My Pretties

by Jeff Strand

  "No, no, no. Nothing like that. I'm just giving you permission to go after her."

  "For real?"

  "Yes. And by that, the message I'm sending is that I trust you to be careful. I'd like you to trust me the same way."

  Ken didn't trust her, but he sure as hell wasn't going to throw away this opportunity. It still enraged him that Charlene was walking around free after trying to help her friend lure him out, and if he could have those girls in side-by-side cages, it might be worth the nagging feeling that Vivian had probably let their boss feel her up before she murdered him.

  He gave his wife a hug. "I do trust you," he whispered into her ear.

  "Thank you," she said. "I'm sorry."

  "I'm sorry, too. From now on, no secrets."

  "No secrets."

  Ken pulled away. "I assume you didn't mean that I should go after her today, but I think there's a window of opportunity."

  * * *

  Hey, Charlene! My schedule just cleared a bit this evening. By any chance are you available around 8:00? If Gertie wanted to tag along, that would be fantastic—we had a great meeting yesterday, and I could give you both more information about the approach I'm going to take.

  P.S.: Obviously you haven't signed on yet. No pressure!

  * * *

  Charlene forwarded the e-mail to Lugens and called him.

  "Tell him yes," said Lugens. "Don't say anything about Gertie. Just say yes and ask him where."

  * * *

  Ken gave her the address of a bar. Bad part of town. Usually crowded. It would be difficult for the police to keep tabs on the customers and look for somebody suspicious, because just about everyone in that shithole looked suspicious. Ken had gone there a couple of times, searching for potential victims, but he'd had no luck.

  Of course, he wasn't going to be there, at eight o'clock or otherwise. He just wanted the cops to think they might have a place to nab him.

  * * *

  "We've got a couple people in there posing as customers," Lugens told Charlene over the phone. "It's a terrible place for a business meeting. We get called out there all the time."

  "What time are we going to get there?"

  "Early. Seven-thirty. I'll explain everything to you on the ride over, but you'll have a plainclothes cop on the barstool on each side of you. Anybody who approaches you for any reason gets discreetly steered away and questioned. Another cop will be posing as a bouncer, so he'll be checking IDs as everybody comes in. We'll also be keeping an eye on people outside the venue. Either a legitimate web series producer is going to have a very startling meeting, or we're gonna catch this guy."

  "Thanks," said Charlene. "I'm looking forward to being his bait."

  "Don't call it bait. We'll keep you safe. He won't get close enough to touch you."

  "I really hope he shows."

  "Me too. I'll be there to pick you up when your shift ends."

  * * *

  Ken hated his new look.

  Though Vivian had declared that his short spiked bleach blonde hair looked "sexy," he thought it looked ridiculous. But he couldn't use the hipster beard disguise again, just in case Gertie had described him to Charlene. He'd added some makeup to give himself a bad complexion (which Vivian did not declare to be sexy).

  He spent about half an hour outside of the Italian restaurant, watching for people who seemed to be waiting in vehicles for no particular reason. The restaurant had a large parking lot and there really wasn't anywhere for somebody to keep tabs on the area while pretending to do something other than lurk outside of a restaurant. Of course, the same was true for him, but if a police officer approached his car, he'd just say that he was waiting for his dinner date, and then he'd abandon the plan. But it was pretty clear that nobody was watching the place.

  Ken got out of the car. Now he had to be bold. Not suicidally bold, but bold.

  He waited for a couple to walk through the front door, and followed immediately behind them. While they spoke with the hostess, he walked past them and through the restaurant.

  There she was.

  She was with a table of four, taking a glass from a diner who apparently wanted a refill. She didn't glance over at Ken as he walked by her. He imagined grabbing a handful of her hair, twisting it around his fingers, then slamming her head into the table, enjoying the screaming of the customers as her teeth bounced into their spaghetti.

