Chimera, page 8
What the hell is he doing? A minute had now passed and he remained motionless. Is he in some sort of a psychotic haze? Maybe, like before, he’s forgotten where he is, that he’s just kidnapped someone. He might even have forgotten that I’m here. If that was the case, I had to run. If he was that crazy, I couldn’t chance him getting on the highway. If he got on the highway, I would have no chance at all.
Wincing, I started pulling up on the door handle as slowly and as quietly as I could. The lights would go off, as soon as the car sensed a door had been opened, but maybe it wouldn’t be enough to break him out of his daydream or trance or whatever it was and I could slip out unnoticed.
Please don’t turn around. Don’t mind the woman in the back. Stay lost in your buggy head.
When the lights finally came on, it wasn’t my door that caused it. The door to my left opened, a woman slid into the seat next to me and said, “You’re coming with us Emile.”
chapter eight
catherine’s story
“Hurry,” she said to the driver, leaning over the seat.
He nodded, put the car in gear, and sped into the street, turning left.
I recognized her clothes, her hair. The girlfriend. The first thing that popped into my head was trafficking. There’s usually a woman involved in that right? It’s supposed to put the kidnappee at ease. Women don’t do this sort of thing to other women, women are safe and nurturing. But women have to eat too, and some, trafficked themselves, have lost the ability to feel empathy. And some, like some men, are just cruel.
“I can give you money,” I blurted out, thinking of the last of the money from my mother’s life insurance.
Nothing.
“My husband…my family, they’re waiting for me, at home, I….they’ll have called the police by now.”
“Emile, listen, is there anything you need from home, anything important that you can’t live without?” the woman asked, disregarding my warning about the police.
“What?” As if this was a time to be playing the “what would you grab from your house should there be a fire” game.
“Medication? An inhaler? Anything like that?”
“Yes,” I said immediately, though it was a lie. I couldn’t think of a single thing at my apartment that I couldn’t live without, but if they were stupid enough to take me back there, I wasn’t going to say no.
She looked skeptical but told the driver to hurry once again and he changed lanes.
She knows my name, she’d even pronounced it correctly. People usually assumed it was pronounced Emily when they saw it written out, not Ay-meel. They also know where I live apparently. So it wasn’t just coincidence, them being at the club tonight. They’d followed me. But why? I had no real money, no rich family to pay ransom, not even a kind uncle to mortgage his house to pay for my release.
“Emile, we’re going to your apartment and you’re going to grab whatever it is you need but we don’t have much time,” she said, and I noticed she had an accent. But it was so faded I couldn’t tell what it was. Russian, French, Norwegian, who knows.
“My name is Catherine, and this is Samuel,” she said, gesturing toward the driver. “I can’t explain everything right now, but you have to trust us. That woman, the old lady, she was not….she was there on purpose. And there are others. Calling the police won’t help, it won’t stop them. I know it doesn’t make any sense, I know it sounds ridiculous but you have something they want and they won’t stop until they get it. We’ve been sent here keep you safe.”
Obviously, it was a story made up to keep me from trying to run. If someone you’re after, someone you’re trying to kill, is getting away from you, about to cross a bridge, you shout at them that the bridge is rotted through, about to collapse, so that they’ll hesitate, linger. That’s when you can sneak up behind them and slit their throat. That’s what this was. A ruse. But they could’ve at least come up with a better story. I was about to be homeless, what could I possibly have that anybody would want? The most expensive thing I owned was now sitting abandoned on a road with a busted tire. I didn’t have a thirty million dollar tiara stashed away in a safety deposit box somewhere. I don’t even have a savings account.
But why would they care about medication? Why would they chance taking me to my apartment? Unless it was another trick, meant to calm me down. Then again, maybe they did care, maybe I’d be worthless to them if I died of an asthma attack somewhere between here and wherever it was they meant to take me. Dead people can’t earn you any money. I don’t think.
I turned away from her and tried to look out of the dirty windshield as we drove further down the street.
“Your name is Emile Warren, you’re twenty-three years old. Your mother’s name was Caroline. She died of cancer four years ago. You were homeschooled, and you’ve never held a paying job, only volunteer ones. You’re an only child and so was your mother. Her father was killed in battle in Europe, and her mother, your grandmother, died of cancer just as she did.”
If she were trying to comfort me, it wasn’t working. Stalking is not comforting. And why, if they knew so much about me, did they not know that I wasn’t asthmatic or not under the care of a doctor?
“You can get all that information from the internet,” I said, but didn’t think it was true. At her request, my mother hadn’t had a funeral or even an obituary in the paper. She had been a very private person and I had picked it up. No Facebook page, no Twitter account, I didn’t even give my real name when signing up for e-mail. “Give me a day or two and internet access and I can find out who you are as well.”
“I doubt that,” she said, as she turned her head to look through the rear window.
