Bolo

by Mariska Hutchence

  Send the California girl to Wisconsin, shake her up a little. I hate to even use the term. California girl brings up images of bronzed blondes, likely roller-skating down the beachfront in a Katy Perry video; just about the last thing I could be accused of being. The proverbial translucent-skinned ginger, more interested in criminal justice and philosophy than surfboards and tasty waves; to steal a line from Spicoli.

  All of my reverie is peeled away with the sudden addition of a light overhead, the humming of the fluorescents adding as much to the throbbing in my head as the blow that had put me here.

  The footsteps make me unscrew my lids, bringing even more pain in from the brightness of the lights, but I need to be aware of my surroundings. Residential, definitely a basement. Washer/dryer combo looking neglected in the corner by the water heater. Combat boots coming down the stairs.

  The boots go up into a pair of jeans, leading to a plain white t-shirt as the person they belong to comes down the stairs far enough for me to see him. Big guy, biceps stretching the shirt sleeves, blonde tousled hair on a face that was definitely more ‘California’ than I’d ever be.

  “You’re up.” He says. I’m not entirely positive whether it is a statement or a question.

  “Not entirely sure about that.” I say, wishing I could rub my forehead for emphasis, or just for a little bit of relief. My sarcasm crutch gets me in trouble just about as often as it gets me a laugh. Life’s a balancing act like that.

  He finally reaches the bottom of the stairs and makes his way over to my uncomfortable spot on the floor. “I was getting a little bit worried.” He says.

  I look directly up at him, noting the blue eyes. For later, I tell myself. “Well, usually worrying about someone’s health and well-being normally manifests itself by not hitting them on the head, but that’s just me.”

  He smiles, the pearly-whites just another blatant sign of California.

  “I brought you an ice-pack, if you want it.” He says, looking down at me as if suddenly remembering.

  “I’ll just hold that over the swelling then, shall I? I say, rattling the handcuffs attaching me to the pipe.

  “I’ve got it.” He says, leaning over in front of me, placing the wrap over my shoulders. The sensation is a relief, despite my mood. “How’s that?”

  The proximity of him makes me forget all of my training, and I’m not looking for distinguishing features, tattoos, nothing. The smell of him is a pleasant change from the dank of the room. Okay, so if you’re going to be kidnapped and held prisoner in a basement, there could definitely be worse captors. I laugh at how ridiculous the thought is.

  “You okay?” He asks.

  “Peachy.” I reply, closing my eyes to blot out the pain.

  One – Des

  “I don’t care what the fuck you think. I want you to get her the hell out of here. This was never part of the arrangement.”

  For the most part, I’m able to follow the conversation, even though it’s coming to me from the floorboards overhead. The last voice belongs to Spicoli. That’s not really his name, but I’ve applied the moniker to my California boy captor; more of a place-holder than anything else.

  “Give it a couple of days, man.” Another voice. This one I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting. “Clement will get things cleared up.”

  There’s a couple of exchanges that I can’t quite make out, but from context, it’s pretty clear that my captor doesn’t want the responsibility of the chained FBI agent in his basement.

  “Twenty-four hours.” Spicoli says. “And she’d better be long gone.”

  “Clement isn’t going to like the push-back, Reed.” I put a name to the face. I probably wasn’t supposed to hear that.

  “Fuck Clement.”

  The words go more muffled, as I try to make some sense of the shuffling footsteps coming from above. I can hear the door slam clearly, though.

  I’m getting ready to resolve myself for a few more boring hours when I hear the door creak upstairs, followed by the sound of my captor coming down the stairs. Reed. He looks like a Reed; I think to myself.

  “I’ve got breakfast if you want it.” He says, ducking down to see me below the landing.

  The words are music to my ears, though I try to hide that fact. It’s been at least twenty-four hours and I’ve been granted two trips to the bathroom and nothing else. “Denny’s sounds great.” I quip. Humor and sarcasm have always been crutches for me.

