Carl!
I shout in
my mind. Reaching out to him to tell him that I’m with Glass
and I’m in very real danger. When I first saw the detective I
thought he had found me and was going to untie me. But as the scene
plays out it becomes painfully apparent that he has no intention of
letting me go. Now I know it was him who kidnapped me. He’s the
one that’s been torturing me, and with every fiber of my being
I know that he’s going to be the one to kill me.
Carl’s voice
doesn’t come. Glass’ labored breathing is close enough
for me to feel the heat of it on my ear. “Now, I have to decide
what our next move is.” He leans into me harder and braces
himself on the wall behind me. “And there will be no more
visits from your little friend.”
The knot on the gag
finally comes free and I pull it off. “Please, just let me go
home.” I say it barely audible for fear that I will only incite
him.
My begging is answered
with a hard slap across the face. “You
are
home.”
My muted whimpers get
lost in an unintelligible tirade of Glass screaming. I can’t
understand what he’s saying. He stops and turns to me with
hollow eyes. “This has all been for you.”
I’m cowering
against the wall trying to make myself smaller to avoid being hit or
cut again. Figuring out what the magic words are to get him to let me
go is my only chance. “Please, no one has to know. I won’t
tell anyone. I’ll do whatever you want me to do, just please,
please let me go.”
He slides backward on
his ass and leans against the wall next to me. He sits there staring
straight ahead unblinking for several minutes. His face is completely
drained of color. I don’t dare say a word or push it. In my
mind I keep trying to reach out to Carl.
Carl, please, I need
you. It’s Glass. Glass has me. Please Carl
. There's only
the sound of my labored breathing. I look over at Glass. His
expression hasn’t changed. Still afraid to make the slightest
noise or movement, I study him in his semi catatonic state, watching
his chest heave dragging air in and out.
My mind is racing and
the finish line is
that
door. All of my focus and will are
drawn to the exit, to my freedom, to a chance at survival. In small
movements I start working the binds on my ankles to undo them. They
are tied in some sort of knot that would give Houdini a run for his
money. After yanking, tugging and scraping at the rope for a while it
finally starts to come loose. One thought is playing on a loop in my
mind, “If I can untie them, I can run.”
The last strand of
bloodied rope eases through the final loop that frees my right ankle.
How can I possibly get out of here without him noticing my movement?
Do I take it slow and hope that he doesn’t notice me? Or I do
race this devil to the door?
The slow method seems
like the best option. If he doesn’t notice me moving my chances
are better. I’m tired, hungry and weak. There’s no way I
could outrun him. I take in a deep breath that I know I’ll be
holding until I reach the door. I start to move slowly and quietly,
crawling across the floor.
When I’m halfway
to the door I get to my feet and tip toe across the room, watching
him for a reaction. He doesn’t notice me. I turn around and put
my hand on the knob, when he grabs me by the hair and pulls me
backward.
Agonizing shrieks are
forced from my lungs as pain shoots through my head and down my neck.
He’s showing no mercy as he bends me backwards unnaturally. In
this moment he illustrates the full scope of his brutality.
The sound of my back
hitting the metal wall of the shed is disconnected, until the wave of
pain catches up to it. Glass puts one hand around my neck, lifting my
feet off the ground until our eyes are level. My lids seal closed and
my head turns away from the cruelty in his gaze.
“Let me tell you
something, you little cunt. This is
not
how it’s going
to happen. You are not taking me down like this.” He’s so
close I can smell the hot wings and gin on his breath. He throws me
down in the middle of the floor and I crumple in defeat. He spits on
me then drags me by the hair back to the chair and throws me down.
The chair tips back and I hit the back of my head on the concrete
floor, hard.
My survival instinct
has come alive and I’m kicking and flailing my feet. He grabs
hold of my ankle, pushes it back against the leg of the chair, and
fastens it with a zip tie. He repeats the process with the other leg
and rights the chair. Then he ties my hands and leans down in front
of me. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you
yet, but I promise you’ll be the first to know.” He
replaces the gag on my mouth and stands to walk out the door. Glass
looks back at me over his shoulder with a fiery hate that bores
through me as he leaves.
