Forgotten Bride 03-Becoming Benjamin, page 25
part #3 of Forgotten Bride Series
“Nath?” I croaked in delirium.
“Try again,” the voice said.
As my eyes adjusted, I saw Dad standing tall above me, disdainfully wiping his hand and wrist with a handkerchief before throwing it into a corner.
“Dad?” I mumbled.
“What the fuck were you thinking, son? Suicide? You’re better than that!” he chastised, kicking the empty bottle of pills into my lap.
“I wasn’t thinking,” I uttered.
“Too damn right you weren’t thinking!” he shouted as he grabbed me by my collar.
“I’m sorry! Okay?” I yelled back.
Dad spotted the envelope lying on the ground, read the name written on it, and then snatched it up to wave it in my face.
“And who is this? Nathaniel? As in Nathaniel Anderson?” he scolded.
“How do you know—"
“Fucking hell,” he interrupted. “What has he done to you?”
“Nothing,” I awkwardly let out.
“Right, nothing,” he mocked, poised to rip open the letter.
“Don’t open it!” I screamed, trying to whip it from his grasp.
Dad stopped dead and reluctantly handed me the letter whilst taking a swig of the whiskey beside me as he rose to his feet. I stuffed it into my pocket as I also tried to get back on mine, but because the effects of the drugs were still running rampant in my system, I immediately fell onto my backside with my head still spinning.
“It’s a crime to waste good whiskey like this,” Dad mused as he swished the liquid in his mouth.
“What are you even doing here, Dad?” I asked with a sigh.
“I was in the area, so I thought I’d check up on my son, and it’s a good job I swung by, isn’t it?”
“I suppose.”
“Listen, this Nathaniel, has he wronged you in some way?”
I shook my head. “His fiancée,” I mumbled.
“We don’t do this...” he said, gesturing to the half-digested tablets on the ground. “We get even.”
“How?”
“Tell me about her,” he said before downing another mouthful of whiskey. “What’s her name?”
“Olivia…” I grumbled with venom.
34
THE GRAB
ALEX – 2025
The Railroad send their regards. It was the first thought that popped into my head when I woke up with a skull-splitting headache after being knocked out for God knows how long. The second thought was more of a feeling, a sense of foreboding, knowing that a nefarious group, somehow affiliated with my father’s kidnapping business, was out there and had planned all this without my knowledge or consent and that I was now part of a chain of events that I didn’t fully understand. The third thought was panic—sheer, undiluted panic—when I noticed there was a bag over my head and my wrists were bound together after being bundled into the trunk of a foreign car that was now transporting me to an unknown destination. I writhed and squirmed in what little space I had, hyperventilating as I desperately tried to get my hands close enough to the hood over my head, but each time I thought that I almost made it, I was violently jostled to one side, hearing the tyres screech underneath me as if they were mere inches away from my ears. I flopped back in defeat, realising that if I wanted to stand a slim possibility of escaping alive from whatever situation I had gotten myself into, I would have to calm myself down and weigh up my limited options before whoever was driving popped the trunk open.
I hadn’t really thought about it before, but a part of me always knew that Dad didn’t work alone. In a moment of paranoia, it did occur to me that he could have easily been behind the jailbreak and that he was only waiting for me to make the statement in court before he despatched of me with some sense of finality. Just like he had planned, his name was totally clear, and Gregory Jackson was still dead and buried. With me out of the picture, there would be no one at all tying him to the events surrounding Olivia, and he would be able to continue his vile vocation without the fear of justice breathing down his neck. Perhaps the ominous Railroad saw me as too much trouble to allow me to walk free, and in the end, I was put up on the chopping block to save their fearless leader’s own bacon. Regardless of whether Dad was behind it or not, one thing was painfully clear: I was on my own. If I had any chance of escaping this with my life intact, I couldn’t rely on him or anyone else.
I took a few deep breaths like Cynthia had taught me, in through the nose for four seconds and out through the mouth for eight. With every second that I diligently counted, the immense panic began to subside slowly, and I let out a cynical chuckle despite myself, taking a quiet moment to appreciate the irony of my predicament. This is exactly what Olivia would have gone through if she had woken up when she was still in transport to the bunker all those years ago, and I wondered what kind of amateurs had taken me, not dosing me up enough to keep me unconscious until the intended destination was reached.
As a sense of determined composure started washing over me, I contorted my body to slide my hands up to my face, then managed to whip the bag off my head in a fluid motion. It did little good, though, because the trunk was pitch black except for the narrow beam of light that was trickling through a tiny pinhole near the boot locking mechanism. I then swivelled my head around to see if there was anything within reach I could use to cut the rope on my wrists or arm myself with. After not finding anything remotely suitable, I began to bite my binds as hard as I could, like a trapped animal, hoping to gnaw through the fibres enough to loosen the knot. As it tasted foul, a putrid mixture of grime with an underlying metallic tang, I immediately spat the flavour out of my mouth before continuing with a disdainful sigh. It felt so bloody undignified that I would have killed anyone with my bare hands just to pull myself out of the disgraceful situation I was in.
