by Ron Rash
But she’d get the wrong idea, or not think the idea was wrong at all. As disheveled as she looked, there was a prettiness about her, nice enough body inside the shirt and jeans. For a moment Carlyle imagined himself in bed with her. And then what? She’d wake up and find a man almost sixty next to her. She might demand money before leaving. Or worse, not leave and drag him back into the life he’d finally escaped. He could see it all unfold, empty whiskey bottles and late-night dope deals, her needing to borrow money before disappearing for days. No, that wasn’t going to happen again.
Carlyle went out on the porch, keeping the door open so he’d hear if she woke. A firefly sparked and, as if in reply, he flicked his lighter and lit a cigarette. The cat came out of the weeds, expecting the open tin of sardines he placed nightly on the porch step. Finding none, it disappeared. For three hours Carlyle watched the lights on the interstate, hoping a pair might sweep toward the exit ramp in search of what had been left behind. But the lights never veered.
You’ve got a muddy heart Teresa, his second wife, told him the day she’d left. Afterward, Carlyle wondered if she’d actually said moody, but muddy seemed more apt, and the last six years had been an attempt to settle the sediment. Things were getting stirred up again. Carlyle decided to leave the woman where she was and go home, get at least a few hours sleep. He’d write her a note saying the back door was unlocked. If she took a few things, a coffeepot or radio to pawn, a grocery bag of goods, so what. She couldn’t haul off a three-hundred-pound safe bolted to the floor. When Carlyle went back into the store, though, her eyes opened. They weren’t nearly as glassy and she got to her feet without his help.
“Could I have something to drink?”
“I got water and soft drinks in the cooler,” Carlyle answered. “There’s coffee too.”
“I was thinking something with a bit more kick to it.”
“I don’t sell alcohol.”
“Not even beer?”
Carlyle shook his head.
“Why not?” she asked. “I’d think it would cost you business.”
“It cost me a lot more having it around.”
“So no bottle of Jim Beam tucked behind the counter?”
“No.”
“Coffee then.”
Carlyle pushed a cane-back chair toward her and she sat down. He went behind the counter, poured out what remained from the morning, began brewing a fresh pot. The odor of regret. That was how he had thought of it for too many mornings.
Carlyle looked out the window and saw a car exiting the ramp. He waited for it to slow and turn in but the car kept going.
“They aren’t coming back,” she said.
“Is there someone you can call to come get you?” Carlyle asked. “I mean someone else.”
She pondered the question, then shook her head.
“Not that would come this far.”
“Even family?”
“No.”
When the coffee was ready, Carlyle filled a Styrofoam cup, handed it to her. He poured himself a cup.
“Thank you,” she said when she’d finished.
She set the empty cup by the chair and closed her eyes again, slouched a bit more in the chair. The radio still played, low but discernible. The news came on, followed by Patsy Cline singing “Crazy.” The woman’s eyes remained closed, but she softly sang along. She had a good voice.
“That’s my theme song,” she said, opening her eyes when the song ended.
She seemed to want Carlyle to respond.
“I guess I need to go,” she said, and stood up.
“Go where?” Carlyle asked.
“Nashville. I got evicted from my place last week, but that town’s like a seesaw. Somebody’s always going up if you’re going down, so I’ll find a place to crash.”
“How do you plan to get there?”
“Walk down to the interstate and hold out my thumb.”
“Barefoot?”
“I got here that way.”
Carlyle looked at the front door as if it might open and, like a rewinding movie, the woman would backstep out the door and all the way to the car and keep going. But life didn’t work that way.
“There’s a bus station in Asheville,” Carlyle said. “I’ll take you there.”
“I don’t have money for the ticket.”
“I’ll buy it.”
For the first time, she looked at him suspiciously.
“What do you expect in return?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Look,” Carlyle answered. “You can hitchhike or walk or take the bus. It don’t matter to me, but if it’s the bus we leave now.”
“Okay,” she said.
Carlyle went down the aisle nearest the door. Amid a shelf thick with ball caps and sunglasses he unearthed a pair of green flip-flops.
“Here,” he said, then took some bills from the safe.
They drove east on I-40. The woman closed her eyes and leaned her head against the window. The silence and darkness helped him pretend she wasn’t in the cab. It wasn’t even about her particularly, just being so close to a woman that his hand could touch her hair, her face, her body. There were women who came into the store and flirted. The only relapse he’d had in four years was because of one of them. Not nearly as young as the woman beside him, in her late forties. She was a drinker but Carlyle had thought, wrongly, that he could handle that.
* * *
—
The sun was rising as they drove into Asheville. The bus station was in the part of town the tourists didn’t visit. A woman in an overcoat and sweatpants slept on a wooden bench. On the next block a man gave a nod as the truck approached, stepped back from the curb when Carlyle didn’t slow. The space under the awning was vacant so Carlyle pulled up close to the door. He put the truck in neutral and told her to find out the price of the ticket. She came back out and told him forty-eight dollars. He took out three twenties, held them out the window.
“I guess you want me to promise I won’t spend this on drugs and liquor instead,” she said as she took the bills.
“It’s yours now so you decide what to do with it. I’m tired and I’m going home.”
But she didn’t leave.
“I ain’t giving you more money.”
“It’s not that,” she said.
“What then?”
“Getting sober,” she asked. “Any advice?”
“A person who never took advice himself ought not give it,” Carlyle said. “You’ll decide to keep drinking or stop on your own.”
