The masked man orders Stephen to hold out his arms and then clips a pair of handcuffs around his wrists, squeezing the metal rings tight against his skin.
“Walk,” the man orders, pressing the barrel of the pistol against Stephen’s lower back.
Stephen staggers forward. The moon is out, but it’s far from full, casting barely enough light for Stephen to see by. He isn’t dressed for this kind of cross-country trek. His loafers quickly fill with dirt. It’s a hot, muggy night, and Stephen’s skin is sticky with sweat. He hears insects chirruping, and somewhere in the darkness a bullfrog croaks.
The man follows a pace behind, holding the gun in one hand and carrying a duffel bag with his other arm.
“Please,” Stephen says, turning his head slightly to look at the man over his shoulder. “Whatever you’re planning, you don’t have to do it. I’ve already told you I’ll give you money.”
“I’ll get my money, all right,” the man says, poking Stephen with the gun again.
Stephen jerks as if he’s been burned by a hot poker. His foot collides with a clump of dirt and he stumbles forward, landing on his hands and knees. His glasses slip off his sweaty face and fall into a patch of weeds. He gropes for his glasses with his cuffed hands, but his kidnapper grabs him by the back of the shirt and yanks him to his feet.
“Wait,” Stephen says. “My glasses.”
“You’ll buy another pair,” the man growls, shoving Stephen.
Stephen almost falls again, but he catches himself. Without his glasses, the world is a blur. Between the darkness and his own impaired vision, he can make out almost nothing, just clumps of vegetation or the occasional tree.
“Stop here,” the man orders.
Stephen squints. He can make out a large discoloration in the sandy ground in front of him. It looks like a large hole in the dirt. Stephen hunches over and tries to look more closely.
He sees an open coffin sitting in the hole.
“No,” Stephen says, wheeling around and collapsing to his knees. “Please don’t kill me. I have a wife, three kids. They need me.”
“Shut up,” the voice says, sounding annoyed. “I’m not going to kill you. There’s a breathing tube. As long as your family does what they’re supposed to do, you’re going to live. Okay? Relax.”
The kidnapper orders Stephen to stand in the box. Then the man removes a handheld tape recorder from the duffel bag and hands Stephen a handwritten note. He points a small flashlight onto the text.
“Read the words as they’re written,” the man orders, and he presses record.
Stephen squints again. Without his glasses, he can barely make out the words.
The man presses the gun barrel against Stephen’s skull and nods his head toward the note.
“Nancy, this is, this is, umm, this…I…that…I thought this was a joke or something, but it’s no joke. I’m…there’s somebody and I’ve got handcuffs on, and I’m inside some, I guess, a box.”
Danny interrupts: “You got two days of air and that’s it. And it’s going to get real stuffy in there.”
Stephen can make out enough of the note to relay the kidnapper’s demands to Nancy. He says to get 1 million dollars in fifty- and hundred-dollar bills. No consecutive serial numbers.
“You’ve got forty-eight hours of air,” the man says, speaking toward the microphone.
“I love you,” Stephen says. “I really do, and the kids. That’s all I know. This hurts like hell.”
The masked man presses the stop button and puts the recorder back in his bag, then pulls out bolt cutters and severs the chain between the handcuffs. The kidnapper points out the amenities inside the box: There are candy bars, light, water, and even an air tube.
“I’ll be back out as soon as your family ponies up.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Stephen says as he first kneels and then lies down in the box.
The man slams the lid closed. Then he adjusts the air tube sticking through the plywood.
Stephen calls out to his kidnapper, telling him it’s not too late to let him go.
The kidnapper says nothing. He answers by throwing a shovelful of dirt on top of the box. Stephen cries for help as dirt rains down onto the lid. He tries to shift positions, but it’s almost impossible to move—and the temperature inside the box is sweltering.
He feels like he can’t catch his breath, and he strains his neck toward the air hole. In doing so, he knocks the car battery and the light flickers. He feels on the verge of panic.
This can’t be happening.
He adjusts the battery. At least he has light now, but he can’t control his breathing. He gets his mouth as close to the air hole as he can and tries to take slow, deep inhalations through the pipe.
The wooden roof starts to sag under the weight of the dirt.