The driver, Samuel, if that was his real name, remained quiet as he turned left onto a two-lane street I recognized. I knew the way home from here. I knew we’d pass convenience stores, houses and an all-night patio bar and grill before we came to my street. I was still huddled against the door, my hand still gripping the door handle but it would be foolish to try and run right now. The woman, Catherine, had slid to the middle of the large seat and was only an arm’s length away from me, so if I tried to jump out she’d be able to grab me easily. While she didn’t look any bigger than me, maybe an inch or two taller, I knew it would take a lot more effort on my part to try to get clear of the vehicle than for her to keep me in it. If I tried, she might be able to hang on to me enough so that all I’d be able to do is hang from the door and maybe get sucked up under the wheels. So I sat and waited while we pulled up behind an SUV that was driving slowly in front of us.
Looking out of the rear window of the slow moving SUV was a little girl with bright red hair holding a large stuffed animal to her cheek and tracing something on the glass with her finger. Samuel was watching her, a little smile on his face and as she continued to smudge the glass. He took one of his hands off the steering wheel, his smile growing wider, and waved at her. The little girl smiled in return and waved back. It looked creepy as hell. I hoped he’d never had any children in the back seat of this car.
The SUV finally turned at a stoplight a mile down the road, Samuel sped up, and I thought of what I was going to do.
The apartment complex I live in isn’t luxurious, but it’s not a dump either. There’s little crime in the area and the buildings are open to the outside. There’s no fence around to keep people out, no security gate, no need for memorized codes. There’s not even a friendly security guard to pass who might recognize me, recognize fear in my face and get suspicious, call someone, ask if I’m okay.
My building is the first on the corner, only a small garden shed sits next to it, separated from the street only by a sidewalk and thin strip of grass. We would only have to pass the shed and a lone picnic bench on the other side of it to get to my door, but once we got to it, we’d be surrounded on three sides by apartments that wrap around the courtyard in front. That was my best shot at getting someone’s attention. It was late, but at least a few people were bound to still be up, watching TV, talking on the sofa with company, or maybe getting ready for bed.
Bed. Where I’d be right now, if not for…yes, you guessed it, STUPID HANNAH! I wanted so much to be curled up in it right now. I wanted to tell these people that I didn’t have any money, I was the wrong person, nobody was out to get me. There was no reason. My head was beginning to ache from banging into Mrs. Ratched’s truck window and all the adrenaline I’d had coursing through my body earlier was seeping away, leaving me weak and jittery. I could deal with being kidnapped in the morning if only I could get some sleep. If they could just wait until morning, we could clear all this up then.
I turned away from the window and toward her, Catherine, as the car sped up even more once we passed an intersection and the street widened.
She had been staring at me staring out the window and she looked away. I guess she was trying to determine whether or not I believed her ridiculous story, whether or not I was going to bolt the minute we pulled up to the curb near my apartment.
Under the streetlights, I could see her face only in profile. I tried to memorize it, tried to make out any distinguishing features. She had a slightly aquiline nose, a small, almost unnoticeable bump under the ridge, the tip angular and delicate. Her skin, I’d noticed when the car lights were on, was not pale like his, but slightly olive in tone and her eyes were dark but I couldn’t see well enough to tell what color. Like Samuel, she looked young, but whether she was twenty or thirty or even forty was hard to say. She didn’t look like some depraved kidnapper, but as I’d never been kidnapped before, I couldn’t be sure what one looked like. Dirty? Scruffy? Bugged-out eyes and cracked fingernails? She looked more like I imagined a legal secretary would look like, all business but still feminine, not some hulking she-man. Maybe that’s why they, whoever they were, had picked her for this job. To make me think she was harmless. Just a pretty girl, not a monster.
When we finally turned onto my street, Samuel turned off the headlights and slowed the car down to a walking pace. Catherine, meanwhile, was looking out of every window, trying to sell her story.
“Emile, only what you need, yeah?” she said, turning back to me and keeping her voice low even though we were still in the car. “You need to trust me, us, it’s important.”
I just nodded and kept my mouth shut.
We stopped, not at my corner, but at the corner across the street, next to a lot that was all dirt, a sign reading “The Cranberry Nook Coming Soon” was sticking out of the ground. I didn’t know what “The Cranberry Nook” was going to be, but it was slow in coming, the sign had been there for over two months now.
Samuel left the engine running as he got out and didn’t close his door all the way. I stayed seated until Catherine made a motion for me to open the door. I wanted it to seem as if I believed their story, that I was not a flight risk. But they weren’t taking any chances; as soon as I stepped out of the car onto the street, Samuel was there, ready to run after me if I took off. It unnerved me all over again, being this close to him. My shoulder was still aching from earlier, when he had almost dislocated it.
Catherine followed me out of the car, slid her hand around my upper arm, and we started walking toward my building.
The two of them barely made any noise on the asphalt as we crossed the street but I purposely pounded my feet on it. “Don’t,” Catherine said, tugging at my arm. The wind and thunder had died down, the night was completely still and quiet, not one cricket, bird, or faraway dog howling or barking could be heard. Good. When we reached my door and I started to yell for help, my voice wouldn’t be competing with any other noise.