  But, of course, his plan wasn't that bold. He walked into the bathroom. An elderly gentleman was washing his hands. After he left, Ken checked to make sure the stall was vacant. He'd hoped the restroom would be the one-person-at-a-time model, so he could lock the door, but as long as nobody had a full bladder in the next thirty seconds he'd be fine.

  He took out his burner phone and called the restaurant.

  "Davey's Italian Grill," a woman answered. "How may I help you?"

  "My name is Richard Goshen of the Emergency Response Team. We've received a credible bomb threat at your location. We've dispatched a bomb squad, but we need you to evacuate the restaurant immediately. Don't say it's a bomb. Call it a 'situation' so you don't cause panic. Just get everybody outside in a quick and orderly fashion and make sure they're at least five hundred feet away from the building. Do you understand?"

  "Is this a joke?"

  "It is not a joke and we have reason to believe the culprit has every intention of detonating the device. We'll be there in less than four minutes, but you need to get everybody out of the building right away. Do you understand?"

  "Yes. Yes, sir. I'll do it right now."

  Ken tucked the phone back into his pocket and exited the restroom. It might have been simpler to just pull the fire alarm, but he didn't want cops to show up any sooner than necessary. The hostess stepped into the main dining area. "Ladies and gentlemen!" she said, repeating the statement three more times until the restaurant was quiet enough for her to be heard by everybody. "I'm going to need you to exit the restaurant. Everything will be explained when the police show up, but we have a situation and I need everybody to leave the building in a quick but orderly fashion."

  Some of the customers looked at each other, confused. Others got up.

  "This is not a drill!" said the hostess. "We need to clear out this building immediately."

  Now more people got up. Others hurried for the exit.

  Ken made a beeline for Charlene.

  * * *

  What was she supposed to do?

  The idea that there was a genuine emergency at the restaurant on the same day that she'd been instructed not to leave was too much of a coincidence. Charlene couldn't just file out of the building with the rest of the customers and employees. But she had to assume that this was about her, so she had to be on high alert.

  She took out her cell phone to call Lugens.

  "Nope," said a blonde man, walking up next to her and speaking in a low voice. "Put the phone away or I'll shoot you in the side."

  Charlene stopped walking and put the phone back in her pocket. She wished she had the sleight of hand to make the call just as she slipped the phone away, but she was no magician.

  "Keep walking," he said. "Same pace as everybody else. This is the only way you'll save your friend's life."

  For a moment, Charlene considered not playing along, but rather attacking him, screaming and trying to claw out his eyes with her fingernails. But she had no reason to doubt that he had a gun, and if she drew attention to him, he in turn would have no reason not to shoot her. She walked forward, trying to make desperate eye contact with somebody, but the other people in the restaurant were preoccupied with their own concerns.

  They walked out of the building. Abigail the hostess shouted for everybody to move at least five hundred feet away and that the police would be here in two or three minutes.

  "You fuck around with me, you die," the man informed Charlene. "And then Gertie dies really badly. I mean, really badly."

  "How do I know she's even still alive?"

 
"Oh, I'll show you. I'll put your mind at ease, don't worry. Have you been in touch with the cops?"

  "No."

  "That's a lie. Don't lie to me. Give me your phone."

  She took out her phone again and the man snatched it out of her hand. He led her to his automobile and opened the passenger door. "Get in," he said, giving her a gentle shove. She got in, frantically looking around for something she could use as a weapon.

  The man hurried around to the driver's side. He opened the door, knelt down, then got inside the car, no longer holding her phone. He shut the door and turned on the engine.

  "Behave and you won't get hurt," he said. "This can end horribly for both of us, or we can both play it cool."

  "Show me the proof that Gertie's alive."

  "When we're in the clear." He reached under his shirt and took a revolver out of the waistline of his jeans. "Just in case you thought I was bluffing. I don't want to use this, so don't make me."

  He backed out of the parking space. As they drove away, Charlene saw her phone on the pavement, where the front tire had rolled over it.