  “I can do eggs and bacon, but my ‘Grand Slam’ needs a little work.” Reed shoots back. He doesn’t seem like an axe-murderer, and the overheard conversation has definitely helped a little with that judgement call.

  “Well, I’m not really in the position to be fussy, am I?” I say. Even the thought of food is making my mouth water.

  “I’ll bring something down.” He says, disappearing back through the opening in the ceiling along with the stairs. I spend the intervening minutes going over details once again. My meeting with a potential contact had gone awry and I ended up here. Spicoli…Reed, I correct myself, has been nothing but nice, if not a little aloof. Cute guy, I think, and the thought reminds me that my personal life has been a disaster since going into the academy. Yeah, I’ve got a boyfriend, but I’m not really sure what I think about that. Making googly-eyes at even the bad guys now, eh Des?

  The footsteps are coming back as I shift to try to make myself a little more comfortable. My arms are screaming at me from the position they’ve been in for so long.

  Reed comes down bearing a plate, and my mind immediately listens, and doesn’t hear, any rattling of silverware. Probably a wise move on his part. So, fairly sharp, big guy, not a big fan of keeping me in his basement. The summary complete in my head, I look over to him.

  “This should be challenging.” I say, rattling the handcuffs.

  Setting the plate down on a stool opposite me, he reaches into his pocket, extracting a keyring. Without a response, he moves behind me and removes one of my cuffs. He gestures me to turn around, which I do, allowing him to snap it back in place, this time with the pipe in front of me.

  “I’m sorry, it’s the best I can offer.” He says, bringing me the plate, which I set on the floor.

  “The bacon or the handcuffs?” I reply.

  He smiles.

  “Des.” I say.

  Reed looks at me for a second. Admittedly, it was a non-sequitur.

  “My name. Well, Natalie Desjardins, but that’s more of a mouthful than most people care for.” I add. Humanize yourself, Des. It always amazes when a little bit of training suddenly becomes useful.

  I can see it sink in. Maybe just the name, maybe more guilt about what’s going on in his basement.

  “Cal.” He says. It conflicts with the conversation that I heard above, but I let it slide. I’m trying to make him like me and the irony of that almost makes me laugh. It’s not something I’m really very good at, hence the personal life issues.

  The small talk ceases as I plow into the food, knowing that he’s watching me, though I’m not entirely sure why he hasn’t just left again. I can feel the good that it’s going to do me, but I remind myself not to overdo it. If the last day is any indication, I won’t be getting a break from my captivity very often. The new position is good, though, letting me stretch out some of the cramped muscles while I eat, still wondering what options I have, if any.

  “Is there anything else you need, Des?” He asks as I push the plate away, leaving some behind. I know I’m going to regret it either way.

  “You wouldn’t be able to stop by my place and feed my dog, would you?” I ask, smiling.

  He leans back on the stool a little, smiling. “I’m sure the Bureau will take care of her for you.”

  “Him.” I say, then add. “It sounds cheesy, but you know they’re looking for me, right?”

  The stool clacks back to all four feet. “Oh, I’m well aware. Name?”

  It throws me for a second. “Ted. He’s a Jack Russel mix. You like d
ogs?”

  “Haven’t had one since I was a kid.” He says immediately. “Someday. They a good breed?”

  “Jacks are assholes, but they grow on you.” I say, smiling. This conversation isn’t going nearly how I expected it would, but I start thinking about it. What do I really expect? Interrogation? What would that gain him? I’m getting the impression from this morning’s conversation and this one that this isn’t the normal state of affairs at Reed’s house.

  Apparently, he can see me thinking. “I’m sorry about all this, you know.” The smile on his face following my last words fades.

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t respond. He absently pushes up one of his sleeves, revealing a little more of the tattoo gracing his bicep, but I can’t make out the design from where I’m sitting.

  “Do you need to…” He asks, his words dropping out gracefully. I know what he means, though.

