Lulling the Kidnapper

by O. L. Gregory

  I’d been trying to earn brownie points with him ever since he walked me through the door. Not pushing for anything, not making unsolicited suggestions. Instead, I’d focused all of my rebelliousness into my studies. I was completing way more work than I was showing him. While I was devouring the curriculum, my goal had been singular. When I got out of this, I was getting my GED and moving forward with my education. I wanted to move forward with my life, to put mental distance between the rest of my life and my time stuck with him. I’d turned in a sufficient amount of work to keep him content that I’d taken his request to heart, but not so much that he felt like I was doing it for my own purposes. I would be in for a world of trouble if he went snooping through all the workbooks and saw all the completed pages, but I guess I’d have to cross that bridge if and when I ever came to it. I was kicking around a couple of excuses, but nothing that I thought he’d fall for.

  The workbooks I’d been given were written with the intent to be used in a classroom full of kids. On the top of each page was a line marked with ‘Name’. That line haunted me every time I turned the page. I wanted to put my name on it. But Asshole would have a fit if he came home and saw that on every page. And I certainly wasn’t going to write ‘Amelia’ at the top of the paper, like he would have wanted me to. Instead, I mentally pictured myself writing my full name at the top. It was like making mental videos. I kept telling myself it wasn’t a crazy thing to do, that it was a measure of self-preservation. I was taking care of a connection to the real me.

  I was scared that when I got out of here I wouldn’t remember who I was, that I would no longer be me. A name was one thing, I could be re-taught my name if he had somehow managed to erase it from my memory. But I was thinking about my sassiness, my attitude about life, my hopes, dreams, and goals. He was doing his darnedest to turn me into a push-over who lived only to please the hand that fed her. That’s not me, and I’m not going to let it become me.

  My name was a tangible connection. If I thought about my name, then I could think about how I wished I had the freedom to react to the things that Asshole had said or did. I’d picture myself saying what I really wanted to say. I imagined myself doing the things that I wanted to do. You could call it an emotional escape, I suppose, that began and ended with the mental images of writing my name on the pages of those workbooks.

  From my perch at the desk, overlooking the river, I tried to keep tabs on the changing scenery. It seemed as though spring was beginning to arrive on the other side of those panes of glass. The trees were beginning to bud, the brown color of the grass was beginning to fade into a pale green, and the skies were becoming less and less overcast. And if you were really, really quiet in the mornings, you could hear a bird or two in the distance.

  I heard his car out in the driveway and had to give my head a little shake from being pulled back into the present so quickly. I jumped up and ran down the stairs, my eyes shooting over to the microwave to check the time. He was early. Damn.

  But then I heard a much larger vehicle outside. I took a peek through the curtains at the kitchen window and saw three workers beginning to unload a delivery truck. There was no doubt in my mind that this delivery was the reason for his early appearance.

  Well, how the hell am I supposed to respond to this? I thought. Does he want me to hide? Should I meet them at the door and pretend to be the happy housewife?

  …Oh, no, wait a minute. They weren’t going to come inside. They were carrying boxes around to the back of the house.

  I decided to dart up the stairs, tuck myself into the shadows, and watch from the landing. If he wanted them to see me, he’d step inside and call for me. The men carried multiple boxes up onto the porch. One stayed to begin unpacking things and the other two went back to get more out of the truck.

  I could hear Asshole talking to the deliveryman who’d stayed to unpack, through the wall of windows, as he stood back to let the man work. “Thanks for accommodating my work schedule.”

  “No problem. You’re right, this place would have been hard to find without you leading us in.”

  “And I appreciate that the three of you agreed to stay and see to the assembly, I know it’s not store policy. But, well, I’m much better with a computer and a network than a screwdriver, and there’s a lot to put together.”

  Mr. Deliveryman smiled before he responded. “Well, the nice part about working for a ma and pa business is that when a customer offers a generous tip for something like this, the boss says to go for it.”

  Asshole continued leaning back against the railing as the other two returned with more boxes. The trio quickly got down to business and the cardboard started flying. I smirked because it must be killing him that the guys weren’t even bothering to read the directions to make sure they were putting things together in the exact, proper, and correct way. His eyes shifted from the men to the house and he started scanning, for me I assumed.

  And right then it hit me that this may very well be a test of his. Usually he told me what was going to happen, when he’d be late, when he’d be early, and so forth. Why wouldn’t he? It’s not like I was going to try and take advantage of his being late. He could always watch me on camera and know if I was trying to make a run for it. But this time, he hadn’t said a word. I could only hope that my reaction would live up to his expectations of secrecy and propriety.

  I could only guess that he didn’t want them to spot me. Though, unless I came right out and yelled that I was a kidnapping victim, they would have no reason to suspect anything. Still, he may have told the men that no one would be home to give them their tip if they came earlier. And let’s face facts, even if they did see me crouching in the corner, even if they somehow managed to suspect, would they really be willing to do anything about it?

  I had been kidnapped in broad daylight, with other cars passing by, and no one stopped him. I had made it obvious that I was being forced into that trunk. I had kicked and screamed and punched and bit like a wolverine. Either no one could get to me in time, no one had bothered opening their eyes to the truth… or no one gave a damn. And in that instant, as far as my family was concerned, it may as well have been like I had disappeared into thin air.