  "Somebody's gonna find my phone," she told him.

  The man shrugged. "I don't care if they find it there. I just don't want them tracing it."

  "So you're Warren?"

  "Ken, actually."

  Charlene really, really didn't like that he'd told her his real name. She wished she hadn't asked in the first place. Maybe he was lying. Maybe Ken wasn't his name. God, she hoped it wasn't.

  "You're a pretty selfless girl," said Ken. "I saw that on the news. Offering to be that psychopath's hostage and stuff. Well, we're going to have to tap into that, because you may get scared and try to escape. If you try—even if you don't succeed, which you won't—Gertie will die. And I mean die. Keep that in mind."

  "I'm not going to try to escape," Charlene assured him. She could no longer see the restaurant in the rearview mirror.

  "Good girl," said Ken. "Keep making this easy."

  Ken drove down the street, sticking to the speed limit. He was in the right-hand lane, so when he stopped at a red light, there were no adjacent drivers for Charlene to signal to. She wouldn't do anything with her hands, but a mouthed "Call the police!" might send the message without him noticing.

  The revolver was in his lap. He was mostly steering with his right hand, but even when he had both hands on the wheel, she didn't see any way she could grab the weapon. A sudden attack would probably just end with her being gut-shot...though she would keep watching for an opportunity.

  "Hypothetical question for you," said Ken.

  "Okay."

  "Do you know what color nail polish Gertie wears?"

  "No."

  "You sure? Think hard."

  Charlene wanted to throw up. This line of questioning could not be headed anywhere good. "I really don't know."

  "Are her nails short or long?"

  "Short, I think. Long nails aren't good when you're carrying trays all day."

  "But the color. You have no idea?"

  "Maybe turquoise."

  "Maybe turquoise? Or definitely turquoise?"

  "Definitely."

  Ken nodded. "Thanks. I guess my wife was right. Figures."

  "I don't understand what I'm supposed to be getting out of this conversation."

  "My wife wanted to cut off Gertie's finger and give it to you as proof that we had her. My concern was that you wouldn't recognize the finger as belonging to Gertie. Obviously, the severed finger would upset you, but if you can't identify who it came from, what's the point? But apparently you would have known it was Gertie's, so she still has ten fingers for nothing."

  "Oh," said Charlene, having nothing else to contribute.

  "Instead, I made a video. Truthfully, I don't need to show it to you—I mean, you're already in the car. I made it in case my plan didn't go smoothly and you needed extra persuasion. But I said I'd prove that she was alive, and it would be a dick move to go back on that. Open the glove compartment."

  Charlene did not reach for the glove compartment.

  "It's not a trick," said Ken. "Her finger isn't in there. It's a phone."

  "I don't need to see the video," said Charlene.

  Ken shrugged. "Your choice."

  They drove for a couple more minutes, during which time Charlene debated whether or not she should open the glove compartment. She didn't want to pop it open and have ten severed fingers spill out onto her lap. On the other hand, she should be acquiring as much information as possible. If there was a video from Gertie, it would show where she was. Or at least where she'd been when Ken started recording.

  She opened the glove compartment.

  It was empty except for a cell phone.

  "It's the only video on there," Ken told her. "Don't forget that I've got the gun. I promise, you won't make it through all three digits of 911."

  Charlene believed that she could indeed dial the entirety of 911 before he put a bullet in her skull, but he'd kill her before she could finish her conversation with the dispatcher. So she followed instructions and played the video.

  It was a close-up of Gertie's face, looking terrified. There was a smear of blood on her cheek.

  "What do you have to say to Charlene?" an unseen Ken asked.

  "Don't come after me! He's going to kill you! Just stay—"

  The video ended.

  "Sorry, she went off-message and I had to cut it short," said Ken. "Put the phone back in the glove compartment and close it."