Hopelessness floods my
being. I was so close to getting away. But I didn’t make it. I
didn’t get out. Tears free fall down my cheeks and sting my
neck when they reach the skin that is raw from his grasp.
I cry out audibly for
Carl, Dad, Eli and then Aiden.
Somebody, please.
There has to
be some way I can get out of this.
Eli
“She’s
alive.” Carl sits up, making the announcement. All of us in the
room exhale the collective breath we were holding. Somehow I’m
unable to feel joy, there’s relief, but no joy.
“Do you know
where she is?” Harry leans in closer to Carl.
“No, she’s...”
Carl hesitates and I can see him candycoating his answer, “she’s
blindfolded.”
“Is she…”
Harry starts but can’t finish his statement.
“Strong, Harry.
She’s getting through it.” Carl puts his hand on Harry’s
shoulder as a gesture of comfort.
“So, she doesn’t
have any idea where she is?” McNab asks.
“No, but I did
tell her certain things to look and listen for.”
“Does she know
who took her? Does she know about the security guard?” I ask,
exchanging a glance with Trish.
“No, she doesn’t
know who took her or what happened. The last thing she remembers is
getting out of her car at the parking garage. Then she was
blindfolded and tied.”
“Okay, so this is
good. We know she’s alive, we know she’s able to
communicate. This is some real hope.” Harry is trying to put a
positive spin on it. Frankly, I’m glad he’s trying to,
because I need something to hold on to.
“We’re
still left with the same problem of how to find her.” It dawns
on me that I’ve bought this hook, line and sinker.
“She’s in
some kind of garden shed from what she said about the smells. She
also indicated she’s feeling temperature changes but that they
aren’t unbearable.”
“Carl, why don’t
you rest up. Maybe now that you’ve told her what to listen for
she’ll be able to give us some other indications where she is.”
McNab walks around the couch. “Harry, let’s take a look
at the likely suspects and figure out who has access to a garden shed
and
is in a remote area. We can rule out neighborhoods and
areas with frequent air traffic. It may not be a good lead, but
perhaps we’ll get lucky.”
“It could also
lead us to other theories.” Harry heads for the makeshift
command center on the breakfast bar. “We can also try to
pinpoint a general location and set up a target area.”
“Fuck, Eli, is
any of this going to help her really?” Trish wraps her arms
tight around herself as though it will protect her from the truth.
I shrug because I
really don't know. I give her a look that says I'm going to get to
the bottom of it.
Carl gets up from the
couch and starts for the bedroom. With Harry busy setting up a search
perimeter I’m able to get Carl and McNab’s attention. I
tick my head toward the back porch. We all head for the door.
Once outside, I’m
ready to demand the truth from them, get an idea of what they think
her chances are at this point. “Carl, that was great what you
did for Harry and Trish, but I want to know the truth. How is she
doing
really
?”
Remorse clouds Carl’s
features and McNab’s expression quickly mirrors Carl’s.
He inhales deeply, shaking his head. “She’s alive and
that’s the most important thing right now. Knowing that we are
looking for her rather than just her body goes a long way for her
being able to hold on.”
“Carl, seriously,
don’t bullshit me. What’s going on with her?” I
step in closer. “Harry’s setting up some search perimeter
that is based on, what, nothing?”
“Eli, calm down.
She’s being held captive right now. Her general state isn’t
going to be good.” McNab positions himself closer to Carl.
“This is good for Harry, he needs to feel like he’s doing
something.”
“Carl, please, I
need to know. Do you think she’s going to make it?”
“I think we need
to find her soon,” Carl answers, looking down at his feet.
“Is she
being…hurt?”
“Yes, she’s
weak. Very weak.” He inhales, really feeling his next
statement. “She’s also in a lot of pain. I don’t
know what he’s doing to her, but she’s in rough shape.”
“How much longer
do you think she can last?” McNab's voice hitches on the regret
in his throat for having to ask the question.
