CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

 

 

Sylvia sat tied to a chair in a dark room. She had a bruise on her arm from where one of the thugs had grabbed her. Her mind was all over the place. She worried about Winston. She thought about her father and Luna. Would they try to grab her, too? She didn't think so because Luna was with Henry.

Fear and worry gave way to anger; anger at her father for his stupid inventions, for changing her life, and for running off. Why did he have to do all of this cloak and dagger stuff? To protect her, huh? It hadn't worked out too well had it? She struggled against the ropes, and they bit into her wrists. Why didn't they just leave the gangsters alone? It was up to the police to catch the bad guys, not an old inventor and accountant. Exhaustion shoved the other emotions aside, and sadness settled in for the night. Sylvia knew her father loved her, and she loved him for the man he was, for his belief in right and wrong. She could see it was brave, and he did arrange for Henry to help.

A noise from outside the room brought her back to the present. Sounds of people arriving terrified her. They kept their voices down, and she couldn't tell what was said. There was something about a call that had been made. Obviously, she was the bait to get the journal back. Henry's plan hadn't worked at all. Now she was mad at him, too.

The door opened. A large man walked in and asked, "How you doing, miss?"

She wanted to act tough, but it seemed pointless. These guys really were tough, and it would likely just make him laugh. "I am scared and..." She looked at the floor.

He sort of felt bad for her. She was a good-looking broad. If she started crying, well, he didn't want to think about that. "And what? It's okay, you hungry?"

She was, "Well, yes, but I need to, um, do you have a bathroom?"

Shit, he thought, she had been tied up for hours. "Sure, I'll untie you." He considered telling her no funny business, but she seemed too scared to run. He untied her and said, "Follow me."

They walked into the other room. Some of the guys stood and took off their hats; two of them didn't look at her; and the others just stared blankly. They didn't like doing this to a broad. It wasn't how things were done. None of them were happy about it.

He pointed to the bathroom door and told one of the guys to run to the deli and get some sandwiches and Cokes. The guy looked relieved to be doing something. One of his buddies volunteered to go with him.

They heard her wash her hands, then she walked out. This time, they all stood up. She walked back to the room, and he followed her. She sat down and rubbed her wrists. They were red from the ropes. She waited for him to tie her up again, but he didn't.

"A couple of the boys went out for sandwiches and Cokes. They won't be long. I don't think we need to tie you up again."

"Thanks. It sort of hurts."

He just shrugged, not feeling very tough, doing this to a woman and all.

"Are you going to kill me?"

He wanted to say no, but he had no idea what Tommy was thinking. He wanted to reassure her, but it was too late. The moment had passed.

Sylvia looked at the floor, not feeling very hungry anymore. She felt like crying, but she had done plenty of that and wasn't sure there were any tears left.

There wasn't much in the room. The brick walls had some cobwebs, and the windows were blacked out. The wood floors were covered in a thin layer of dust. It was warm, though.

The silence was starting to bother Sal. He considered going back into the other room, but that didn't feel right. He wanted to say something to make her feel better but instead said, "You think this Henry guy will come through?"

"You mean rescue me?"

"No, I mean bring the journal."

"Does it really matter if he does?"

"It might. Tommy can be unpredictable."

"You mean unpredictable in a good way?" Sylvia asked without really believing it could be true.

He let out a heavy sigh, "Not usually, no."

She smiled. His honesty somehow made her feel better. She thought about truth and why knowing it was important. An answer didn't come to mind, so she told him, "Thanks for not bull-shitting me."

He looked at her, confused by her smile. He didn't feel like smiling but did anyway.

She asked, "What's your name?"

Telling a kidnap victim your name was a bad idea. He knew this and hated it when his men did stupid things like that, and, yet, he found himself saying. "It's Salvatore, miss."

She couldn't help but be polite, "Well, I am Sylvia. It is..." She paused and added awkwardly, "...much appreciated, your kindness, that is."

He didn't feel kind. Sal wasn't good at small talk. "You like books? I could get you something to read."

"Yes, I like books, but I doubt I could start something I wouldn't be able to finish. Thanks, though."

Sal felt like a complete heel now. What a terrible thing to ask someone in her spot. He wished the food would get here, so he could put something other than his foot in his mouth. The silence was back, and he felt trapped. Sal didn't feel in control even though he was supposed to be. He hadn't felt this way since 'The Kid's' funeral. She seemed like a really nice lady. He guessed she was smart because of how she talked. He imagined she did like books, maybe some of the same books he liked. He stopped trying to say the right thing.

"Yeah, I guess that was a stupid thing for me to ask. Sorry."

The apology from this giant of a man touched Sylvia. She could tell he would let her go if it were up to him. It wasn't, and she understood. "It is okay, you were just being considerate. Do you like to read?"

The nicer she got, the worse he felt. "Yes," he lowered his voice a bit. "Most of the guys in my line of work aren't really into the classics. I don't know why. We spend a lot of time in cars waiting for things to happen. I usually have a book with me. The guys probably would give me a hard time if I weren't so big."

She laughed, "Yes, I bet they would. But it is because they don't know how enjoyable a good book can be. I like mysteries and love stories."

"Did you know that Edgar Allen Poe wrote the first mystery?"

Her captor was full of surprises. "No, I didn't."

"I read it a long time ago. I like his stuff, even the poem 'The Raven.'"

"You like poetry, too?"

"Not really that much, but 'The Raven' was in a book with his other stuff, so I read it. He makes you feel like you are in the room watching the guy deal with his demons and insecurities."

Sylvia's expression was easy to read, so Sal continued, "My day job is being a thug; by night, I am a secret literary critic who saves people from poor prose."

Sylvia giggled. She hadn't forgotten where they were or why and didn't know what was next, but it felt right to laugh.