by Jack Heath
I puke sideways all over the floor. Sludgy chunks of Nigel Boyd splatter the carpet. The ether will leave me nauseated for hours. If I live that long.
I’ve been unconscious for longer than five minutes. Even a skilled kidnapper couldn’t truss me up and get me into the trunk quicker than that. Less than twelve hours, though, since my stubble doesn’t feel longer.
Twelve hours’ driving could get me seven hundred miles out of Houston. But I’m sure the kidnapper is a local. Whatever he wants to do—execute me, torture me, hold me for ransom—he’ll do it nearby. I don’t have much time to come up with a plan.
If I scream for help, someone on the street or in another car might hear. But so would the kidnapper.
He doesn’t know I’m awake and ungagged. Surprise is just about the only thing in my favour right now. I don’t want to waste it.
Tape is harder to wriggle out of than rope. I start gnawing on the sticky plastic. Ether, vomit, electrical tape—my mouth is a symphony of flavour.
It takes me about ten minutes to realise that I won’t be able to break the tape. It just compresses into a hard, thin cord. But the more I chew, the more it stretches. Soon it’s slack enough to tear off, ripping out the hairs on my wrists.
I search for a weapon. A gun, a tyre iron—even a phone book might do. But there’s nothing in here.
The car swerves right and I lurch sideways, hitting my shoulder on the roof. I clench my teeth to choke back a grunt. Can’t let him know I’m awake.
I roll towards the lock as the car goes over a bump and up a slope. We’re slowing down. The brakes groan.
Wherever we’re going, I think we just arrived.
I brace one arm under me, ready to spring out when the trunk opens. My other fist is clenched. If he’s smart, he’ll open the trunk with the remote, standing at a safe distance with a gun in his hand. But if he lifts the lid from up close, expecting to find me sleeping and bound, I’ll crack his skull.
The engine rumbles to a stop. I hear the door open. The car tilts as the driver’s weight is lifted. The door closes again. I listen for footsteps, but they’re muffled by the metal.
I’m blinking sweat out of my eyes. I haven’t drawn breath since the car stopped moving.
Come on, pal. I’m just a helpless, sleepy, trussed-up turkey. Come and get me.
Still no audible footsteps. Every passing second makes it less likely that he will be unprepared.
I wait. This is going to be the strongest punch of my life.
He waits too. Hoping I’ll get tired? Hoping I’ll go back to sleep? Maybe he’s just checking the safety is off on his gun.
Five minutes pass. Ten.
Maybe he’s gone. Maybe the plan is to leave me in the trunk all night, suffocate me. He could leave me here all day tomorrow, too. The midday heat would finish me off.
Fifteen minutes now.
Screw this. I’m coming out.
Most trunks have a release catch on the inside to stop kids from getting themselves killed in their parents’ cars. I fumble around in the darkness and discover that this one doesn’t. I’ll have to get out the old-fashioned way.
I press my foot against the roof, right near the lock. Trunks are designed to take a lot of pressure from the outside, but from within, they’re fragile. The metal creaks, the hinges groan, and the lock cracks. I kick the trunk open and sit up, arms raised.
No one is here.
The car is parked near the middle of an empty lot. A chain-link fence stands to my right, crawled under so many times that the bottom is twisted and broken. On my left is a graffiti-scarred warehouse sitting in a halo of broken glass.
I’m somewhere in Houston’s industrial district. No one of sound mind comes here at night. A sex worker will throw herself out of a moving car if the driver takes an exit towards here. I could shout until I was hoarse and nobody but the kidnapper would come running.
I climb out of the trunk, close it softly, and crouch beside the sedan. The car is empty, so he must be in the warehouse. I peep in the driver’s-side window. The keys are not in the ignition.
I could run. I might get away. But the kidnapper would still know where I live, and I don’t even know what he looks like. If Luzhin can’t afford police protection for witnesses against Charlie Warner, he isn’t going to fork out for a scumbag like me.
I emerge from behind the car and sneak towards the warehouse, staying low. The roller door is slightly open. I creep up and stand near the gap, listening.
