Crucible of Fear

by D. W. Whitlock

  He’d never had to open it with his left hand before.

  Slipping a hand inside, he pushed past documents and a bundle of cash before he found what he was looking for.

  Back in the living room, he placed the gun next to his prosthetic hand, then pulled the charging cable out and slipped on the sleeve. The robotic fingers surged to life as he flexed, twitching and curling like metal snakes. He reached down and picked up the gun, staring at it in the dim light. It appeared to be a natural extension of the prosthetic, the black plastic and metal of the Glock 19 similar in texture and appearance.

  With his thumb, he popped the catch and the empty magazine slid out. Extending his arm, Dante peered down the sights, nestling the front post into the rear, allowing his eye to focus on the front sight as he aimed at a lamp. He hadn’t fired it in years, but he remembered that much. Motors whirred as he squeezed the trigger and the gun clicked, loud in the silent room. Dad had bought it years ago when Dante was still a teenager for something manly they could do together. He’d got it soon after pulling up in the Porsche.

  They’d only gone to the range once. Dad was petrified of the thing. Dante admitted to himself that it had scared him a bit too. That first shot at the range was so much sharper and louder than he ever thought it would be. Right now, though, it felt good in his hand. The weight of it, the pressure sensors in the palm telling him it was there and solid.

  Deadly.

  His phone vibrated and he lifted it, the pale glow of the screen glinting in his eyes as he read the text.

  The Place. 20 minutes.

  Be there, or Abigail dies.

  CHAPTER 69

  The Place

  The night was warm, heat shimmer causing the few visible stars to struggle like fireflies trapped in a spider’s web. Dante slipped over the wooden rail that ran along the back of his patio and lowered himself to the ground, feet crunching on the dry grass. Shuffling down through the trees, he made his way to where Mulholland snaked along the hillside. Loose rocks crackled as he dropped to the empty street before crossing to a waiting car.

  “Hollywood reservoir,” he told the driver. He was a young guy, no more than twenty, with a shaved head and goatee. The kid glanced at him for a moment before putting the car in drive and speeding off.

  The Place.

  Dante hadn’t thought of it in years. Blocked it out. He recalled when they found it as kids while exploring the fenced in areas around the northern end of the Hollywood reservoir. It was a small, concrete block building with vents along the bottom, capped with a pitched roof covered in tar paper.

  They pried open the rust-eaten door with a metal pipe one sweltering summer afternoon, spinning wild theories as to what could be hidden inside. The entrance to an underground military facility, housing alien technology. More likely, the moldering remains of victims stashed here by a serial killer back in the eighties. Maybe someone had hidden gold here years ago and forgotten about it. The possibilities were endless and far too exciting to dismiss.

  With a dry snap, the brass lock broke free and they slipped inside, hearts pounding as they entered the confined space.

  Inside was a large, cast metal valve with a pipe running out of either side before curving into the ground. On the side of the valve was a large, spoked metal wheel, like on a ship. There were no aliens or dead bodies, but it was still pretty cool to a couple of twelve-year-olds. Their very own hidden hideout. Two rusty folding chairs along with a wire reel for a table finished off the place. More often than not, Dante and Colin would relax in the musty, cool interior, sheltering from the afternoon sun. It smelled of rust and standing water and rat dung.

  They loved it.

  As they grew older, talk shifted to girls they liked or how their lives would be different if they were cool. Dante had begun to grow weary of these chats and insisted they do something about it. Colin would shake his head vehemently. They weren’t ready.

  But Dante was.

  During the summer before their junior year in high school, he’d filled out and shot up almost two inches while Colin stayed the same size, sallow chested and rail thin. He’d grown more anxious as the school year approached, suggesting they should home school or quit altogether and join the Army.

  “Fuck that!” Dante said. “How the hell are you ever going to get laid out in the middle of a desert somewhere? Or dead?”

  Dante laughed and playfully punched Colin’s shoulder, causing him to wince and stare at the floor. Dante had noticed girls for a long time, and now, they’d started to notice him. Junior year, he decided, was going to be different.