  “That would be sweet.” I respond. He laughs and I hope that I’m winning him over.

  Removing the cuffs for the second time, I note that he leaves them off. Even with my training, the size disparity is too much anyway and I have no idea what kind of training he holds himself; but the casual way he does it tells me he’s not too worried about the little redhead agent. Whether that is a bad call is yet to be seen; but he’s given me no reasons to believe he isn’t right about any potential matchup. I’ll just have to wait for the right opportunity.

  I rub my wrists. I’m not complaining, but he does notice, and I can see it in his eyes that he’s none too happy about it.

  “You know where it is.” He says. “I’ll be back.”

  That does surprise me a little, but I’ve already noted that the only feasible way out is up the stairs. The windows up high on the walls letting in what natural light they can aren’t even suitable for someone my size. I’m about average as far as height, but I struggled through the academy keeping enough weight on to stay in regulations. I’ve been told that it’s a blessing, but I’ve certainly never taken it that way. The grass is always greener, right?

  I hear the overhead door click shut, then hear a bolt being drawn as I hustle over to the little blocked in half-bath, probably a renovation project that was put on the shelf long ago, as there don’t seem to be any tools around. It’s functional, though, but I wouldn’t mind finding a screwdriver or something like that.

  Just coming out, I hear Reed coming down the stairs again, dragging what appears to be a futon mattress behind him. “Thought this might help a little.”

  “Thanks, Cal.” I say, catching myself before I use his real name, but just barely. “I don’t have a lot of ass to keep me comfortable.”

  I see him trying not to look as I pass him and head back towards the pipe.

  “When I’m home, I’m figuring we can do without the cuffs.” He says, laying the mattress down on the floor.

  “Works for me.” I say.

  “You’ll just have to take my word for it that yelling won’t do you much good.” He says. “I kind of like living out in the boonies.”

  “From California to the Wisconsin wilderness.” I say. “How does that happen?”

  He gives me an odd glance. “Not everyone picks that up.”

  I smile. “Accents are my thing. Everyone’s got one, some are just more noticeable than others. So why Wisconsin?”

  “Not a lot of ‘boonies’ in Southern California.” Cal says. It’s funny, and I give it to him.

  He smiles.

  Yep, could be a lot worse, I think, sinking down onto the futon, still rubbing away the ache in my wrists.

  Reed is sitting here, just watching me eat, which is odd. Maybe he expects I’ll smash up the plate and make an escape? Not likely. Porcelain is no match for hardened steel handcuffs and if he leaves me unbound, it’s not going to help me dig my way out from concrete walls. It’s starting feel weird, so I speak up.

  “You just going to watch me eat, Cal?” I say, remembering to use the right name.

  He looks at me, seemingly sizing me up. “Just making sure you don’t need anything else.” He says.

  “A napkin?” I respond, looking down at my fingers, greasy from the eggs.

  Reed’s eyes show the smile that he doesn’t allow on his face. “Yeah, I’ll get you one, Des.”

  He disappears back up the stairs and comes down shortly with a roll of paper towels. He tears one off and hands it to me, setting the roll down nearby.

  “Well, you’re not the worst jailer I could imagine.” I say, wiping my face, my OCD thanking me.

  The smile in his eyes fades a little. “This isn’t really my choice.” He says. “But I’m not going to go any deeper than that. Hopefully it’ll be cleared up in a while.”

  I can see in those eyes that he’s being honest with me. I’m a fairly good judge of character and I think I have him pegged. Play the sympathy card as much as you can, Des, I think to myself.

  “Well, that’s good because Ted will be missing me in the bed.”

  Cal leans back on his stool a little. The balance seems precarious, and I have a fleeting image of me being stuck down here alone with a guy who has just cracked his skull.

  “I’m sure your boyfriend will take care of him just fine. Or someone from the Bureau.” He suggests, checking his own balance for a moment.

