by S. J. Harris
“How did you get into my motel room?” I asked.
“I do maintenance for Aunt Julie sometimes, remember? I have a pass key. Now, it’s time for you to go lie down with Peter in my trunk.”
I saw the back of Bill’s hand coming toward my face in slow motion.
27
I woke in blackness, my body wrapped from shoulders to ankles with heavy rope. My mouth had a rag stuffed in it and was sealed with tape.
I was in the trunk of Bill’s car and we were moving. I fought waves of nausea with every bump, every turn. The drug Bill had injected me with (I had a hunch it was Valium, from the effects it had had on me) had mostly worn off, and I felt like I had a hangover.
We slowed and came to a stop. I heard the rude buzzer, smelled the smell. We were at Kessler’s.
Bill parked, got out and slammed the door shut. Gravel crunched under his boots as he walked away from the car.
I heard multiple engines start as second shift headed for home, heard the ticking of the Cadillac’s motor cooling, heard the toink, toink, toink--the sound of a pencil tapping on a flagpole that was my own heartbeat reverberating in my eardrums. Then I heard a snort and a muffled cough. Peter Daniels. I couldn’t see him but I felt him against me. I had gotten too close to the truth and Peter had gotten too close to Sonya.
I struggled against my restraints, to no avail.
Bill would wait for Gordo to take his post cibum nap, then take Peter and me to BASE and process us. Why hadn’t he killed us already? He could have given us a lethal dose of the Valium or, for that matter, skipped the drug all together and put bullets through our brains. Maybe that would have taken all the fun out of it. Maybe he enjoyed this shit. Maybe he had the same mentality as someone who pulls the wings from a fly only to watch it spin in circles. I thought about the journal entry I’d read, about the cat and the firecracker episode. Bill was warped. He not only was obsessed with Sonya Shafer in a very unhealthy way, he enjoyed seeing living things suffer.
I had no doubt that Bill Driscoll would eventually be caught and prosecuted. I had talked to Sonya’s father and had left the Bill pushed me message. I didn’t tell Bill that Steve Morrow could talk now. Bill probably would have stopped by the nursing home and made sure Steve never uttered another word or blinked another eye. With Steve’s testimony, Bill would be convicted of attempted murder. The only problem was, by the time Bill was caught and prosecuted I would, for one thing, be dead, and millions of people would be poisoned with Mad Cow.
The machinery inside Kessler’s sang its sad whooshing song. Peter, awake now, attempted to scream through his gag. He might as well have been screaming on the moon. We were isolated and encapsulated and before long would be pulverized and powdered.
Normal room air is about twenty percent oxygen. We might have been getting half that in the trunk. My fingers and toes were numb and my lungs were unable to fully expand. The rope gnawed into my skin and constricted what was left of my life forces. I tried to think of the medical term for extremely low blood oxygen saturation levels.
Hypo something.
I’ve seen patients, their lungs fried from too many years of cigarette smoke or asbestos exposure or any number of other environmental hazards, panic when their bodies couldn’t get enough oxygen. The panic leads to hyperventilation and further exacerbates the problem. Some die, some end up on mechanical ventilators.
Hypoxemia. That’s it. I tried to remain calm and to keep my breathing as regular and deep as possible. I felt satisfaction in remembering the term, as if I’d just gotten an A on a quiz.
But Peter was wheezing, panting, sucking in more than his share of our limited resource. I wished he would go ahead and die and leave more air for me. I did not just think that, did I? Jesus. My brain was screwed. I had to get us out of that trunk.
Peter and I were locked in fetal positions, his knees in my face and mine in his, fraternal twins in a malicious womb. Our birth would be certain death unless I could somehow wrangle out of the bonds.
I’ve flown to so many accident scenes, treated more trauma victims than I want to remember. Why couldn’t someone come and save me? Where was the cavalry when you needed it? Where were my ten-thousand angels?
Maybe trauma was the answer.
The ball and socket joint of the shoulder is a common point of dislocation for athletes, especially football players, and other trauma victims. I’ve seen the injury many times. The arm hangs slack and the shoulder line is no longer symmetrical, the affected side being shorter. It is nearly impossible to self-inflict, the pain too intense.