The car swerved again, travelling straight for a few minutes before it sounded like we hit a curb. On listening intently, I heard the wheels go from the smooth asphalt onto rough terrain, leaving me to be thrown around the space like a rag doll with every bump on the road. The brakes squealed when we came to a full stop, the engine was killed, and I heard the threatening sound of power tools whirring and banging around me. After a second, I heard one of the doors creak open and then slam shut, so I remained totally motionless, desperately trying to discern where I was. My blood ran cold when I heard fumbling in the lock, and shortly afterwards, it clicked, and then the trunk was flung open. The light was so bright that I lifted my bound hands to prevent it from blinding me, and when my eyes finally adjusted, I saw the same two men who had ambushed the prisoner transport vehicle standing tall above me, their bodies being silhouetted against the sun. One of them held their hand out, pulling me up by my wrists so I could perch on the edge of the boot, whilst the other pointed his pistol directly in my face. I let out a bitter chuckle while shaking my head, desperate not to appear as a victim despite knowing I was completely and inescapably at their mercy.
“Don’t move a fucking muscle, Alex,” the armed man warned.
“Okay, just calm down, pal. What do you want?” I asked.
He chose to remain silent.
“So, this is it, is it?” I asked with a bitter chuckle.
He made a shushing gesture, which left me looking around aimlessly at the scrubland we were parked on next to a bustling construction site. A house was being built there, and half of the workers were inquisitively peering over at the man being held at gunpoint, whereas the rest looked totally unperturbed and continued sawing timber and nailing it together.
“Let me guess, you’re going to put a bullet between my eyes, and then I’m going to be buried under that house being built over there? Have I got it right?” I provokingly asked.
“You know what your problem is? You talk too much,” the man uttered, clicking the hammer back on the pistol.
Just before he was about to pull the trigger, I saw an old truck barrelling down the dirt track behind my captor, who whipped round to look at it. It stopped a few feet behind him in a cloud of spiralling dust, and much to my surprise, who else but my father got out of the driver’s seat, holding a huge chrome revolver in his right hand and pointing it directly at the gunman.
“Stand down, Mike,” he instructed.
“Gregory, I have orders to—”
“You aren’t in possession of all the facts,” Dad interrupted. “Lower the piece. Now!”
The man reluctantly put the gun down and held it in front of his groin as he stepped back, so I leaned my head to see around him, watching Dad, all suited and booted, ambling over and shaking his head. Once he reached the back of the car I was sitting in, Dad shot my keeper a venomous look, and the man instinctually walked off, leaving us alone at the vehicle.
“Fucking hell, Dad. You gave me a fright there.”
“I do apologise. There were some crossed wires with my associates, but it’s all taken care of now.”
“Crossed wires?”
“Apparently, I wasn’t trusted to conclude this mess with you and Olivia to their satisfaction, but I’ve convinced them otherwise.”
“Your buddies at The Railroad?”
“Uh-huh,” he grunted.
“What’s the next step, then? South America? Seqüestrar crianças nas favelas do Rio de Janeiro? É isso que você quer?” I asked melodically.
“Something like that, but first, we have a pressing matter to attend to. Our mutual acquaintance Olivia has gotten herself in quite a dilemma again, and she’s been blowing up my phone ever since.”
“Classic Olivia,” I quipped.
Dad took out his phone, dialled a number before putting it on loudspeaker, and then held it between us.
“Don’t speak. Just listen,” he instructed before the line connected.
“Hank? Where on earth are you?” I heard Olivia say breathlessly on the line.
“Hello, ma’am. I’m just on a job right now. Is everything okay?” Dad asked.
“I’ve found him!” she exclaimed.
“Who?” Dad anxiously asked, with a smile on his face.
“Jonah! Someone has taken him, and they have my daughter, too.”
Dad muted the call and whistled loudly to the workers around him, running a finger across his throat to gesture for them to silence their power tools, or else. They complied straight away, and Dad moistened his mouth to speak again, but before he unmuted the call, I couldn’t help but interrupt with a burning question.
“Wait! You have Aurora?” I frantically asked in a whisper.
“Shush,” he said before unmuting the call.
“Hello?” Olivia prompted.
“Where is my son?” he sternly questioned.
“I’ll send you a map pin. I’m supposed to meet them alone at the old bunker control room, and I really don’t know what to do.”
“Olivia, listen to me, stay put. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Do not go in there alone.”
“There’s no time!” she exclaimed. “I’ve only got two minutes left, or they—they’re going to kill her,” she woefully stammered.
“I’ll ring the Sheriff’s office,” Dad firmly suggested, laughing soundlessly to himself.
“No! They’ll know!” she shouted.
Dad walked over to the driver’s side door of the car I was sitting in and turned the key in the ignition, firing up the engine for dramatic effect.