  “Ha. Ted doesn’t like Clark.” I say. “Every time he comes to bed Ted tries to wiggle his way between us. He’s a notorious cock-blocker.”

  My brash words seem to surprise my captor, but he smiles. “Clark, huh? Kinda like Superman?”

  I snort a little, completely unplanned. “Yeah…” I say, pausing. “Not really.”

  Clark’s a good guy, but he’s not really right for me. A little too possessive, but that on the needier end than the passion end that I would have preferred. Things started out right. We met after I first moved to Milwaukee and things quickly escalated to where we’ve been living together for a few months. It was supposed to have been a dating slash economic thing, but I’ve been regretting it the last week or so.

  “Trouble in paradise?” Reed asks, smiling.

  I realize I’ve probably violated some of my training by talking about my personal life. Well, water under the bridge.

  “You know how it is.” I say, brazenly assuming. “Long hours, never home. He thinks he plays second fiddle to my job.”

  Reed snaps the stool back to the ground with a click. “Is he right?”

  Yes, I think to myself, but I don’t want to say it. “Things are challenging right now.”

  That smile in the eyes comes back, this time with the accompanying up-turn to his lips. “Now that’s an understatement.”

  I laugh, despite myself. I definitely want to keep in his good graces, though. Fortunately, as of yet, he’s made doing that pretty easy.

  “What about you? Love interest? I can’t help but wondering what she thinks about the woman tied up in your basement.”

  He grins this time. “Yeah, no. Talk about long hours and never being home. I don’t even bother to try.”

  “Aw, the smuggler’s blues.” I say, thinking of the old Glen Frey song.

  “Guess you are a pretty sharp one.” He says. “I’ve been wondering how much the FBI knew.”

  Shit. Probably shouldn’t have said that, so I try to recover a little. “Not much past that, really.” I say, which is actually the truth. “Things were just getting rolling when…”

  “How is your head, anyway?” Reed asks. “I should probably offer you some Ibuprofen or something.”

  “I’m good.” I say, wanting to turn the conversation away from what I might know about his operation, which is effectively nothing. “I try to take as little meds as possible.”

  Reed comes down from the stool to take the now empty plate. “Yeah, I try to do the healthy thing, but the bad habits keep getting in the way.” He says, patting the non-existent bulge of his stomach under his t-shirt. “Maybe I need some of that Bureau training, or probably the
discipline that comes along with it.”

  I’m not sure what to say, but he continues. “I’ll bring some down just in case, and some water.”

  “Thanks, Cal.” I say, honestly grateful. I really fucked this one up, I think. Sadly, I’m more concerned with my budding Bureau record than I am with my own safety. Maybe the job has become too much of a priority. I watch him disappear up the stairs once again.

  A few minutes pass, but I can hear the ringtone of a cellphone upstairs. This time, though, I can’t clearly hear the conversation. Curiosity gets the better of me and I quietly creep to the top of the stairs, knowing full well that his nice-guy status might change if I’m discovered. At this point, though, I’m not so worried about that. I have to have faith in my own judgement about him. At the most, he would probably just choose to keep me cuffed again. A risk I’m willing to take at this point. The words become clearer, but it’s hard to follow from just one side of the conversation.

  “Yeah, but I don’t think we need to worry about it.”

  A pause.

  “She’s green. They wouldn’t have put her on this if they thought…”

  He must have been interrupted. His agitation is starting to become more obvious as the conversation continues.

  “I just want her the fuck out of here.”

  The voice comes closer to the basement door and I’m afraid that he’s going to come back down, so I retrace my steps backwards until I’m next to my cushion again.

  A few minutes later, Reed comes back down the stairs, carrying the promised bottle of water and pills. “Sorry. I’ve got to go out for a little bit.” He says.

  I put my hands out in front of me, wrapping them around the pole, trying to show that I’m going to be nothing but cooperative.

  “I won’t be long, I promise.” He says, snapping the cuffs back in place.

  “You’re the boss.” I say. I can see he’s not too happy with the title.