But there was no other way.
I wedged my right shoulder against the steel bulkhead and made an abrupt thrust against the opposite wall with my feet. After three or four tries I finally hit the right spot. I felt a pop, felt the rope loosen.
I screamed in agony.
My right arm was useless now. I wriggled, squirmed, liberated my left arm, pushed the rope down past my hips and over my ankles. I removed the tape from my mouth and pulled out the waxy rag.
I was free.
But Bill’s Cadillac came off the assembly line in 1979, long before safety items like air bags and emergency trunk latch releases were standard. I fiddled with the trunk’s lock mechanism with no luck.
I reached over and gently pulled the tape from Peter’s mouth.
“The motherfucker broke my fingers,” Peter said. “He might as well have killed me. I’ll never be able to play the guitar again.”
I tried to untie Peter’s rope, but the knot was behind him and I couldn’t get a grip on it with my one functioning hand.
“See if there’s a tire tool in here,” Peter said. “Maybe you can pry open the trunk.”
I felt around and found a recessed metal pull that raised a trap door. A wing nut, covered with oily dust, secured the spare tire, the jack, and a tool with a lug wrench on one end and a pry bar on the other. I loosened the nut and jiggled the tool free.
I jammed the chisel edge where the lip of the trunk mated with the car’s rear panel. I jerked the tool toward me, felt the lip bend. I did this several times and, although the trunk didn’t pop open as I hoped it would, I created some decent sized air vents. Choked rays of light seeped through. Breathing got a little easier.
I rested for a minute and then started pounding the lock mechanism with the lug wrench end of the tool.
But the brass and steel lock assembly, installed on a Cadillac El Dorado and probably the best money could buy in 1979, resisted my steady barrage with the tire tool.
Sparks flew with some of my strikes, and I wondered how close we were to the fuel tank. Right over it, I supposed. But I didn’t smell any gasoline fumes. I only smelled the stench of decay coming from the plant, mixed with Peter’s sour farts.
“What the hell did you have for lunch?” I asked. “It’s hard enough to breathe in here as it is, you know?”
“Sorry,” Peter said. He was panting, not sounding very healthy at all. “I can’t help it. Having any luck with the lock?”
“Only bad luck,” I said. “I only have one working arm, so it’s hard.”
I thought about spending the time trying to release Peter from his bonds and then remembered that his fingers had been broken. He wouldn’t be much help opening the trunk.
A spark hit my cheek, just below my left eye, and I heard a rattle, a sound similar to a coin dropping in a vending machine. I pounded, again and again and again, and suddenly the well-engineered lock mechanism crumbled like the walls of Jericho.
I pushed the trunk lid open with my nearly-exhausted left arm.
I climbed out, sucked in a few breaths of the tainted fresh air, told Peter to roll over so I could reach the knot behind him.
He didn’t respond.
I put two fingers on his neck and felt for a carotid pulse. He did have a pulse, a weak and thready one, and I guessed his respirations had slowed to about six per minute. Peter was going to die if he didn’t get medical attention soon.
I opened the passenger side door and scanned the interior, hoping Bill had left his cell phone. No such luck.
I rooted through the glove box, thinking I might find some sort of weapon. All I found were a couple of vintage condoms, an envelope containing the car’s registration, a book of matches advertising King Edward cigars, and a faded photograph of Sonya Shafer.
I remembered the trick Sonya showed me the first night I walked into Lyon’s Den, the trick of lighting a match with one hand.
I went back to the trunk, struck a match and burned off a length of the rope I’d been tied with. I fashioned a sling and secured my deformed right arm against my body. I thought I might have some running to do, and I didn’t want to risk further tissue damage. If fortune allowed, I would be needing that shoulder again some day.
Peter’s face was puffy and pale, a bruised version of the Pillsbury Dough Boy. A thread of blood-tinged drool dangled from his lips.
I wanted to escape Kessler’s, but Peter needed a rescue unit and he needed one fast. I managed to untie and loosen his ropes, at least giving his lungs more room to expand.