  With or without Colin.

  No one knew of The Place, or so they thought. On a few occasions they’d find cigarette butts and empty beer cans not left there by them. Homeless, probably. They didn’t give it much thought.

  Two weeks before the start of their junior year, they met at The Place for one last time. Dante pulled open the door. Colin was already inside, back to the door, slumped on one of the metal folding chairs. He had a slender metal pipe in one hand about two feet long. Dull metallic notes rang out as he tapped it on the floor. Shutting the door behind him, Dante went to Colin and put a hand on his shoulder. Colin flinched at his touch, dropping the pipe with a clank. He looked up and stared at Dante, lower lip trembling. His eyes were a watery red, blond hair lay plastered to his skull.

  “I have to tell you something,” Colin said.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Dante, I…”

  The door opened with a squeal. Early evening light streamed in from outside. With a scuff of shoes, a slender shape blotted out the light.

  “What is this? Some kind of ass pirate proposal?”

  The voice was nasal and reedy, dripping with menace. A thin, teenage boy dressed in jeans and black t-shirt stepped inside. Dangling from one hand was a six-pack ring with one beer left, condensation dripping down the side. He was pushed aside by another boy who was pear-shaped and pimply, wearing a leather vest and thick, hobnailed boots that scraped as they thumped across the water-stained concrete. He blinked, piggy eyes wet and staring. He shuffled aside as a third boy entered, so tall he had to duck. Long, dark hair streamed down below his shoulders, angular features sharpened by a sneer. His leather jacket gleamed in the dim light as he leaned a skateboard against the wall with a bony clack.

  It was Matty Markham.

  They’d run that day after he’d crashed through the skateboard ramp, laughing. Left him lying in the bushes, screaming bloody revenge. But they hadn’t seen him since, not once. He just disappeared. Lucky break, they figured. When did neighborhood bullies just vanish into thin air? That had been three years ago.

  Maybe he’d forgotten.

  Colin stood and wiped his face with the back of a hand, keeping behind Dante.

  “We were just leaving,” Dante said. “C’mon, Colin.”

  Matty stepped aside and extended his hand toward the open door, a toothy grin stretched on his face. Cool air drifted in from the reservoir, dry yet sweet. Dante took a step forward.

  Matty gave a sharp nod.

  The fat kid punched Dante hard in the stomach, doubling him over. Colin retreated behind the valve with a moan, hands clutching at the wheel. Dante stumbled back and leaned against the valve for support, gasping for air.

  Matty glared at him, eyes hard under hooded lids. He jabbed a finger. “I owe you,” he said. “You and ‘Twitch’ over there.”

  The skinny kid tittered, revealing teeth too large for his head. The fat kid licked his lips as Matty Markham slid the jacket from his shoulders in one swift move. A silver ring gleamed on the middle finger of his right fist.

  Icy fear churned in Dante’s stomach as they closed in. He’d never been in a fight before. Not a real one anyways. But this wasn’t a fight.

  It was a slaughter.

  The chill in his body leached away as a prickly heat surged into his veins. His jaw clenched and he stood to his full height, eyes burrowing into Matty
’s.

  Fuck it, he thought. If I’m going to get my ass beat, they’re going to have to work for it.

  The skinny kid dashed forward and Dante threw a punch but he ducked and slid away. It was a feint to allow Matty a clean blow. They’d done this before. Dante sensed the swing coming and flinched, causing Matty’s fist to glance off his scalp, the ring leaving a deep gash at his hairline. He followed up with a hard left that caught Dante on the chin. His head snapped back and stars danced across his vision. They descended on him, raining blows as Colin screamed for them to stop, his voice shrill. Dante curled up on the dusty concrete as the fists and feet pummeled his body, the taste of blood thick in his mouth.

  They stopped abruptly and backed off. Matty knelt and grabbed his jacket then slipped it on before slinging his skateboard over one shoulder. He nodded to the other two boys and they turned to go.

