by R E Swirsky
CHAPTER 25
Friday 20:05 Calgary, Alberta, Canada (night of Lucy’s abduction)
More than an hour passed as the van turned sharply and bumped over railroad tracks, causing Lucy to bounce and thump her head against one of the exposed wheel wells. She gagged as the rag seemed to crawl down her throat a little bit more. The van continued on, rattling down a pot-holed gravel road for another fifteen minutes before it rolled to a sudden stop.
Not a single word was spoken the entire drive and no one paid any mind to her discomfort. Getting to the destination in a hurry seemed the only concern of her abductors. Lucy felt light-headed and continued to gag and cough.
“Remove the tape from her ankles. She can walk from here.”
The duct tape around Lucy’s ankles was cut away, and two men, one on each side, wrestled her out the side door and up onto her feet. One of the abductors asked her fleetingly if she was okay to walk. She nodded her reply between gagged coughs and was guided inside a building up a number of long flights of metal staircases where every footstep echoed, giving her the sense that building was large and vacated long ago. Her hands remained securely bound behind her back and a heavy bag of some kind was pulled down over her head, causing her to stumble frequently as they climbed higher.
At the top of the last staircase someone tugged her to the left, steering her down a short, carpeted hallway.
“In here,” one of them said. “Go!” He released his grip on her and shoved her firmly on the shoulder. She stumbled to the side and fell hard to the floor. She gurgled out a cry and started to cough and choke again. One of the men stepped forward and removed the bag from her head. The other, bent over at the waist, stared down upon her.
“Are you all right?” He sounded genuinely concerned. It was the Russian.
She coughed and spit from behind the gag. Drool ran down her chin and her shoulder delivered bolts of agony through her body.
“Free her hands.” A small blade was handed to the Russian. “…and remove her gag.”
The Russian knelt down and reached behind her. In seconds, both bindings were removed.
“Are you okay? You took a hard fall.”
Lucy gasped deeply for air and began coughing repeatedly, freeing the saliva that had tickled the back of her throat for the last half hour.
“Jeeesssuus!” Lucy shouted. She massaged her wrists briefly before clutching onto her shoulder that still throbbed with agony from hitting the floor. She continued to cough, sat up, and looked around. Tears flowed down her cheeks. The tiny, windowless room resembled an old office, possibly an old manufacturing plant or warehouse. The wood-panelled walls were scarred and badly scuffed, and the carpet was dirty and stained. A single incandescent bulb was all that lit the room that was filled with the pungent, nostril-stinging odour of oil and old grease.
One of the young men stepped away and shouted out the door down the narrow hall. “Hey, Slate! I think she’s hurt!”
Footsteps pounded down the hall. The man called Slate entered. He waddled to the side and scanned her up and down. “What happened?”
“Nothing. She fell.”
“She fell?”
Lucy continued to rock back and forth holding onto her shoulder.
“People just don’t fall!” He was angry. He moved up to Lucy and knelt down next to her.
“Are you okay?”
Lucy was terrified but her anger spewed forth coarse words. “What the hell do you think?” She struggled over another few deep breaths.
“Miss, I am so sorry. It had to be this way. But you are not hurt, I can tell.”
She rubbed her shoulder. Was he serious? She scowled at him.
He reached out towards her and she batted his hand away. “Don’t you touch me.”
He acknowledged her by dropping his hands down to his knees.
She hated the look of satisfaction in his eyes. His lips were drawn straight and tight but she sensed he was smiling inside—satisfied by a job well done. He rubbed the stubble on his square chin with his rough-looking fingers as he studied her.
She studied him back. The man, who was obviously the leader of the group, remained squatting beside her and tipped back on his heels. He looked young, not much older than herself.
“You are very pretty,” he said.
Lucy wanted to spit at him.
Another man appeared in the doorway. Slate acknowledged him with a nod. “My friend, it is time for you to leave us,” he said to the Russian. He gave a short smile at Lucy and turned to the man hanging about the doorway. “Fred, take our friend up to the penthouse. I need to spend time alone with this pretty girl.”
“Follow me,” Fred said to the Russian.
“And get him geared up for tomorrow as well. He’s not going anywhere in those shoes. We leave early.”
The Russian stepped around Lucy and suddenly both men were gone.