  I could hit that door right now, scream for help, make a run for it, and hope the guys beat the snot out of the moron. But I had no guarantee that there was a good fighter in the group of men on the porch, except for Asshole. And I had to wonder, did Asshole take his gun to work with him? Maybe he left it in the car or something. Did he have it on him right now? Was my attempt at escape worth the four of us getting shot? Gun shots hurt like a son of a bitch.

  That’s a punishment I’d rather not receive again.

  I’d been so careful for so long. Under the circumstances and list of unknowns, I decided to continue to bide my time. When the time was right, I wanted to guarantee that this man would be brought to justice. I wanted to know that he’d be going down for his crimes, which meant I wanted to know that he would be brought into custody right away. I didn’t want him to have a chance at fleeing, and no chance to come back and wipe his lair clean.

  If he got away, there’d be no way of catching him. Hell, I didn’t even know what his real name was. I knew of at least three aliases, but I was willing to bet that he had more identities at his disposal. He was too good at hiding, too good at not being seen when he was standing right in front of your face. Asshole looked very… well… normal. He only appeared ugly to me because I knew the black soul hiding behind the angelic eyes. Dark blonde hair, hazel eyes, not too muscular, not too much weight, average features, average height, well-groomed, everything about him made him blend right in. He looked like any other respectable, law-abiding citizen.

  In the end, the small crew had assembled a grill, a table with two chairs and an umbrella, two lounge chairs, and a porch swing. Plus, there were a couple of small potted trees that the guys had gone back to the truck to retrieve before they left.

  Mr. Showoff pulled out his
wallet, handed some cash over, and shook hands with the smiling deliverymen. He walked them back around to the front of the house and then pulled some items out of his car as the truck drove off. He came through the front doorway, right on time after all.

  I walked downstairs to meet him with a big, goofy grin.

  “I have a surprise for you,” he said.

  “More surprises than a porch full of furniture? Someone’s being generous today.”

  He put a grocery bag on the counter and began pulling out steak, corn on the cob, potatoes, and a pineapple. “I’m going to cook dinner tonight, out on our new grill,” he announced with a smile.

  My eyebrows rose in genuine surprise, “Wow.”

  “It’s such a gorgeous day, that I thought you might like to have dinner out on the porch.”

  Hell, yes! Fresh air! I cranked up my grin and gave him a beatific smile, “I’d love to have dinner out on the porch. This is such a treat, thank you!”

  “You’re welcome,” he said while beginning to assemble utensils and ingredients.

  “Is there an occasion?”

  “Yes, we never celebrated.”

  “Celebrated what?”

  “Anything, everything. Our first anniversary, our new house, my new job, our new life, pick one. Pick them all, if it pleases you.”

  I struggled, really hard, to not look at him like he had lost his ever loving mind. Our first anniversary… Our new life… My mind was sputtering. The only conclusion I was left to draw was that the man was freaking delusional, or maybe he believed I was. Either way, my mouth was hanging open when he looked back up at me.

  “What?” he asked in an innocent tone. When I didn’t respond, one eyebrow raised and his lips drew up in a grim line.

  I had to shake off my mental stupefaction. I closed my eyes to focus on forming a coherent and acceptable reason for my expression. “It’s just… that we… we never… we never celebrate anything.”

  “You’re right, we haven’t. We were focused on getting settled in with each other. Now that we’re doing so well together, we can take the time to celebrate special occasions. Isn’t there something you’d like to celebrate?” The eyebrow was still up and his face was expectant.

  “Sure.” Your arrest, your arraignment, your sentencing… It was important that I mind my tongue in this moment. I was on the cusp of reaping a reward, and he was on the alert for any reason to take it away.

  “So, what do you wish to honor tonight?” he asked, his relaxed smile back in place. To someone else, his mood swings might appear to be a bipolar symptom. To me, it was an indication that he wanted to have a good evening. And if I didn’t deliver, he’d turn on me in a heartbeat, with a vengeance. His disappointment would be solely my fault, fists would fly, and he’d start wearing his steel-toed boots around the house again.

  So, yeah, I guess I could get on board with this. My eyes wandered around a little as I mentally searched for something I could actually celebrate. “Um… let’s celebrate the one year anniversary,” …of my survival.

  “Excellent choice!” He picked up his supplies, “I’m going to head out and start dinner.”

  I let my seething show once he went outside and left the sliding glass door open. That sick, twisted, son of a bitch! Sure, let’s celebrate. Why don’t you let me cook dinner for you, instead? Some fresh-picked, poisonous mushrooms with a side dish of cyanide, perhaps? I stomped over to the cabinet and jerked the door open to grab two plates, some napkins, and eating utensils. I slung the door shut against the jamb and slapped another freaking, damn, lame-ass smile of serenity on my face and headed out the door.

  My feet hit the wooden deck and I paused for a moment, contemplating whether or not I’d be lucky enough to miss his ribs and puncture his lung if I tried to stab him with one of the two steak knives I was holding. Maybe if he were skinny enough to see his ribs through a tight t-shirt… but it’d be a real long-shot right now. Damn. I weighed the plates in my hands, nah, probably not heavy enough to smash over his head and knock him out. Double damn.