  Dante spat blood as air hissed between broken teeth. A few lay in the dust. There was no pain, just a throbbing ache where they’d pummeled him, pulsing in time with his heart. Anger flared deep inside as he watched them leave through swollen eyes. They didn’t even bother to look back. Dante began to shake with rage. Struggling to his feet, he gripped the valve’s cool surface for support. His fingertips left bloody smears on the cast metal.

  “What are you doing?” Colin hissed. “Stay down!”

  Matty Markham stopped and glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow shooting up.

  “Fuck,” Dante spat between gulps of air, “you.”

  Matty’s eyes gleamed as he turned back around, letting his skateboard slide to the ground before stopping it with a foot. A wicked grin split his face as he dropped his jacket once more, the other boys crowding the doorway behind him.

  Colin streaked passed Dante, a scream tearing loose from his throat. Matty’s sneer became a shocked grimace as Colin thrust the metal pipe up under his chin. Colin skittered back with a reedy moan as Matty pawed at the pipe with jerky movements, a deep scarlet foam erupting from his mouth. Matty stumbled forward and the skateboard shot backward out from under his foot. He collapsed straight down onto the pipe, driving it up through the top his skull. His body jerked, blood pulsing from under his chin as he crumpled onto his side. His friends stood rooted to the spot, mouths slack before they bolted, leaving Matty behind as Colin wailed, his high-pitched voice ringing off the walls.

  Dante didn’t remember much after that. Just the sensation of floating in a dark, watery place where sound and light struggled to reach him as his lungs hitched, never quite able to capture enough air.

  The squeal of brakes brought him out of his reverie as the car slowed and turned off the road. They rolled to a stop at the south end of the reservoir where the walking trail began, tires popping on gravel. A two-foot wall topped by a chain link fence surrounded the entire reservoir, the galvanized metal of the fence patchy with oxidation. Rusty-brown smears crept down the white painted wall like dried streaks of blood. A dense copse of pines beyond the fence stretched high above, seeming to poke the bellies of low clouds dusted a pinkish orange by the city lights.

  “Here okay?” said the driver.

  “No. Get back on Montlake and drive north. Keep going until I tell you to stop.”

  The young man shrugged and stared driving again.

  Dante’s thoughts returned to when he’d woken up in the hospital. He didn’t know how long he’d been out after Matty and his buddies had given him the beat down of his life, but he’d awoken to pain. In a haze, his dad told him Matty Markham had died, but Colin’s actions had been ruled as self-defense. Dante had felt guilt upon hearing of Matty’s death for reasons he couldn’t quite figure, but the feeling evaporated as crushing pain thrust in from all sides. What he hadn’t felt during the attack had come alive to wreak its vengeance on every nerve in his body.

  The next two weeks were the hardest of his life.

  He’d emerged feeling lighter though, freer in a way that was hard to explain. Colors seemed more vibrant. The bland hospital food tasted glorious. He felt alive. Strong.

  Fearless.

  It was stupid, he knew, this feeling. But if he could survive something like that, coma and everything, well, then it couldn’t get much worse than that.

  Until someone kidnaps your daughter.

  He shifted in the seat, adjusting the Glock at his spine to keep it from digging into his back. The car’s headlights flashed over the fence that ran along the reservoir once more as they turned westward around the north end.

  “Stop here,” Dante said.

  The driver eased to a halt and Dante pressed some cash into his hand. He stepped out and watched as the car’s tail lights faded off into the night. A single street lamp burned nearby, throwing a pool of greenish light where Tahoe drive eased up the hill into a housing community tucked among squat palms and tall, furry pines.

  Dante walked southward about a hundred feet until he found what he was looking for. It was a locked gate in the fence, the same one they’d climbed over as kids. He jammed the toe of his right shoe into a link in the fence and made his way up, the fence rattling with dull metallic notes as he climbed. It was awkward going with his prosthetic hand tucked protectively against his chest and toes missing from his left foot. When he reached the top, he threw a leg over and straddled the gate, the wire along the top digging into his crotch. He slipped his other foot over and dropped to the thick carpet of pine needles that extended to the shoreline. The Glock slipped from his waistband and thumped on the ground. Dante scooped it up with his prosthetic hand, the motors whirring as the fingers tightened. He was careful to keep the index finger off the trigger.