  Charlene did as she was told. For a fraction of a second she considered abandoning caution and just grabbing for his gun, or jerking the steering wheel to send the car careening into a crosswalk signal, but she didn't think that would work out well for her or Gertie.

  "She's wrong," said Ken. "I'm not going to kill you."

  "Okay."

  "I'm going to lock you in a cage and watch you starve to death. It won't be me killing you. It'll be biology."

  Charlene said nothing.

  "You're not going to try to change my mind?" Ken asked.

  "Would it work?"

  "No. I'm just surprised. This is a refreshing change. Usually there's a lot of begging and pleading. They tell me about their kids. Offer sexual favors."

  "I'd rather starve to death in a cage than touch your dick."

  Charlene assumed he'd respond with something like a sadistic chuckle, but he looked genuinely angry. He was silent for a moment. "Bitch," he finally said.

  She decided not to taunt him for his pathetic retort. Instead, she asked, "If I'm going to die anyway, why shouldn't I go for the gun?"

  "Because you think you still have a chance of saving your friend and yourself. If you make me shoot you, that possibility goes away. You spend your last moments trying to plug the holes that are spurting blood."

  Charlene couldn't deny that Ken's words were a good deterrent. He didn't seem like a criminal mastermind. He'd mess up.

  A couple of minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store with boards over the windows. He drove behind the building, put the car into park, and pointed the gun at Charlene's face.

  "I'm going to chloroform you now," he informed her. "Are you going to make this easy for me, or hard?"

  "I'm probably going to make it hard," said Charlene.

  And she did. But in the end, everything went black.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The deep scratch that went from Ken's wrist to his elbow hurt like hell, but at least Charlene hadn't gotten his face. Charlene's face had not been so lucky, though the nasty bruise was the least of her upcoming worries.

  After the garage door of the rental house closed, Ken opened the passenger-side door. Charlene was unconscious and wouldn't be waking up anytime soon without smelling salts, but for some reason he felt uneasy leaving her alone, even if it was just long enough to go inside and tell Vivian that his plan had worked. Instead, he not so gently lifted Charlene out of the car and awkwardly carried her insi
de.

  Vivian was seated on the living room couch. "Nice work," she said.

  "Thanks."

  "She's cute."

  "I didn't touch her."

  "I didn't say you touched her. I just said that she was cute. I wasn't accusing you of anything."

  Vivian stood up as Ken set Charlene on the couch. "It worked great. No complications. I mean, she fought back when I knocked her out, but nothing happened that we need to worry about."

  "That's good," said Vivian.

  "What's wrong?" Ken asked.

  "Nothing's wrong."

  "You're acting weird."

  "You just carried in an unconscious girl that you're going to murder. I'm not going to act completely normal."

  Ken stared at her. "You stabbed three people to death a few hours ago. So tell me what's going on."

  "I said we could do this as a team."

  "Right. And I said no. I'm not into that idea at all. At all."

  "It might bring us closer together."

  "It's not up for discussion. I'm taking her down to the basement and putting her in her cage. End of talk. We're done."

  "We're not done," said Vivian. "Maybe you don't think we should do this as a couple. Fine. But we're a family and we should behave that way."

  "What are you getting at?"

  "What do you think I'm getting at?"

  "You tell me, since I really don't like what I’m hearing."

  "Our family has problems. We all know it. You and I bicker all the time, Jared barely talks to us, he gets in trouble at school—maybe he needs an outlet."

  "He has an outlet. You think he's just playing Mario Kart with the girls who come over?"

  "I know what he's doing with those girls. I'm not as oblivious as you think I am. I know about your talk, where you told him he'd be on his own if he got one of them pregnant. Going for father of the year, huh?"

  "Were you spying on us?"

  Vivian let out an incredulous laugh. "No, I wasn't spying on you! I wasn't even home! He told me about it. Jared trusts me. We have no secrets. I drove one of the girls out of town to get an abortion."