by Meli Raine
“Don’t you have a game or something? I thought baseball players didn’t get days off during the season.”
He pretends his shoulder hurts, rubbing it while pursing his lips in a pretend pout. “Perfectly-timed injury,” he says, adding a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. “I have three days with nothing to do.” He leans in, his hand stroking my jaw. I close my eyes but don’t jerk away. “I get to do you,” he whispers, his breath filled with moisture, like he’s licking my face although it’s just air.
My ribs cave in on themselves, tensing so hard I’m afraid they’ll crack, my belly clenching.
I can’t let go. Can’t relax. I start to shiver. I can’t control it. My bladder threatens to let go. Suddenly, I’m ten feet away from my body, because really, what else can my caged mind do?
I’m in hell.
People do whatever it takes not to be in hell. We have a biological drive to survive. It goes beyond the body.
Speaking of the body, I remember the microchip. A whimper comes out of my nose. Tears fill the back of my throat, hot and salty, thickening. I nearly gag but control myself, a sob trying to work its way out.
If nothing else, they’ll find my body. Drew’s chip gives me that relief.
Unless they cut my hand off.
The helicopter cuts a sharp right, angling down, and because they didn’t buckle me in, I roll into the door. John thumps against me, his hip digging into my butt. His body is tight and physically radiates heat that makes me nauseated. I can’t stand having him breathing in my hair, his hands on my ribs as the helicopter rights and he pretends to need to touch me to sit up.
Why pretend? I have no power. He can do anything he wants to me right now.
The thought makes the world go wavy, white dots filling my vision.
Oh, no.
No, no, no.
I will not black out. I will not faint. Every one of my wits needs to be sharp, because Drew is going to find me. He will. I damn well know it. The pinch of the cut on my hand is a blessed pain. It makes me remember how much he cared, even when he wasn’t sure about me. Back at Jane’s place, I thought he was crazy but went along with it because he’s my crazy. Mine.
I know I’ve blown hot and cold since I’ve been home from the Island. I had to.
Until the moment Drew cut me open and put that chip in me, I didn’t know.
It’s like having someone hand you their heart.
In the real world, where daughters aren’t used as pawns against their politician fathers and pro baseball players don’t kidnap women for sadistic pleasure, having your body invaded by an electronic microchip would be the epitome of hell, but no.
In my world?
It’s the best form of love.
Drew will find me. Even if he has to break out of jail, he will.
He’ll die trying.
The question is: will he find me first?
Or die first?
“Four years,” John says as a blissfully welcome coolness fills the sudden pocket of air between us. He pulls away, giving me a grin that is meant to make me feel sick. “Four years we’ve been waiting.”
“Don’t you have something else in your life, John? You’re a pro baseball player,” I say, my voice croaking, the words coming out in halting syllables. He smells like sweat and expensive men’s aftershave with a hint of fabric softener thrown in. It’s too much. My stomach starts to tighten and release, the bile rising up my throat.
I’m going to puke. I can’t stop it.
He grabs my hair at the back of my head and wrenches my neck, twisting me almost too far, almost enough to snap my spinal cord.
Almost.
I gag and vomit on the floor by the door, but there’s not much there.
My stomach keeps heaving until I’m completely out of control, body limp and tense at the same time, my mind clawing its way out of my skull, trying to deny what’s really happening to me.
I’m a human being these monsters are about to turn into a toy.
The toy stops being fun when it’s dead.
Until then?
They’ll extract their amusement.
And I can’t stop them.
The thick black hood over my head comes as no surprise, but it has a strange scent like sweet, freshly-cut grass. The odor makes it hard for me to keep my eyes open, turning sour, like rotten fruit.
And then I’m gone.
Gone.
Drew
“Foster! Get your fucking ass up if you want out of here.” The words come to me in a dream. I can’t move. I’m cold, encased in ice, and my hands are bound. After Mark left, they gave me a pair of orange scrubs, flip-flops, a nasty sandwich, and then cuffed me.
Then my gut seizes as someone kicks me, hard, right above my cock.
All the air rushes into me, then out, like a vacuum cleaner hose is attached to my lips. I cough and gag, but know instinctively that I have to stand. I open my eyes. No Mark.
Where’s Mark?
Wait.
I look at the cop, whose arms are crossed over his chest, a clipboard in one hand, banging against the wall as he shows his impatience in a slightly kinder way than kicking me again.
Did he say “want out of here”?
“You’re free,” he spits out, jaw set, impatience an odor he should patent. The cell door opens and he stands there, looking at the ceiling like it’s the Sistine Chapel.
I have just enough wits not to ask anything, shuffling out of the room, taking a deep breath. Hallway air is still disgusting in a jail, but it’s ten times better than cell air.
We walk down the long hallway, where someone in a suit hands me a manila envelope without a single word. It’s a man with a bureaucrat’s glare. He looks like no one and everyone. The human being equivalent of a beige wall.
All the hair on my body stands up straight, the pores practically seizing.
I know his type.
He’s a man the government needs.
And he’s a man the government doesn’t want you to know even exists.