Silence inside. This could be his hideout, and he’s gone to sleep somewhere within. Or he might have seen me coming and be waiting.
I take a deep breath, and step through the gap.
No bullet hits my chest. No lead pipe swings out of the darkness and slams into my nose. So far, so good.
There’s just as much broken glass on the floor inside as out. I don’t know where he is, and he probably doesn’t know where I am. A crunching footstep could shift that situation in his favour.
I can’t see anything, so I close my eyes. The air currents and the minute echoes of distant traffic give me a sense of enormous space. The roof feels high—I don’t think there’s a second floor. And the far wall seems to be a long way away, so the warehouse probably isn’t divided into separate rooms. There are no barriers to separate me from the kidnapper.
I build a mental map of the warehouse and walk through it with my arms outstretched, ready to attack if I bump into him. I can’t shake the fear that he’s watching me through night-vision goggles, chuckling to himself at the clumsy green apparition.
A sudden intake of breath to my left.
Could have been a stifled sneeze, could have been someone lifting something heavy. Could have been my imagination. Now that the echoes are gone, there’s no proof I ever heard him.
Guessing he’ll expect me to head towards the noise, I back away. Sensing a wall behind me, I reach out to touch it. Corrugated iron, with a power cable running along it.
I follow the cable along the wall. Rivets hold it in place every three feet or so. Soon I reach a light switch. I turn to face the kidnapper, or where I think I heard him, and descend into a sprinter’s crouch. He’ll be dazzled by the lights for a second or two at the most. I’ll have to move fast.
I flick the switch.
Nothing happens.
I’m already wondering whether he heard the click and if that will lure him over here when suddenly the lights do come on—old fluorescent bulbs which take a few seconds to warm up. I run, fist raised, ready to exploit his confusion—
But no one is here. Just roaches scratching across the walls and trash blowing around the floor. Machine parts, so rusted and broken that their purpose is opaque, have been swept to the sides of the warehouse. Mould-slimed jars are stacked in one corner.
Correction. Someone is here. Naked, facedown on a stained mattress, one hand cuffed to a pipe on the wall. An ugly fence of stitches sits just above his ass.
He’s missing a kidney.
•
It’s like a present. A nude, helpless, wounded, breathing gift, just for me. I want to grab his scrawny arms and twist them off, popping the joints and leaving his arteries trailing from his shoulders like spaghetti.
Instead, I roll the kid over and slap a hand over his mouth. His eyes flutter open.
‘Stay quiet,’ I whisper.
He stares at me with growing terror. He looks worse than his picture—thinner, with less colour in his face. But for a kid who’s just had a nephrectomy with no anaesthetic, he looks pretty good.
‘I don’t know how far he’s gone,’ I say. ‘We gotta be real quiet. Okay?’
He nods. I take my hand off his face.
‘You’re Cameron Hall, right?’
He hesitates, and then nods again.
‘I’m Timothy Blake,’ I say. ‘I’m here to help you. Where’s the handcuff key?’
‘He keeps it on him.’ His voice is dry, croaky.
I don’t have the tools t
o pick the lock or a phone to call the cops. A small office with empty window frames has been constructed near the roller door. Maybe I can use something in there to cut the chain. I stand up.
‘Don’t leave me!’
‘I’m just looking for something to get the cuff off,’ I say. ‘Stay quiet.’
The boy bites his lip.
I move over to the office. The door is locked, so I climb in through one of the windows and start opening drawers.
The drawers are empty of everything except cobwebs and cigarette butts. The place looks like anything useful would have been looted long ago.
A sledgehammer, too heavy to steal easily, leans against the wall. Maybe I can smash the chain. But that’ll be loud.
An engine rumbles outside.
I freeze, listening. The car I arrived in pulls slowly out of the lot. The kidnapper must have picked something up from around the back of the warehouse, and now he’s leaving again. But when he realises I’m not in the trunk, he’ll hightail it back here. We may not have much time.
I drag the sledgehammer over to Cameron, leaving a trail of lime dust. ‘Hold still,’ I tell him.
I raise the hammer and let it fall. Thunk. The chain looks unaffected.