  The trees had grown taller over the years since he’d last been here, the bushes were unkempt and wild as ever. He pushed his way past low clumps of scrub oak and entered a thick grove of trees ahead. The rich odor of fresh turned soil filled his nostrils as he gazed north and saw the Hollywood sign beaming down at him through the whiskered boughs of pines. Red warning lights blinked on the radio towers perched on the hilltop above.

  He broke free of the trees and dank odor from the still waters of the reservoir washed over him. Lights winked off the surface from an airplane that flew high overhead, distorted by gentle ripples. A squat building sat nearby about fifty feet from the shore, its cinder block walls a smudgy gray.

  The Place. It was smaller than he remembered.

  A pale, orange light seeped out from around the door, creating a vertical frame suspended in the darkness. Shadows blotted out the light along the bottom edge.

  Someone was in there.

  Dante lifted the gun and crept forward, careful to keep his footfalls quiet. As he reached the door, he put an ear to the rusty surface and listened. Nothing. He reached down with his left hand and grasped the handle and slowly pulled it open.

  It was if The Place had been suspended in time. A naked bulb hung from the ceiling, its pale glow barely reaching the corners of the small room. The valve was still there, its pitted, cast iron surface dominating the center. Dark streaks still clung to the rough metal. The wheel was there, set into the side, painted the same chalky blue. Two folding chairs sat facing the door on either side of the old wire reel table. Colin sat in the chair on the left.

  He peered up at Dante, eyes red and puffy, like that night so many years ago. There was no weapon in his hand, no Taser. Dante aimed the gun.

  “Where’s Abigail.”

  Colin gazed at him with a what appeared to be a mixture of sadness and pity. “I’m so very sorry about this, Dante. I truly am, but I had no choice.”

  “Give me my daughter!”

  A jolt of agony flared up through Dante’s feet as his whole body convulsed, lights flashing behind his eyes before the world went black.

  CHAPTER 70

  Underwater

  The world coalesced in a series of jittering smears, a naked bulb burning a wiggly smear across Dante’s vision. The valve squatted nearby, shifting as if underwater. He lay on his left side,
ragged breath causing dust to billow along the concrete floor. It tickled the back of his throat but he couldn’t sneeze. It was maddening.

  Colin was rolling up a black rubber mat, wires swinging loose from one end as he cinched it up before tucking it into a duffel bag on one of the folding chairs. He knelt over Dante, leaning in close, face distorted as if he was peering through a fish bowl, face twitching as he blinked.

  Dante couldn’t move.

  It was similar to how he’d felt with the Taser, but much stronger. His whole body was numb and a strange metallic taste clung in his mouth. He raged at himself for being so stupid and walking right into a trap, thinking a gun he barely knew how to shoot would make any difference.

  Colin glanced down as Dante’s prosthetic hand began to twitch. The gun was underneath the hand, scooting as the fingers brushed over its surface. Colin reached over to pick it up then stopped, head cocked, listening. Relief flooded through Dante as Boucher stepped through the door. It evaporated as he saw the haunted look in her eye.

  They’d gotten to her.

  A man pushed in beside her, all in black, tall with a gray streak in his dark hair. He went and stood over by the valve. “Let’s get this over with,” Dmitry said. “I have a flight to catch. A very long flight.”

  Colin stood and stared down at Dante for a long moment, his eyes dull and lifeless. He turned and rummaged through the duffel bag.

  Boucher spoke, her face tight. “I didn’t have a choice. They threatened to dox my Patricia, ruin her life. She’s all I have. It was either your daughter or mine.” Her lower lip trembled and when she spoke, her was voice thick. “I chose mine.” She leaned closer, face bloated like a balloon. “These people who have your daughter, they’re very powerful. You’re going to have to do something I couldn’t do. Let her go. They’d kill her before ever allowing you to see her again.”