He leans over, smooth and suave, his suit jacket flapping open and revealing a weapon as he pushes the bar on an exit door. I’m blinded by the sun. He shoves me out onto a small concrete landing attached to a set of stairs. Before I can catch my footing, my ankle turns and I’m falling, the envelope sliding down the stairs.
My hands are still cuffed with a zip tie, fingers fumbling to catch purchase on the thick pipe-like railing as my ribs crack against the edge of a cement stair, then another, my kidney bashed in, my hip screaming. Tightening into a ball and putting my hands behind my head to protect the base of my neck, I wrench something in my shoulder. The pop is so strong throughout my bones I can feel it in my inner ear.
Can’t count the stairs, but it’s a full flight. My body inventories that much. I’m defenseless without separate hands, my cuffed wrists making the fall down the stairs agony.
And then I’m down, flat, paused. Sand and tar and a cigarette butt, casually tossed aside forever ago, press against my lips.
And blood, of course. I taste copper and uncertainty as I open my mouth and spit, clearing it.
I look up just as the door clicks shut, a wall of gray metal, the outline of the threshold barely visible.
I’m free.
Wherever I am, I’m free.
Mark did his job.
I have no clue where I am, though. Rolling carefully, I realize my hip won’t move. It’s not that I can’t move it. The ability to pivot is gone. Blown out.
Not good.
Gingerly, I shift a different way, pulling myself up to a sitting position, sliding across the filthy asphalt, praying there’s no broken glass. I’m injured enough. I don’t need more right now.
It’s going to be a long day.
Once I’m propped against the brick wall, I exhale, willing my muscles to relax. They revolt. I try again. They give me the silent treatment.
I just breathe.
No amount of panicking is go
ing to save Lindsay right now, but I need to act. In order to act, I need to get to a computer where I can track Lindsay’s chip. To get a computer, I need Mark or Silas or someone to help me.
Where the fuck is Mark? It’s dawning on me that I have to trust him. There’s no choice here.
Regroup. I need to regroup. Figuring out where I am isn’t as important as orienting myself. I look up at the sun. It is waning, but bright. I pull my right hand up to shield my eyes and realize I can’t.
Can’t move my right arm.
The muscles don’t hurt. They just don’t cooperate, as if there’s an invisible line on the horizon and my arm can’t go higher. My chest starts to spasm. My lips stick together, tongue dry and coated.
Thirst. I’m dehydrated. I’ll be fine once I orient and get help. Whatever’s wrong with me can’t be as bad as what they’re about to do to Lindsay.
I have to stop them.
Squinting, I look at the sun again. I’m facing southeast. It’s about six p.m., give or take half an hour. Lindsay’s been gone for how long?
Someone has shoved a balloon up my nose and into my sinus cavity and is slowly blowing it up until it pops. I close my eyes and gingerly push myself up the wall to standing.
Shake it off, Drew, I tell myself. You’ve been through worse.
And it’s true.
I have.
Lurching like a drunk after a three-day bender, I stick to the wall, walking a few steps along the line of thick cement block, painted institutional gray. The bustle of the city is in the distance, the stench of urine and exhaust overwhelming my remaining open nostril. The last time I was this injured, I smelled ozone and dirt, sand and heat, the high temperature and blinding sun searing my nostrils.
By comparison, today is a cakewalk.
Getting out of this zip tie is paramount. Old training flashes through my mind. I pull my aching shoulders up and grab the end of the zip tie with my teeth. I tighten as much as I can, until my wrists scream. The plastic cuts my skin at the thumb joint.
I lift my arms over my head, forcing my right arm up, then flare my elbows slightly as I smash my cuffed wrists into my stomach, tightening my core. As I bring my shoulder blades close together during the sharp, sudden movement, I ignore the bones screaming.
Snap! The zip tie pops off my wrists.
Mission accomplished.
I grab the envelope and stagger down to the street.
At the end of this wall I’ll be able to grab a cab. My good hand holds my manila envelope. My wallet’s in there. Phone, too. I lean against the wall and pull all the items out.
My gun’s gone, of course.
Cash, too.
But my credit cards and ID are in my wallet.
I hail a cab. It takes seven tries before a guy who looks worse than me pulls over, grinning with a mouth full of seven teeth, total.
“You look like shit, man. Where to?”
I’ve never been more grateful for an insult.
And then I give him The Grove’s address.
Because, really, how much worse can this day get?
Chapter 3
Lindsay
Losing long chunks of time while you’re unconscious normally involves the added benefit of dreams. As someone’s rough hands slip my pants off over my hips, I wake up, my face itchy from rubbing against warm, wet cloth. My nose screams with a strange buzzing that makes me want to scratch all the flesh off and douse it with paint thinner.
All the skin along my inner thighs tightens painfully, as if I expect these hands to shove my legs open and pierce me. All that actually happens is that the black cloth bag stays on my head while my body is stripped of every stitch of clothing. Someone puts me in a skin-tight series of clothes, like a bodice with thick leggings. The searing shame ripples on my skin like an extinction burst.
I can’t control my body’s responses. If I keep reacting, though, I’ll lose energy. Focus. The ability to think and strategize.
All I can do is deaden my emotions. Reduce my reactions.
Go numb.