“I don't know,
but it seems he’s giving her some kind of liquid supplements
and water. So he’s not starving her. He's keeping her alive for
something.” Carl has an uptick in his voice. Understandable
since this is the closest thing to hope that we have.
“So she knows
that it’s a man that has her?” I ask cautiously, since I
know I’m about to tread on dangerous ground.
“Yes, she’s
certain it’s a man, but he’s disguising his voice,”
Carl answers.
With my jaw set I look
straight into McNab’s eyes. “So we can rule out Miranda?”
McNab is taken aback by
my question. He thinks for a moment and looks at me with a hint of
satisfaction. “So you took what I said to heart.”
“Yes, I did. I’ve
seen some epically weird shit since you showed up. So you can bet I’m
keeping an open mind. I don’t want to miss anything.” I
wait for a response from him. “But you didn’t answer my
question; can we rule her out?”
“I think we can.”
He pauses in thought. “For now.”
“Unless she’s
not working alone,” Carl interjects.
“Right,”
McNab answers, nodding. “But I don’t think she would
bring another person in on this. It’s too risky.”
I’m reminded that
I have many unanswered questions about Harry and Miranda. “So
what’s the deal with Miranda?”
Carl and McNab exchange
a look. “I’m not sure—”
I cut him off; I don’t
want to give him an opportunity to dance around the answer. “McNab,
I want to know what’s going on. I can’t help her if you
don’t level with me.”
McNab sits on one of
the patio chairs. “Sit, Eli.”
That seems a little too
easy. “Okay.” I take a seat.
McNab steeples his
hands together, looking for the words. “Where to start?”
“Start with
Miranda,” I demand.
“Miranda Salvo.”
He looks heavenward as though he were asking for help from God to
explain this. “I met Miranda right after we started the
agency.”
“Agency?”
“Yes, Paranormal
Transmissions. We started the company to help people dealing with
paranormal and otherworldly
issues
.” He continues. “We
were working a possession/haunting in Ohio when I met her. A family
of four moved into a house that was laden with negative paranormal
energy. It quickly went from just a haunting to a full-on
possession.”
I’m doing my best
not to express my doubt, deciding it’s best to just let him
continue and stay quiet.
“The woman
started beating her children. Completely out of the blue she was
abusive, started drinking and was behaving in ways she never had
before.” He leans back in the seat, the regret in the memory
playing in his voice.
“Before moving
into the house she was a Sunday School teacher, a PTA volunteer, and
she didn’t drink, smoke or do drugs.” The remorse in
Carl’s eyes is haunting.
“So her husband
called us when she went off the rails and he had exhausted all other
efforts. She was doing drugs, drinking and quit all of the activities
she was doing with her kids. When we got there, she was in jail for
assault. She had apparently stabbed a convenience store worker.”
McNab tells the story.
“So she went off
her meds. It happens, what’s so paranormal about that?” I
ask, only seeing the story of someone who had a mental breakdown.
“This was more
than a breakdown, Eli, this was different,” Carl interjects.
“When she
attacked the convenience store worker she was screaming at him in
Thamudic.” He looks up at me for impact.
For a few minutes I try
to remember where I’ve heard the term “Thamudic”
before, but I can’t seem to place it. “What’s
Thamudic?”
“It’s an
ancient Arab dialect,” Carl deadpans.
“How do you
know?” I ask.
“Eli, I hold a
doctorate in linguistics.” Carl's demeanor turns smug. I've
never seen him like this.
“No, I mean, how
do you know what she was saying at all?”
“Oh, because when
we reviewed the security tape of the attack I was able to identify
the language and it was confirmed by a professor at Ohio State,”
Carl answers.
“Okay, so that’s
a little weird. But I fail to see how this is all paranormal.”
I seriously doubt that every strange happening can be linked to
something mysterious.
“Eli, the other
thing we found when we reviewed the video tape is that when she was
stabbing the clerk her eyes were completely rolled back in her head.”
McNab raises his eyebrows to drive the point home.
“It could have
been a seizure. People do unexplained things when they are having
seizures all the time.” I dispel that explanation.