Desperate

Desperate

David E. Anderson

Copyright 2011 by David E. Anderson

Cover Art By Jonathan Cheeseman

Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 978-1-4657-7715-7

License Statement:

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedicated to Nancy

Prologue

Laura Whitlam's father once told her that if a man pointed a gun at you and ordered you to come with him, you should run away. If you run, he probably won’t shoot at you. If he does shoot at you, he probably won’t hit you. If he does hit you, he probably won’t kill you. But if you go with him, he will probably kill you.

It seemed like good advice at the time.

But then it happened.

—-

She was seventeen, near the end of her senior year at Kinawa High School, and the bus dropped her off on Coben Highway. From there, it was a quarter-mile walk along a rural road to home. As she walked, a blue Toyota Camry pulled off the side of the road ahead of her, creeping in her direction. She didn't recognize it as anything belonging to her neighbors. Was someone lost?

It stopped about twenty feet in front of her and the driver's door swung open. A wiry young man with a dark crew-cut, wearing blue jeans and a University of Southern Michigan sweatshirt, stepped out of the car clutching a revolver in his right hand. Stepping towards her with a cold glare, he aimed the gun at her chest.

Get in, he commanded.

Laura's mind said to run, but her legs quivered, keeping her in place.

She couldn't run. Hell, she wasn't even sure she could walk.

The man took another step towards her, tightening his grip on the revolver. If she turned and ran, she had little doubt that the next thing she'd feel would be a bullet tearing through her.

If you go with him, he will probably kill you. Which left open the fact that maybe he wouldn't. If this really was about killing her, then why wasn't she already dead? Obviously, he wanted her alive. Right? She convinced herself that her only chance of survival was to do as he said.

So she stepped towards the car on shaky legs. He moved back to the car, switching the revolver to his left hand. He reached through the open driver's door and yanked the lever that popped the trunk. He then moved to the back of the car, switching the gun back to his right hand, and opened the trunk. Get inside.

Laura moved around to the back of the Camry and peered inside the trunk. It was empty.

Okay, this is it. Run away, or get inside? Neither seemed like much of an option, but if her choices were between getting shot and climbing into the trunk, the trunk would have to do.

Get into the trunk, Laura, he said.

He knew her name. Was that good or bad?

She shrugged her backpack off of her shoulders, planning on leaving it on the ground - a clue that she'd been there. But the man snatched her backpack and tossed it into the trunk. Get inside!

Laura opened her mouth to protest, but no words came out. She leaned over the trunk, her knees on the bumper, her hands on the grimy floor of the trunk. She brought one knee up to climb the rest of the way in, and the man shoved her.

She shrieked, rolling into the trunk.

Phone, he said, holding out a hand.

She pulled her cell phone out of her pants pocket and, with trembling hands, passed it over.

I'll kill you if you try to escape. Then he slammed the trunk, shutting her into darkness.

The engine started up a moment later, and she rolled against the trunk's rear as the man drove off, slamming her shoulder against her backpack. When he turned onto Coben Highway a short time later, she slid, banging her head against the side, and screamed.

Why the hell didn't she run? Why couldn't she get her legs to move? She always thought of herself as brave and strong, but was ashamed that she'd acted like a total wimp.

He had a gun! He was going to kill you!

But her dad was right. She should have run.

It was too late now.

Her father would be disappointed in her, and it wouldn’t be the first time she'd disappointed him.

He'd clearly wanted an obedient daughter, a proper little society girl. He wanted her to be a carbon copy of her mom, who was Miss Perfect Wifey. But Laura had always been her own person. Much to his chagrin, she’d begun wearing clothes that leaned towards the goth and punk styles. He’d bought her private music lessons so she could learn to sing and play the violin, urging her to become a classical musician. Instead, she recently formed a punk/metal band with some of her girlfriends. They called themselves the Cotton Ponies. And though her father hadn’t yet been made aware, she was finding herself attracted to their drummer, Tonya.

Look at the bright side, she thought. If this asshole kills you, daddy never has to find out you’re queer.

She wondered how long it would be until her father realized she was missing. She’d told him she would come straight home after school, but this wouldn't be the first time that she didn't do as promised.