  Careful to keep up the happy couple appearance, I tucked everything I was holding into the crook of one arm and then hugged him from behind with the other. He stiffened at my open show of affection, probably paranoid that I’d try and separate him from his testicles with one of the steak knives, but then quickly relaxed against me.

  “I’m getting spoiled tonight with you cooking dinner for me,” I told him.

  “Mmm-hmm, enjoy your evening.” His voice had turned soft. Yuck.

  I released him and turned around to set the table. For his benefit, I let out a happy squeal when I spotted the bouquet of flowers that had been placed on the table at some point. Inwardly, I groaned because I knew exactly what he’d expect for all of his unexpected kindnesses tonight. Double yuck.

  I went back inside and grabbed a couple of glasses, filled them with ice, and opened the fridge to retrieve the pitcher of sweet tea that I’d made earlier. I carried them all outside and poured the tea. I figured the setting was now complete and went over to the banister to casually stare out at the water. I should have used a fork to stab him in the eye. No, scratch that, both eyes. Maybe if I completely blinded him, I could get my hands on his phone, start running, and call 911.

  I let my gaze drift downstream, trying not to stare at that bridge again. This was my first really good look at the surroundings since the first day we came here. I looked down past the bridge, and took in how far away other structures on land were. A bit further down the river, there was another bridge that appeared to cross over not only the river, but an island as well. I hadn’t managed to pick it out that early morning weeks ago. I’d been too stunned by the first bridge to bother looking beyond it. The second bridge crossed above the tree line on the island. There were no roads going down to it, so it had to be uninhabited.

  …Oh. My. God!

  I let my eyes continue to wander around as images of the island across from my grandparent’s summer home flashed through my head. It sat between a railroad bridge and a regular traffic bridge that crossed the same uninhabited island that the trailer sat across from, just further upriver from the summer home. And then… further upriver… past the island… was the interstate bridge. Holy. Fuck.

  Was it possible? Could this first bridge I was seeing downriver from us be that same interstate bridge? Is there a railroad bridge further down that I just can’t see from here? Had he done this by accident, or was it on purpose?

  If this was the same bridge, then I was literally just a few miles from the summer house. I closed my eyes and pretended to be enjoying the slight breeze that had just begun blowing. I didn’t want to be caught staring too intently, and my mind was reeling. Had he honestly just happened into the job and found this home? Was his luck really taking a turn for the worse?

  I’d been so careful to not talk about my extended family. I’d only talked about my parents, and then made up lies about them that I thought he’d want to hear. I know I never talked about my grandparents, or their summer house.

  Dear God, did I talk in my sleep? No, of course not. That summer home was so small and people slept everywhere, couches, a futon, and sometimes a foam mattress in the middle of the living room floor. Someone would have told me if I talked in my sleep. More likely they would have given me a hard time and teased me about it for years.

  But, the man was a genius on a computer. Would he have bothered to be that thorough in his research? And if he had found out about the summer home, why would he have brought me here? To tease me? To test me? Would he really be willing to bring me to a place that I would eventually recognize?

  Ugh! I couldn’t make any sense of it. There’s no way he could think that I was so well trained that I would actually try to convince family members that I wanted to stay with him, if and when we came face to face with them. Either he didn’t know, or he was way more twisted than I could ever give him credit for.

  Was this even the same bridge? Maybe it wa
sn’t. My sense of direction had always sucked. I could just be confused. This couldn’t be the only place in the country that had this same set-up. But if it was that same interstate bridge, it would explain why it had seemed so familiar. We’d bring a boat up past the interstate bridge to water ski. The river was wide enough, and other boats were usually already off to one side or the other because of needing to pass by the island soon after.

  If I was where I thought I was, we were in a different state than the one he’d kidnapped me from. This was a quiet piece of shore, tucked away on the far outskirts of town, so as to not be disrupted by tourist traffic. If he didn’t know about the summer home, then this would almost appear to be a perfect place to hide. It was a small town, microscopic during the colder half of the year when the summer population emptied out.

  Well, hell. Maybe God was on my side, after all. Or maybe I’d been standing in line, waiting to get a prayer answered, for so long that it was finally my turn.

  You know, if it’s the same interstate that I think it is, that bridge and I go way back. I used to think of it as a magical road that led everywhere. We had gotten on it to go to Colonial Williamsburg, to Baltimore Inner Harbor, to Washington D.C., to Charleston, South Carolina. Heck, that bridge could almost take you to Disney World, if you just followed the road long enough. Maybe, for me, that bridge really was magic. Maybe it had never been about going away to other places… maybe it had been more about leading me home.

  I took in a deep, calming breath. The air felt like early spring, that impending flux of warm air that would still undoubtedly be knocked out by a cold blast or two before finally reclaiming the land. There were a couple boats that had gone by from time to time, those few brave souls that were out to enjoy the water with a modicum of peaceful tranquility while they still could, before the hoards of water-skiers and sunbathing joy-riders came out of the woodwork in full force.