I looked at my watch.
2:17.
Bill and Gordo were probably at lunch. Bill would wait for Gordo to fall asleep and then come for Peter and me.
I didn’t have much time.
The gate was locked and climbing the six-foot chain link fence topped with three strands of barbed wire would have been hard enough with two good arms. Not an option with one.
I shoved the King Edward matches into the back pocket of my jeans, grabbed the tire tool and headed toward the loading dock. I ducked and tried to stay in the shadows.
I climbed the concrete steps, crept against the steel outer wall of the building and peeked inside the open loading dock door. Around the corner I found the switch that opened the electric gate. I put my hand on it and then wondered if the switch would cause the buzzer to sound. I didn’t want Bill to know that I was out and about.
I decided not to gamble. Even if I opened the gate and escaped, it was at least a mile to the nearest phone. Probably two miles. I could save myself, but I’d never make it to a phone in time to save Peter. I needed a telephone now. ASAP. Stat.
I walked into the labyrinth of pallets stacked on steel racks, trying to remember the way to the foreman’s office. Through the maze I went, feeling little and lost. The steel racks, loaded with supplies and product awaiting shipment, towered over me. Dust-caked exhaust fans rattled in the window frames thirty feet above the pallet racks, but the steel building, set on a couple acres of concrete, retained most of the day’s heat. Sweat trickled down my back. Harsh overhead lights illuminated the stench. I held back a sneeze. I peeked around every corner, tire tool in hand, ready to take Bill Driscoll’s head off if we met.
I passed 4-D, the area where Darla Bose’s finger had been boxed and frozen and shipped to the Cannery in Washington State. I opened the walk-in freezer and allowed some of the sub-zero air to wash over me for a minute. Someone had set a can of Sprite inside the freezer to chill. They must have forgotten about it and had let it freeze solid. I set the tire tool down for a second and rubbed the bulging cold aluminum on my hot face. I was thirsty, probably on the verge of dehydration. I stuffed the Sprite can into one of my front pockets, a portable air conditioner against my groin. I trudged on in search of the foreman’s office.
When I passed the hallway leading to BASE, I knew I had gone the wrong way. But the break room was near BASE, I remembered. Maybe I could get Gordo to help me. I hoped Bill wasn’t still there with him. Then again, if Bill wasn’t in the break room with Gordo, he was probably on his way to the car and would discover that I’d escaped. I was screwed either way.
I edged around the corner, peeked into the window of the employee lounge, saw Gordo’s bald head resting on his folded arms on the table. He was alone. I entered the lounge.
“Mr. Gordon. Wake up.” I shook his shoulder.
“Just a few more minutes, honey,” he said. His eyes never opened.
“Please wake up Mr. Gordon. Mr. Gordon. Gordo!” I shook him more vigorously, but he was out like a light. Bill must have given him something.
I reached into my pocket for the cold aluminum soda can, thinking I would press it against his neck and that the abrupt chill might startle him to consciousness. Before I got the can out of my pocket, I heard a door slam and then footsteps clicking on the concrete floor. I bolted out of the lounge and ran behind a wall of pallets. The footsteps went by and turned a corner before I could get a look.
I followed the sound, tiptoeing so as not to make much noise myself, lug-wrench-sword in hand and ready for battle.
The overhead light in the glassed-in cubicle that served as the foreman’s office had been switched off, but enough of the light from outside the office filtered in and allowed me to witness the action.
I couldn’t believe my eyes.
Bill Driscoll was kissing Diane Kuhlman. Diane was not resisting. In fact, she seemed to be enjoying every minute of it. She seemed to be enjoying it right up to the minute Bill pulled out a hypodermic and jabbed it into her right gluteal.
I watched as Bill lowered Diane to the floor.
He came out of the office, locked the door and took a right, toward BASE. I let him get a head start and then followed at a distance.
He pulled out a key ring and unlocked a garage-sized roll-up door located on one of the walls that separated BASE from the rest of the plant. I heard him start a Bobcat, saw him drive it through the door. He was heading toward the loading dock to fetch Peter. And me, he thought.