He’d probably start calling around trying to locate her at about six, but it probably wouldn’t be until eight or nine that he'd start freaking. Knowing her dad's distrust of authorities, it would probably be daylight before he called the police.

Her mom would be pushing him to call earlier, but he wouldn't. And she wouldn't call them herself without his say-so.

Though the trunk had looked clean, there was a strong smell of oil. A quart had probably spilled in here at some point. She held her nose, trying to breathe through her mouth,but felt like she was suffocating. Was it really the oil making her feel that way, or just that she was trapped? Either way, she felt like she was going to scream if she didn't get out soon.

Didn't trunks have some kind of internal release mechanism? She felt around by the trunk's latch, and didn't come across anything that felt like something she could tug on. Besides, even if she found it, what could she do? She could hardly jump out of the car as it was speeding down the highway. She could wait until the car stopped, but then the man could easily step out of the car and shoot her for trying to escape.

He's not going to kill me.

Oh, yeah? Then what's he going to do with you?

Her mind sorted through the possibilities. Was this about raping her? God, please, no. Preferable to death, but not by much. Besides, if he raped her, he'd probably kill her afterwards, wouldn't he? Her mind groped for another explanation.

Money! Her dad had was pretty rich. Their house was worth at least half a million, and they owned a vacation home on Beaver Island that was worth about as much. They always had enough for a nice vacation every summer, sometimes out of the country. All things considered, her dad was probably worth about two million dollars.

So he probably just grabbed her to collect a ransom.

If so, there was a pretty good chance he'd return her alive once he got paid. Wasn't there?

After several minutes, the car bounced along an unpaved road. After banging against the trunk's roof a couple of times, she finally curled up into a ball, wrapping her arms around her head.

The car came to a stop.

She heard the man climb out, and a moment later the trunk popped open.

Get out. He backed away, keeping the gun trained on her.

She climbed out slowly, looking around as her eyes adjusted to the sunlight. They were in farmland, just outside of an old house. Several windows were broken, with only a few boarded over.

He pulled her backpack out, then slammed the trunk.

She walked into the house, with the man a few steps behind her. There were no lights on inside the house, but there was enough sunlight to see that the house had a layer of dust everywhere. She could hear rodents scurrying around inside the walls. The man didn't live here. No one did.

He took her upstairs and into a bedroom, empty except for a metal-frame bed against one wall. The mattress looked like something had been chewing on it.

Lie down, he commanded.

Laura shook her head as tears sprang into her eyes. Please, no! She wanted to protest, but her throat had closed up.

Relax, Laura. I'm not going to mess with you. I just need to keep you from running off. He walked over to the bed, and lifted up a handcuff that was attached to one railing, the other end open.

She wasn't sure she believed him, but didn't see that she had a choice. She sat down on the bed, and it squeaked beneath her.

First, he said, do you need to use the bathroom?

She shook her head, and he attached the cuff to her right wrist. She noticed for the first time that he wore latex gloves.

She looked at the revolver tucked down the front of his pants, and imagined trying to grab the gun, maybe just pulling the trigger with it right there, and making sure there was no way he could rape her.

But she couldn't even get the nerve to speak to him, much less try to attack him.

He followed her gaze. Don’t worry. As if it were possible for her not to worry.

Why... she started to ask, but choked on the words.

It's not about you. Just business. You'll be all right. He set her backpack near the door, then turned and left the room.

—-

A minute later, she could hear him talking on a phone, and determined that he was speaking to her dad. The man kept assuring him that this wasn't a joke.

The man asked her dad for a half-million in cash. Laura was surprised when she realized that he promised to have it by the morning. How could he turn his assets into cash so quickly? She assumed it would mean selling their vacation home on Beaver Island, at the very least.

The man told her dad not to contact the police or other authorities. She wasn’t surprised that her dad agreed to this. He wouldn’t want anyone with a badge wondering where the half-million came from.

She knew he made his money through internet-related activities. If asked by his peers, he would spout some mumbo-jumbo involving web hosting and domain registration. It was sure to bore them into saying, that's interesting, and quickly changing the subject.

She knew it was all bullshit. If he was involved in that kind of thing at all, it was nothing more than a front for his real activities.

Almost a year ago, she was passing by his office when she heard him on the phone. He said, how old?....Boys or girls?...Both? Okay, how many pics are we talking? Then he laughed and said, "The freaks are going to love that."