Slate stood up and closed the door. He clasped his hands together in front of her and smiled. His stance was almost elegant, as if he was greeting her at the entrance of some grand ballroom. “Your father would be proud of you, Lucy.” He nodded his head in approval. “Yes. Very proud.”
She quickly loathed this man. How dare he taunt her with words of admiration from her father. And what did her father have to do with any of this?
“I see you don’t know what I am talking about. That’s good. It’s much more credible this way.”
The stalky young man paced slowly around Lucy in a small circle. “You can call me Slate,” he said and continued to study her, his eyes penetrating her with every step.
She felt naked and crossed her arms across her chest.
“My two friends, you can call Fred and Barney.”
“Why are you doing this?” she asked boldly. “What did I do?”
“Do?” He laughed. “You did nothing and everything. Absolutely perfect, my dear Lucy.”
“Then…why…?”
“This was all a show.” He spread his arms out wide as if to make his point. “Just a performance for our Russian friend.”
She remembered the Russian and his reluctance to participate. He seemed out of place with the others.
“Where’s Johnny?” she asked.
He frowned at her. “Johnny? I know of no Johnny.”
“Johnny,” she repeated. “He was there when you all broke in.…”
He shook his head, ignoring her. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“But.…”
“This…uh, how do we say…abduction. Yes. This abduction was your father’s idea.”
“My father’s? What’s my father got to do with this?” She didn’t believe him.
“This friend of ours, the Russian diplomat, he did something very awful, and we are here to see that he makes his reparation. That’s all.”
Lucy didn’t have to think very hard to know who the Russian was. There was only one Russian diplomat she knew who had been in her father’s life. The controversy had dominated the papers when she was still just a teenager, exposing her for the first time to hurtful taunts as a result of her father’s work. She shook her head in disbelief. “The one who killed that woman and got away with it?”
Slate nodded. “Exactly the one. Your father helped defend him. Diplomatic immunity. What power that word has. Immunity. And not one single day behind bars for killing someone while driving while three times over the legal limit. And he’s at it again.”
Her shoulder still throbbed and she rubbed it some more.
“Life has a way of correcting itself,” he said. “Or should I say, we have a way of ensuring life corrects itself.”
She frowned.
“I see you are puzzled by this whole thing. It’s rather simple, really. Last night, our Russian friend saw us abduct you. Very convincingly, I might add. He thinks it’s because of who your father is.”
“Who my father is?”
“Never mind about that right now. I’ll tell you in time.” He brushed her off. “We need
him to be cooperative with us. Showing him how ruthless we can be with you solidifies his trust.”
She thought back to the moment the group burst into her apartment and how terrified she was. She almost smiled thinking back as an odd relief swarmed inside her. “You scared the shit out of Mi…” She stopped abruptly. “…out of me.” She almost let Michael’s name slip. The way she was manhandled was unforgivable, and she placed her hand upon a bruise on her head she hadn’t noticed before. She rubbed at it unconsciously.
“…and we have a terrible need to get him up the side of a mountain,” he added. “That’s where you come in. Again, it was your father’s idea. He said you were a good sport and would understand.”
She looked around the tattered room, confused by his explanation. “Mountain?”
“Ah, yes. Details, details. Your father said you are very good on the mountain.”
Lucy studied the young man called Slate and his choice of words. He was articulate. The more he spoke, the more mature he appeared. He had an athleticism about him, a gracefulness, and maybe that was the reason for his youthful first impression. He was maybe in his late twenties—definitely not as young as she first thought. Was there a Quebec French undertone to his speech? She couldn’t quite tell.
“Where is he, my father?” What could her father have to do with these men? They seemed so unlike anyone her father would associate with. He was always about business—suit and tie, courtrooms and meetings.
“He’s where he always is, of course—working in his office, defending those that need it most, doing what he does best.”
“I want to call him.”
“Ah,” Slate replied sharply. “He said that you would want to speak to him once we arrived here.” He raised a finger into the air. “But not until tomorrow. That was his instruction. No one is to call anyone until this is over. After we are back from the mountain, you are free to call him. I’m sure he’ll be waiting to hear from you by the afternoon. In the meantime, we have work to do.” He looked down at his watch. “We have a few hours of instruction yet to go over tonight. Pizza’s on its way. Bedding will be brought in later. And we have a very early start in the morning.”