The problem was I hadn’t been expecting Catherine to hold on to my arm. But why not? They were kidnappers after all. What had I thought, that they were going to wait for me in the car? Trust that I’d grab my inhaler and come back to them? I wondered why it wasn’t Samuel holding on to me, I wouldn’t be able to get out of his grip. Now that I was standing next to her, I could see that Catherine was taller than me, but I had been correct in my estimation, she was no more than an inch or two taller. That put her at about 5’7” or 5’8”, but still, just as thin as I was. She couldn’t be much stronger. I was sure I could break away from her if I needed to.
Catherine steered me on to the grass beside the walkway, as she and Samuel kept on the pebbled surface, walking soundlessly. We were just passing the picnic table, twenty feet away from my door, and I couldn’t help but notice how commonplace it looked. An ordinary wooden thing that Mr. Anderson and I had sat at, not too long ago, eating warm brownies and drinking cold milk, on an ordinary day talking about ordinary things. It was one of our favorite spots. Hardly anyone ever walked by it, and the tall hedges that surrounded it always kept it shaded and cool, even on the brightest days.
Before we passed it completely and made it into the light of the courtyard, Samuel stopped in front of us and put his arm out to his side. Catherine didn’t let go of my arm but pulled me slightly behind her and took a half-step to her right, also blocking me from moving forward. Someone must be outside, this is my chance. But before I could yell and try to run around them, I saw what they’d seen.
My door was open.
chapter nine
the man in the suit
“It’s too late,” Samuel whispered and started to turn, his arm still out to his side.
Catherine made to move too, but stopped when a voice rang out from the courtyard.
“Hey! Hey you there, what are you doing?” It was Mr. Anderson, running, his cane in one of his hands dragging on the ground behind him. He was wearing pajamas and slippers, and his hair, which was always so neat, so well groomed, was now dry, free of his coconut scented hair oil, and flying around his head as he moved across the walkway toward my open door.
I started to move forward but Catherine pulled me by the waist, behind one of the hedges, into the dark.
“Quiet. They won’t hurt him. It’s you they’re after,” she said in a whisper.
A man, tall and thin, stepped out of my door, wearing, of all things, a red handkerchief in the pocket of his tight, grey, suit jacket. The suit, well fitted, looked expensive and tailored. The mob! I thought, like a moron.
His hair was dark and closely cropped, ending in a peak on his forehead. He also had a goatee, which, to me, looked ridiculous and contrived. Of course he has a goatee, it’s a movie cliché isn’t it? Bad men have goatees.
“Where’s Emile? What are you doing in her apartment?” Mr. Anderson had run up and stopped just two feet from the stranger.
“Where is she?” the tall man asked calmly. He looked at Mr. Anderson then wrinkled his nose and sniffed the air, looking around him as if he smelled something foul.
Mr. Anderson, who noticed the sniffing, looked confused for a second then tried to walk around the man to the door, ignoring his question. The tall man put his hand out and pushed Mr. Anderson away.
“Tell me where she is,” he said. He kept his voice low but it resonated as if he were in a tunnel.
“Emile! Are you in there?” Mr. Anderson was trying to shuffle around the goateed stranger, but the man once again stretched out a large hand and pushed him away effortlessly. He was at least fifty or sixty years younger than Mr. Anderson and he seemed amused at Mr. Anderson’s attempts to get to the door.
The man turned, bent slightly at the waist, and said something into my door in a foreign language. I couldn’t tell which language it was but he spoke it fluidly, as if it were his native language even though, from what I’d heard, his English didn’t seem to have an accent to it.
“I’ve called the police! Emile! Emile! Help!” Mr. Anderson began to yell, and looked around, as if he had called the police and was expecting them to burst into the courtyard any second now, guns ready.
“Keep your voice down!” the man turned and hissed, no longer amused.
There was a thump from inside the open door, then a door slam.
“Police! Someone call the police!” Mr. Anderson yelled again, forgetting that he’d just said he’d already called them. He raised his cane as if to jab the man in the chest and all I could do was think no, please Mr. Anderson, don’t do that, go home. Go back to bed.
“Do something,” I whispered towards Samuel, who had also moved behind the hedges, but he raised one of his fingers to his lips and then spread his hand out, indicating for me to wait.
I turned back just in time to see Mr. Anderson thrust the cane at the man but the man easily shoved it aside and grabbed Mr. Anderson by his pajama top, pulling him forward. “I’m only going to say this once. Leave. Now.” He’d gone from angry to furious in three seconds. His face was now turning a dark maroon color and I could see, even from this distance, a large vein in the middle of his forehead and a smaller, circular one at his temple starting to bulge. It looked painful, as if his head were about to swell up like a balloon and pop.
Still holding on to Mr. Anderson, he turned his head to the left when a light came on upstairs in one of the windows in the building next to mine.
After a second, he turned back and let Mr. Anderson go with a small shove, then turned, and once again said something in that same foreign language into my open door. I didn’t need to understand his words to know that he was telling whomever it was inside, that they needed to get out of there.
Mr. Anderson took the man’s distraction as an opportunity to raise his cane again, this time over his head with both hands, ready to hit the man, but the cane was heavy, too heavy, and he was too slow. The thin man turned, grabbed the cane easily, and yanked it out of Mr. Anderson’s hands. Mr. Anderson had had a tight grip on it and the yank made him stumble forward, his head bent down, trying to regain his balance.