The less I react, the better. The less I do to draw attention to myself, the less likely I’ll suffer abuse.
I know it’s foolish to hope.
But hope and Drew are all I’ve got.
And Drew’s not here.
I don’t know exactly what my captors are doing. I try to be as limp as possible, pretending to still be unconscious. This won’t save me. I know.
But it’s the best I can come up with under the circumstances.
My mouth is dry and sour, tasting gross. I flash back to being bound, waking up with Jane over me, crying and babbling. Four years ago, I was just a body they played with.
And here I am again.
Where are you, Drew?
I slow down my breathing and try to take in my surroundings with my ears. The ocean laps in the distance, gentle sounds interspersed with crashing waves. The Island.
I must really be on the Island.
I inhale slowly, deliberately, as quietly as possible. On the Island, the constant start and stop of golf carts on the grounds was like a sitcom laugh track, punctuating the rhythm of the days.
No golf cart hum.
On the Island, helicopters came and went at least twice a day. So far, no helicopter other than ours.
And on the Island, ice cream trucks didn’t exist. The tinkle of a truck’s melody announcing its presence to kids and ice-cream-hungry adults shatters my theory.
No.
Not the Island.
My heart races as I take in the scent. It’s nothing like the Island, inside or out. All of the buildings there had an institutional, bleach-like scent. And outdoors was filled with salty ocean air.
This smells like someone’s home.
Oh, God, please don’t tell me I’m at John’s house.
“Sleeping Beauty awakens,” says a new voice, not John’s. It doesn’t sound like Blaine, who is California cool, inside and out, born and bred.
Must be Stellan.
How does he know I’m awake?
Before I can react, the hood comes off and I spasm out in a coughing fit.
“Hello, Lindsay.” I can’t close my eyes fast enough. It’s Stellan.
I say nothing.
He nudges me with his toe. “You’re being rude. You won’t like what we do to rude little girls.”
My jaw tightens. I couldn’t talk if I wanted to. I imagine Drew pulling Stellan away from me and punching him. My neck releases slightly at the image.
Time.
Time is my friend. The longer I can buy time, the better the chance Drew can get me before they, well...
Before they kill me.
A hopeless black hole takes over at my core. It expands, like a pupil dilating, taking over my bones, my organs, my flesh, my everything.
I’m about to be hurt badly.
Tortured.
Violated.
And I can’t stop it. Being drugged would be preferable to this. Maybe later, I’ll beg for that.
I can try to lessen the severity. But Drew’s not coming anytime soon.
I freeze. My stomach feels heavy and painful, turning and twisting until I start to retch again.
“You puke on me and I crack open your eye socket,” Stellan says calmly, not making eye contact. “Again.”
Again.
All the surgeries four years ago pour through me like a montage. So many. I felt like Humpty Dumpty back then. A very, very drugged-up egg with a shell that needed to be repaired. If he’s suggesting -- implying – flat-out saying they’re going to treat me like that again, I might as well die now.
Please let me die.
And then I see Drew’s face in my mind’s eye, his expression hard and determined. He’s got a will of steel and he’s giving me his will to get through this.
Lending it to me.
Inhaling carefully, managing my breathing, I get my throat spasm under control. I do not throw up.
“Good girl. Se
e? You can take orders. Last time, you were just a boring old limp noodle with holes. This time is going to be so much better,” Stellan says, running his index finger along my jaw. He must have a ragged fingernail, because the deep, abiding feeling of my skin being scratched, that searing hot feeling that comes from broken skin, pierces his movement.
I don’t move. Then I let myself blink. Drawing on every lesson in my stupid meditation classes at the Island, I make myself remove my tongue from the roof of my mouth, imagine my organs gone to liquid, drop my shoulders, remove tension. None of this changes my circumstances, but it gives me something to do.
Stellan pours water in an arc over my head, blinding me, some of it in my mouth before I can regroup. Hacking as the water trickles down my windpipe, I blink and sputter, catching his disgusted look.
“Here. Drink. We can’t have you dehydrated.” His hand passes over my cleavage, the tops of my breasts overflowing without a bra in this tight, scalloped-neck top. “You spilled some,” he says with a sneer.
“Why are you doing this to me?” Shit. I broke my first rule. Stay small. Boring. Gray rock. Don’t draw attention.
“Aren’t you the little prima donna! You think this is about you? It’s all about your dad, Lindsay. You’re just caught in the middle.”
I go numb and ice cold. “My dad?”
“You’re just a useful device.” His eyes widen as he eats up my breasts with his gaze.
“Device for what?”
“To ruin the great Senator Harwell Bosworth.”
“Shut up, Stellan,” John mutters, giving him a glare and a head shake. “Don’t tell her anything.”
I force myself not to turn and follow the sound of his voice. He’s behind me, John looking over my shoulder.
“It’s not like she’ll spill her guts to anyone.” His eyes turn darker and his nostrils flare. “Except for us.”
Before I have a chance to wonder whether he means that literally, there’s a knock at the door.
John and Stellan freeze.
“You call someone?” John hisses at Stellan.
Stellan comes over to me and puts the sole of his shoe on my neck. “Say a word, and you’ll become tile grout.”
