thirty

The moment Chris opened her eyes, she wished she hadn’t. Her head pounded, and she felt sick to her stomach. Took a moment to realize she was laid out on a cot. The room was about the size of a monk’s cell. No windows. The door looked like something that belonged to an old-fashioned meat freezer. Anna. That word blew through her mind, exploding her fear. Where was her daughter?

Goddamn you, Mark …

Whatever he was into, it had blown over into her and her daughter’s life. Just like everything they’d ever feared, and it didn’t even happen when he’d been an actual policeman. Took the man getting clean and involved with life again to bring all this down on her and Anna.

How long had she been out? Where was she? Was it in the city? A different city? What had happened to Anna? The faint memory of Anna running out of the garage. The faint memory of reaching for a gun. He daughter might be okay. She knew that Anna would call Mark. They’d revised the drill once he’d gotten cleaned up. She’d believed him, that he wanted to be a part of their lives. And she knew that if he was clean, he was more dependable than any other man she’d ever known. He would never stop until he achieved what he wanted, needed, or believed in.

Then she heard a key in the door lock, and the panic set in. Two men entered. Dressed in black, wearing ski masks. She would’ve laughed at the sight, like something out of a bad movie, had she not really been right here, right now. Chris drew a breath and focused on staying alive. For Anna. For herself.

“Where’s my daughter?” she asked, defiant.

No answer. They only stood there for a moment. “Where’s my goddamned daughter, you bastards!” They came over to her, calm as robots. She tried to fight, but they were strong. She screamed and fought like tiger, but they were just too strong. She yelled and struggled as they went for her pants. She crossed her legs, spit at them, tried to bite them. Her pants were ripped off of her and then her top. She screamed as they took her shoes, panties, and bra. They grabbed her torn clothes and left, locking the door behind them.

Chris huddled on the floor, in the corner. Her mind turned over at what had just happened. She couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t. Had to. Anna. Anna. Anna. Anna … It was a chant in her head. Have to say alive for her. Have to get away. Get out. Mark …

_____

They came for her again. She’d been counting to sixty, slowly, over and over. Trying to guess the passage of time. Mark had taught her that. It focused you. Kept you linked up to life, to your life. It was a lifeline, that counting. She’d counted to sixty, sixty-four times when they came back in the room. She got to her feet when she heard the key in the lock. Ran at them as they came in. Kicked one, aiming for his nuts. Missed but heard him grunt. He went to hit her but was kept back by the other man. They tackled her like she was a running back caught behind the line of scrimmage. She felt hands on her. Then she was handcuffed and a sack went over her head. She cried then as the feeling of futility got to her. She was dragged out of the cell, her arms screaming as her shoulders felt like both rotator cuffs were tearing. There was a thought, though, just a small one, way down deep inside her: The one man kept the other from hitting her. They didn’t want to hit her. What did that mean?

They dragged her along the rough concrete floor, tearing up her feet and shins. The sound changed, as did the air. It was colder now but she was sweating, and that made her colder yet. Then she was forced onto a stiff-backed chair. She felt her feet bound to it, spreading her legs. Were they belts of some sort? The cuffs were practically ripped off her wrists and then her hands were bound behind her to the chair. She worked hard not to shake, but she couldn’t help it. Then the bag was pulled off her head. She blinked in the face of the large arc lights pointed at her. She was blinded to just about everything behind them. It took her mind a moment to realize what it was she saw.

A man stood between the lights, pointing an old video camera at her. Filming her. She thought he was one of the men who had brought her here from the cell. Where was the other man? She heard some scuffling noise then, along with the sound of wheels over concrete. Then the other man appeared, silent like before. He pushed a chrome metal medical cart. The top of the cart had a white cloth over it.

“Where’s my daughter? Where am I?” she said. There was no answer as the man wheeled the cart up next to her, and pulled off the cloth with a flourish. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw the medical instruments. She recognized the speculum right off. Sweat broke out anew all over her body. She struggled with everything she had as she tried to break the straps. No good. Tried to focus on Anna and her safety. “Where’s my daughter?” she said, her voice a hoarse croak, unable to mask the fear anymore.

Then another figure appeared. A man wearing a rubber mask of a bull’s head, dressed in a long, dark blue bathrobe. His hands were covered in black leather gloves.

Chris screamed as he came forward. The man in the mask walked around her. Slowly, as the other man kept filming. Then the man stood just to the right of her. Turned to the camera and, in some bizarre moment, actually waved at the camera. Then he turned lightning fast and struck her across the face with his open hand. The slap stunned her, bringing stinging tears to her eyes. But she was Mark Mallen’s wife, and she knew that he’d gone through hell and back numerous times over. She could be that strong.

“Where’s my daughter, you fucking bastard?” she asked as loud as she could. She heard a soft chuckle come from the mask. Then she was hit again. And again. Harder than last time. She tasted blood. The man walked over to the table, and she tried to be brave but fear flooded her. She shook as if she were in an ice freezer. The man in the mask picked up a scalpel. The mask turned to look at her, towering above her, as hideous as every nightmare she’d ever had rolled into one. He then traced a weird design on her stomach with the index finger of his left hand. He did it very lightly, trailing his finger down her stomach into her pubic hair and stopping right before touching her vagina. She couldn’t tell what sort of design it was. He then looked at the camera as he trailed that finger back up over her stomach to her breasts. He cupped one as he looked at the camera. Then held the scalpel up to the other breast, resting it on her left nipple. She held as still as she could, knowing that if she moved, the scalpel would cut her. The man then let go of her breast and tweaked her right nipple until she cried out in pain. Again there was the soft laugh, barely heard over the pounding in her ears from the blood rushing through her. The adrenaline made her head feel light. The man traced his finger over her stomach again. She couldn’t figure out anything anymore. She’d gone into survival mode: fight or flight.

And she couldn’t do either.

Then the man began to trace the design again, ever so lightly, this time with the scalpel …

_____

Mallen waited inside the garage belonging to what had once been his and Chris’s home. Oberon was on the phone, running what they had on the black SUV. Mallen couldn’t focus on anything except Chris. The moment his mind came back to the reality of what she must be experiencing, he had a tightness in his chest that felt like it was crushing his ribs. He couldn’t help but visualize in his mind’s eye every dark thing he’d ever heard about when someone is kidnapped. And the videos. These thoughts were followed by a deep and cold anger. He would kill the men who’d taken her. He would make them pay. He was powerless to, however. He couldn’t risk anything that would bring harm to Chris. He knew they would kill her if they had to. He’d seen enough of these people and this organization to know they would sacrifice anything and anyone to get those tapes back.

“Yes?” Oberon said after being on hold for over ten minutes. He wrote something down in his notebook. “Got it. Thanks, Tom. Appreciate the quickness.” Oberon closed the call and turned to Mallen. “The vehicle is registered to one John Westbrook. He resides at Francisco Street and Grant. And”—he hesitated before he continued—“he’s an employee of Darkstar Security.”

Mallen turned and headed for his truck, but Oberon told him, “Wait here, Mark. You can’t go. You know that.”

“If you don’t take me with you, Obie, I’ll go on my own. And you know that, yeah?”

Oberon smiled then. “Yes, Mark. Only too true. Let’s go then.”