She tried to pretend she either misheard or misunderstood, but she knew she hadn't. So she tried to convince herself her father was just fulfilling a need some people have. That's all. He wasn’t responsible for causing people’s perversions. Maybe his websites kept the pervs at home instead of out in society acting on their urges. He was doing this as a business, not a hobby.

She never was able to look at her father the same way again. His laughter during the conversation destroyed any and all justification that her mind could conjure.

—-

After a couple minutes of talking with her dad, the man came back into the bedroom, holding his hand over the mouthpiece of a black cell phone. He wants to verify that you’re all right. If you say anything about what I look like or where you are, I’ll kill you. Understand?

She nodded, and he put the cell phone on speaker. She's here, John, the man said, pointing the mouthpiece towards Laura.

Laura? Honey? S-speak to me!

I’m here, she croaked, tears welling in her eyes.

My God, are you all right? He hasn’t...

No. I mean, yes. I’m fine. Daddy. He....hasn’t...

Jesus. Listen, don't fight him. Okay? Don’t worry. We’ll both do everything he says, and he’ll bring you back to me. Okay, Tigger?

I’m so sorry! I should have run, like you said.

No, you did the right thing. Don't try to get away, okay? He won’t hurt you, I promise. I’ve already told him that if he touches a hair on your head, I’ll track him down and kill him, and I will. He knows that. Do you believe me?

Yes, Daddy.

He’s going to get you back to me without hurting you. Okay, Tigger?

She looked up at the man, trying to gauge his response to what her father had just said. He didn't seem particularly worried. Either he was intending to return her alive, or he was intending to never let her father know who he was. He let me see his face. Daddy, I...

I’ll call you in the morning, Whitlam. The man snapped the phone shut.

Laura couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried, but the tears poured down her face. She hated letting the man see her like this. She’d always thought she was strong, but here she was blubbering like a fool. She wanted to scream at the man, to tell him what an asshole he was. To ask what kind of loser does this kind of shit to get money. To suggest that he get a fucking job.

But she couldn’t even bring herself to say a single word to him. Even looking directly at his face brought more terror than she could handle.

I’m sorry, Laura, he said, frowning. Look, I feel like you should understand why I'm doing this. Then you'll know that I mean you no harm. The weekend before last, I met your father at a casino in Detroit. He and I played some Texas Hold 'em. You know that game?

She nodded, wondering if this was the guy her father had told her about.

Let me tell you about that night. First, you should know that I'm in debt to some very bad people. I'm a gambler, and have borrowed money from people that you should never borrow money from. You know what I mean?

Mafia? she asked.

"Exactly. I was into them for a lot. Three hundred thousand. That's the kind of money they kill you for not repaying. But I'd recently had a string of luck and found myself with around thirty thousand dollars. Not enough to pay them off, but I felt like my luck would hold up, so I went to a casino in Detroit. Well, my luck held up. I'd turned that thirty into a hundred thousand that very night. Still not enough to pay them off, but it would hold them for a while, buy me some time. I was about to walk away and give the money to those people, when your dad sat down across from me. For some reason, I decided to stick it out for one more hand. If I got crap, I'd fold and walk away.

"I was dealt an ace and a queen. Good hand. Ante was a hundred, and I thought that was worth sticking around for. The flop came up - the first three cards. Ace, ace, queen. With my ace and queen, I had a full house right there on the flop. At this point, I decided to play it cool. It came to me, and I didn't raise. I didn't want people to guess that I had a good hand. Let them raise. Well, someone raised. Your dad. Threw in a thousand. Maybe he had an ace. Maybe he had a queen. But chances were he didn't have both. And if he did, so what? We'd split the pot. I had nothing to lose. Everyone else folded, but I matched.

"Fourth card came up - a ten. I decided to play, and raised by five grand. He doubled it. I matched. Fifth card came up - another ten. I considered the possibility that he had pocket tens - two tens in his hand. Four of a kind would beat my full house. But, no, he wouldn't have raised on the flop with a pair of tens when there were a couple of aces and a queen up there, would he? Besides, with two of the tens accounted for right there on the table, the odds of the other two being in his hand were astronomical. He had to have an ace or a queen.