“In that case, go,” he announced. “Keep them talking for as long as possible. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Okay, just be careful, I don’t want—”
“Just go. I’ll take care of everything,” Dad interrupted before hanging up, killing the engine and sauntering back over to me with a victorious smirk.
“And that’s how you do it,” he laughed.
“She sounds really upset…” I pensively remarked.
“So what? She deserves that and so much more for being a rat.”
“Why did you take her daughter? What do you need Olivia to do?”
“She needs to pull her testimony.”
“Are you going to release them after it?”
“Have you ever known me to leave a loose end?”
“Is that what I am? A loose end?”
“No,” he dismissed. “I need to tell you something. What I almost told you at the courthouse.”
“What is it?”
“This isn’t easy, so I’m just going to come out and say it: I’m dying.”
“Dying of what?” I repeated sullenly.
“Huntington’s disease. It’s the same thing that killed my mother. I’ve known about it for a while, but I was just ignoring it, I guess.”
I looked down at the ground, and truthfully, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I had spent most of my life fantasising about my father’s death, but after the last few months, I felt like I had connected with him in a way that I had never done before. Despite hating what he did to me as a kid, it turned out that we weren’t that dissimilar after all, and a part of me was looking forward to rebuilding our relationship once I got out of prison. It explained how erratic he had been, as well as the shakes, coughing, and spluttering. My thoughts then went to myself, wondering if I carried whatever faulty gene he did and if I would eventually meet the same undignified end.
“How long do you have left?”
“A few years if I’m lucky.”
“Shit, Dad. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“It’s hereditary, isn’t it?” I remarked.
“Yes,” he nodded. “Although, that leads me to the next part. You don’t need to worry about that.”
“What, why?”
“Because you’re not my biological son, Alex.”
I leaned back as far as I could, wiping the sweat off my skull with my hands that were still tied together, staring at my father and waiting for the inevitable punchline with a timid yet cynical smirk on my face. After a few seconds, he still hadn’t opened his mouth, and the longer his words awkwardly hung in the air, the more I started to believe them. He shakily put an unlit cigarette between his lips, shielding the tip from the wind as he did his best to light it. He offered me one, and I sullenly shook my head before he shrugged and returned the pack to his jacket pocket.
“No, it can’t be true. I remember things,” I argued.
“Heather had a real rough time of things when she gave birth to Wesley. Hell, the boy all but ripped her insides out during labour, so much so that the doctors told us that she’d never carry another child. She was desperate to, though, and I just wanted to make her happy.”
“So, what did you do? Kidnapped me from some other family? Who were they?”
“Kidnapped? No. I did you a fucking favour! You wouldn’t believe the squalor you were living in when I found you. You had a much better life with us than you would have ever led with your biological parents.”
“A better life? I barely survived childhood because you were beating me at every opportunity! Or was that another favour you did me?”
“You might not see it this way, but yes. It made you into the man you are today.”
“Good job,” I jested, holding up my bound wrists. “I’m a pillar of society.”
“I saved your life, you spiteful little shit,” he said with disdain, taking a long pull on his cigarette.
“Who were my parents, then? Are they still looking for me?” I asked point-blank.
Dad leaned against his bonnet, then took one last drag on his cigarette before throwing it on the ground and spitting after it.
“I suppose you deserve to know,” he mumbled.
35
THE SAVIOR
GREGORY – 1988
Ibanged my hands against the steering wheel in time with the quiet country music playing through the radio, desperately trying to keep myself awake as I stared at the house across the street, patiently waiting for the lights to go out. I checked my watch, realising that I had been sitting there for three long hours, so I let out a long exhale and fumbled around for my pack of cigarettes only to notice that they had somehow become wedged in between the seat and the door. Upon opening the door to retrieve them, they dropped out of my vehicle and landed in a puddle beside it, so I wearily leaned down with a groan to pick them up and shake the water off. I managed to get a dry one in my mouth just before I saw a shifty-looking man, who was scratching his head and twitching all over the place like a maniac, burst through the front door of the house I was staking out. I left the unlit cigarette perched on my lips so I could flick through the stack of photographs given to me by Ernie the night before and compare the man with the one in the pictures.
“Bingo,” I mumbled as I removed the cigarette from my lips and tucked it behind my ear, throwing the photo onto the passenger seat but not taking my eye off the man across the road for even a second.
Through squinted eyes, I watched him go back inside, and after a few minutes, the house suddenly plunged into darkness. I patiently waited another quarter of an hour just to err on the side of caution before I got out of the car with sheer determination to cross the road and step onto the unlit porch. I gingerly opened the screen door, which let out a jarring rattle as I pulled it open, which made me wince slightly while praying that the man inside hadn’t heard it. As there were no signs of life, I tried the door handle and predictably found it locked, so I stepped off the porch and opted to go through the side gate instead. I tried each window that I passed and fortunately came across another door around the back, up a small set of rotting wooden steps, but much to my dismay, it wasn’t left unlocked either.
“This guy has to be the most security-concerned smack rat I’ve ever met,” I grumbled to myself as I stepped back from the house and looked for other options.