I lift the hammer higher and bring it down harder. The metal looks scratched, but the damage is only cosmetic.
I hit the chain a few more times, and succeed in denting it—but then I notice that the head of the hammer is dented almost as much.
I can’t leave Cameron here. By the time I’ve found a payphone, the kidnapper will have come back and moved him. But I can’t get him out of the cuffs, either. The metal is stronger than the hammer.
I swing the sledge against the pipe, trying to crack it. But the way the impact thrums up my arms tells me that it’s not going to work; the pipe is too solid. How can I get him out of here?
I look at Cameron’s hand, limp and thin on the floor. An idea is taking shape.
I push a couple of pills out of the Rohypnol packet and give them to Cameron. ‘Take these.’
‘Why?’
‘Because this is going to hurt.’
He looks up at the sledgehammer then down at his cuffed hand. ‘Oh shit,’ he says. ‘No way, man!’
‘Sorry,’ I say, meaning it. ‘But it’s the only way.’
‘No! Don’t!’
‘Take the goddamn pills!’
‘No way!’
I raise the hammer, and he changes his mind immediately. The tablets vanish down his throat faster than a mouse when the cat shows up. I lower the hammer again. The drugs will need a minute to kick in.
I’ve been knocked out and tied up, I’ve vomited, and I’ve drugged two teenage boys. Even by my standards, this is a bad night out.
‘Don’t break my hand, mister,’ he says. ‘Please.’
‘Bite down on the mattress, Cameron.’
‘Cameron,’ he repeats. His voice is already blurred and distant. He weighs less than Epps, and the double dose is taking its toll. ‘Cameron’s not…’
‘Bite the mattress.’
He chews at the foam sleepily, like a grazing cow. Every passing second brings the kidnapper closer.
I slam the hammer down on Cameron’s hand. It hits him at the base of the thumb, and there’s a cruel snap as the bones splinter beneath the skin. He moans.
‘Nearly over now,’ I tell him. Then I take his hand and squeeze it so the cuff will slide over it. It’s like handling a water balloon filled with broken glass.
‘Uhh-oow,’ he mumbles.
‘Don’t worry. We’ll be out of here soon.’
Finally the cuff is loose. I say, ‘Okay, stand up,’ because Rohypnol makes people obedient, and I’m an optimist at heart. But Cameron doesn’t move.
I grab him under the armpits, haul him to his feet and throw him over my shoulder like a rolled-up rug. He doesn’t weigh much—he’s a pound or two lighter than a kid with two kidneys, just for starters. But I won’t be able to run with him on top of me. If the kidnapper sees us, I’ll have to leave Cameron behind, or die by his side.
I carry him to the roller door and peek out. The night is dark and silent and hopefully empty.
It’s harder than before to avoid the noisy shards of broken glass as I carry Cameron through the parking lot. My eyes are still adjusted to the light inside the warehouse, which I’ve just realised I left on. Too late to go back now. Got to keep moving.
Gritting my teeth, I lug Cameron along the fence line until I find the driveway, and then carry him out to the road. The lights of the city are to my left, so I turn that way, starting the long trek to civilisation.
After walking for about ten minutes it occurs to me that when the kidnapper comes back, there’s a good chance he’ll be coming up this very road, and he’ll see me carrying his meal ticket away. So I turn at a narrow alley between two half-assembled buildings, and then turn again at the other end.
The howl of a coywolf carries on the breeze. Hunting and deforestation has left wolves nearly extinct in Texas, but coyotes are more adaptable. They have taken over the harsh new terrain and bred with the survivors. Coywolves are bigger than coyotes and not as shy as wolves.
Not many people get mauled by them. But not many people are running long distances in the middle of the night. Getting eaten by a wild animal would be an oddly fitting end for me. Cameron doesn’t deserve it, though.
It takes an hour and a half to jog back to the city. I don’t see another soul the whole time. I’m so tired. I’ve walked or run at least sixteen miles today, six of them with a teenage boy on my back. My calf muscles burn. My joints creak. Every step triggers a throb of pain in my swollen feet.