I ran back to the foreman’s office and, knowing that the distance and the roar of the Bobcat’s engine would prevent Bill from hearing, smashed one of the glass panels with the tire tool. I climbed into the office, careful to avoid the jagged teeth I’d created at the opening.
I pulled the phone from its cradle, punched in 9-1-1 and put the receiver to my ear.
Nothing.
No ring. No dial tone. Dead silence.
I picked up the phone’s base. No cord was attached. Bill must have taken it in case Diane woke up and got any ideas. Shit.
I shook Diane, but she was way gone. I heard rattles in her throat.
I unlocked the office door and galloped toward the loading dock, guarding my separated shoulder best I could.
28
I was almost to the loading dock door when I stopped to catch my breath and realized I had forgotten the tire tool. I’d left it on the desk in the foreman’s office. Now I had no weapon.
I looked around, thinking I might find a stray hammer, a pair of pliers, anything. But Kessler’s employees must have been well-trained in housekeeping. I found nothing.
I peeked through the loading dock door and saw that the Cadillac’s trunk was empty. Peter was gone. Bill must have gotten him. Now Bill knew I was on the loose.
I flicked the switch for the gate and covered one ear as the deafening buzzer blared. The gate came to life and rolled open. For a minute I thought about running through the gate and saving my own skin. But if I left, Peter would be dead for sure. And Diane Kuhlman. What was the deal with Diane? Apparently she and Bill had become lovers, but why had Bill drugged her? Was he planning to kill her too? I couldn’t leave Peter and Diane in the merciless hands of Bill Driscoll. I just couldn’t.
I ran back inside and found the hallway that led to the front offices. If I could get to the office complex and phone the police, maybe I could avoid a confrontation with Bill. The hallway was blocked by a stack of pallets and a forklift. I’d never driven a forklift, but how hard could it be? I climbed on and pushed the START button. Dead. Of course it was. Why should anything go my way? I looked in the battery compartment and saw that someone had ripped out one of the cables. Bill must have anticipated that I might go for the office complex. He had blocked my passage.
All the running I’d done had my legs feeling like rubber. I pulled the Sprite can from my pocket, popped it open and
sucked out the little bit of liquid that had melted. I tossed the can aside. I trotted back to the foreman’s office, wondering how I was going to fight Bill with no weapon and one arm.
Then the lights went out.
I kept walking, slowly, in the direction I’d started, feeling my way along a line of pallets. The exhaust fans had gone out with the lights and it seemed as though the temperature had risen several degrees in a matter of seconds. I couldn’t see a damn thing. Bill had a distinct advantage in the dark. He knew the plant much better than I did. He probably had a flashlight as well.
I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the book of King Edward matches. I knew I wasn’t far from BASE, and I thought a match light might be enough for me to get my bearings. But the matches were damp. My jeans had absorbed condensation from the frozen Sprite can.
I tried the one-hand trick again, felt the match head crumble under my thumb. I tried again. And again. Finally, a spark and then a flame. The fire blinded me for a second and probably burned a finger or two. When my pupils adjusted I saw that I had made it to the foreman’s office. From there I thought I could get to BASE, even in the dark. I bent down and picked up a nice big chunk of the window I’d previously shattered. I shuffled along the wall and found the corridor that led to BASE. I could see light through the cracks in the door jamb, but the flashing red beacon had been turned off. I felt my way to the pushbutton mechanical lock and remembered the code, 1-2-3. I slowly opened the door.
Bill was on the scaffold over the grinder. He had goggles on top of his head and a long pink tail, the diseased spinal cord, dangling from his back pocket. He looked like a giant rat or a devil or something.
I watched him open a valve that fed a long water hose. The hose had a nozzle on its free end and it whipped with the sudden onset of pressure. He then walked to the other side of the scaffold and switched on some electrical breakers, activating the exhaust fans and the giant auger at the bottom of the grinding pit. The Bobcat was parked at the edge of the pit, its bucket raised high enough for me to see Peter Daniels and Diane Kuhlman, both unconscious or perhaps already dead.
