to the corner to retrieve her bucket. At that moment, she had bolted for the open door, but somehow the lethargic mannered ogre had reached her before she could cross the threshold toward the wooden stairway. He had caught her by the arm and yanked her backward, gripping her tightly with massive strength, and driving her body forcefully onto the mattress in the opposite corner, by pressing his other hand against her chest. Megan had reacted by grabbing the man’s arm with her free hand, lifting her head, and biting down hard on his forearm. The man had responded by releasing his grip on her arm and backhanding her hard across her face. The blow had been more than enough to cease her attempts at resisting. She had nearly lost consciousness from it, and she had later suspected from her throbbing cheek, that she had been given a nasty bruise for her disobedience.
It was the only time this man had laid a hand on her. Since then, he had done nothing other than his normal routine. There was no need for another incident, no second chance for Megan to escape; from that
point on, the third visitor had begun accompanying the silent man. This one, though he showed no family resemblance, could have been the giant’s twin, for he was just as large, and just as mindless. Their mannerisms were identical. He would remain at the doorway, staring straight ahead, as the first man carried out his routine. No doubt he was there to deter Megan from trying to run again. They were nothing more than drones; seeing nothing and hearing nothing, only doing what they did as if they were programmed to do so.
It didn’t take long until it came to the point in which Megan no longer acknowledged them when they arrived, as they did not acknowledge her. She knew it was useless to try to escape, or to reason with these men, but she also knew they would not bother her as they carried out their duties. During their most recently scheduled arrivals, Megan had lain in the fetal position on her mattress, staring at the stone wall before her. She had heard them approaching from the stairway outside, had heard them enter, but she hadn’t even lifted her head or turned to watch them. There was nothing new to watch. She would wait until she heard them close the door behind them before she would groggily sit up and scarf down the food and water that would be left for her.
It was now Tuesday afternoon, though Megan hadn’t known this. She had lost all sense of time, living a month in one day. This underground prison had been her unpleasant home for almost a week, but to her it might as well have been a year. Yet, she finally grasped some sense of her time in this room; her body had been aching for some time due to unwelcomed, womanly cramps, and now she had begun to bleed lightly. Her monthly cycle had started. Though it was uncomfortable, she was able to determine to some extent, what week of the month of May it was. She had remained celibate all her life, due primarily to her strong faith, but she was good at keeping track of her periods.
The footsteps approached from outside, on schedule as usual, but on this particular occasion, she lifted her head in curiosity. Something was different about the sound. She could decipher the heavy-set stomping of the two men she had titled for herself as “Thing One and Thing Two,” but she also heard other sets of footsteps; lighter, with a different tempo in pace. The two large, mindless men were not alone this time.
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