An emergency station stands up ahead like a computer in sleep mode, dull lights glowing all around it. Two fire engines loom behind big windows, waiting for someone to dial 911. Ambulances are parked in the dark beyond. No cop cars—those are dispatched from the police precinct.
I stagger up to the windows and slap a palm on the glass. ‘Hey!’
No response. I hit the glass harder. I’m sweaty, with dried puke on my face. Cameron is still limp and naked, his stitches exposed, his broken fingers swollen up like a giant foam hand at the Superbowl. To anyone watching, we would look like zombies.
A firefighter shuffles out of the darkness inside. Her face goes from half asleep to wide awake in a split second. She stares at me like I’m an elephant who escaped from the zoo.
‘What happened?’ she asks. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Call the fucking FBI,’ I gasp.
Then my legs buckle under me and I hit the concrete.
CHAPTER 9
A perching barrel, filled with meat, takes hits from leaps and dives. Look inside, but do not eat—the meat in there is still alive! What is it?
I’m telling my story for the fifth time.
The first was to some beat cops who showed up at the emergency station. They were understandably suspicious. I looked more like an abductor than an abductee. While paramedics loaded Cameron into an ambulance they put me in the back of their squad car—handcuffed—and drove me to their precinct.
They put me in an interview room which looked and smelled like a prison cell, except a cell would have a bed at least. Several times they asked if I wanted a lawyer. They ignored me when I asked which hospital Cameron had been taken to.
Eventually they figured out I was telling some version of the truth, so they called the FBI. The second time I told my story was to a balding, wet-eyed agent named Butten, who seemed less concerned with Cameron’s well-being and more with the ass-kicking he would get from Luzhin for waking him up. It took me fifteen minutes to convince Butten to make the call—or maybe he just thought 4.20 am was a more acceptable hour than 4.05.
The third time was to Luzhin himself, who demanded to speak to me as soon as Butten told him my name. He spent twenty minutes grilling me about what I’d seen at the warehouse. Where was it? How far did I have to drive to get there? Did I g
et a better look at the kidnapper? Might anyone else have seen him at my house? Did I hear his voice? What kind of car was I moved in? Did I remember the licence plate? I gave it to him, and he hung up without saying goodbye.
The fourth was to a trauma counsellor, who asked me the same questions, but in a more soothing tone of voice. He was a tall, hairy-armed guy who hung his head low like a stegosaurus. I tried to look shaken, as a normal person would be. It wasn’t hard, since counsellors and psychologists scare me. I worry that my face or voice will remind them of the serial killers they studied at college.
When the counsellor was done with me I asked him where Cameron had been taken. After expressing his shock that no one had told me already, he said Cameron was at Park Plaza Hospital. I hitched a ride there with Butten, whose grumbling stopped me from dozing off in the passenger seat. When he dropped me off, I stumbled into the waiting room and found Reese Thistle swearing at a coffee machine.
‘Cream and three sugars, thanks,’ I grunted.
‘Blake!’ She spun around and opened her arms as if to hug me. Then she changed her mind and clasped my shoulder with one hand instead. ‘You okay? What the hell happened?’
That’s when I collapsed onto a sofa which wasn’t as soft as it looked and started recounting the events of the evening for the fifth time.
Cops ask the same questions repeatedly for a few reasons. One is so the initial investigator’s report doesn’t bias subsequent lines of questioning—everyone on the case gets the chance to form their own opinions. The other is to check for inconsistencies, see if a witness is telling the truth. Since I’m lying my ass off, that’s the part that concerns me.
‘How was Cameron’s demeanour when you found him?’ Thistle asks as she hands over my coffee.
I take a sip and swill it around inside my mouth before swallowing it. ‘Naked and unconscious.’
I can’t admit I talked to him. When his tox screen comes back with traces of Rohypnol, I want the kidnapper to be blamed. Hopefully Cameron won’t remember enough to contradict that.
‘Oh, right,’ she says. ‘Well, we’ll be able to question him soon. The doctors have him on some kind of drip that’s supposed to help wake him up. What about you? How are you feeling?’