“Fair enough,” she said. “I never did get your name. Mine’s Sabrina.”
“You better get on inside,” Carlyle said.
“All right,” she said, “and thank you.”
Carlyle drove off without a glance in the rearview mirror. When he got back to his house he was too restless to sleep. He made some coffee and sat in the front room, staring at nail holes in the wall where pictures once hung. Then he drove to the store.
That was two years ago. Carlyle had not made the connection until he heard the name and lyrics on the radio. A Google search on a library computer confirmed it. The same face but more filled out, healthier. Carlyle read a couple of articles about her, how she was sober and loving life again, the usual AA stuff about hitting rock bottom and needing a higher power. Now she and her song were certain to get CMA nominations, perhaps even one for a Grammy. The seesaw had tilted.
But that was her life, not his, Carlyle reminded himself that evening as he set the open tin of sardines on the porch step. His heart was settled. No ups, no downs. Be grateful for that, he told himself. The cat came out from under the porch and began to eat as Carlyle watched the headlights tunnel into the night.
Ransom
Later, Jenni
fer would recall how she and her friends joked that the campus was a place where people often weren’t what they appeared to be. The woman in slippers muttering to herself could be a homeless person or an acclaimed historian, the wild-haired fellow in a flowing white coat a psych ward escapee or Nobel Laureate. So that evening when she left the rec center to meet friends in town, Jennifer wasn’t overly wary of the man approaching from the other direction. He wore an ill-fitting rumpled suit, his hair needing a comb, his face a razor. Had she been with Mary or Abigail, they might have made amusing guesses about which department he belonged to.
The man stopped a few yards before her and smiled. She was about to say “Sorry, I don’t have any change,” but he spoke first.
“Jennifer, correct?” When she didn’t respond, he waved a hand as if to dismiss any confusion. “I know your father.”
Although the accent was southern, there was a formality in his tone. Her father had connections with people all over the country, especially here at the university, where he was a distinguished alumnus and prominent donor.
“Yes,” she answered.
The man stepped closer, right hand outstretched. She shifted her cell phone from her right to left hand. Better this than some creepy attempt at a hug, she thought, then saw his hand held a handkerchief.
* * *
—
Jennifer awoke to fierce pain, as if something was trying to tear her right arm from her body. Then the jolts lessened and she opened her eyes. Only darkness and the sense of movement. Another big bump made her head swirl with yellow sparks. When the pain dimmed, she shifted so her shoulder wasn’t pinned beneath her. Every few seconds Jennifer felt a buffeting of air as a vehicle passed from the opposite direction. She moved her legs and touched metal, below and to the side. Not a van, Jennifer thought, a car trunk. Never walk alone, her parents had warned her, as had the counselors at freshman orientation. She always returned to campus with a group, but sometimes, like tonight, coming directly from Pilates, she had to walk into town alone. Jennifer felt in her tunic for the cell phone and pepper spray. Both gone.
She must have lost consciousness again, for when a jolt awoke her, they seemed to be on a different road, bumpier, fewer vehicles rushing past. The road dipped and rose, causing her body to shift and the pain to flare. Jennifer reminded herself people were searching for her. Many people, because her parents and the university would make certain of it. Surely someone saw what happened, or a surveillance camera filmed it. The vehicle, maybe even the license plate number, would already be known. There would be roadblocks, police cars on the lookout. Be glad he hasn’t stopped, Jennifer told herself. As long as he’s moving, you’re safe.
The road smoothed again. Traffic increased. A police siren wailed by but the car did not slow and return. Drained, she drifted into a twilight sleep. She might have dreamed, but a bump erased its contents. Jennifer was thirsty and wondered how many hours had passed. Two, six? The more hours, surely the better. She tried to focus on what to do when the car stopped, but the pain kept interrupting. After a while, gravel crunched under the tires. The car made a final swaying descent and halted.
The driver’s-side door opened and shut. Her left hand searched for something weighty and solid. Tire iron. The term came to her, though Jennifer wasn’t sure what one was. But there was nothing more than a blanket. An absurd idea came to her of throwing the blanket over the man. Instead, she folded her legs. Kick and then run. The trunk opened and a flashlight glared.
The man did not grab for her but took a step back, almost deferentially.
“I know your shoulder and ankle are hurt, Jennifer, but otherwise, are you okay?”
She didn’t answer.
“This isn’t about harming you,” he said. “I’ve kidnapped you, and once the ransom is paid, you’ll be set free. I’ll make you as comfortable as I can. Your parents will pay and then it will be done. Okay?”
“Yes,” Jennifer said, wanting to believe it was true.
“I don’t want to chloroform you again. Your shoulder’s hurt so I’ll let you get yourself most of the way out, but please don’t try anything. We’re miles from another house, and if you got lost in these woods you would be in real trouble. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“All right then.”
Jennifer could think of no reason to fight getting out, and the thought of the arm being jerked made her stomach tighten. She used her good arm and swung her legs over. Her ankle gave way and she’d have fallen if he hadn’t helped her.
“Just stand here a minute so your head can clear,” he said.
A bird called from a nearby tree and Jennifer realized much of the darkness came from the forest’s canopy. Run, she told herself, but as she tensed her legs to turn, the man’s hand clasped her left arm. He pointed the flashlight at a small cabin. Beside the porch, a metal sign read FOR RENT: WEEKLY OR MONTHLY RATES.
He helped her up the steps. The door was unlocked, a glass pane above the doorknob broken. Inside, the front room was sparsely furnished—a table, a few chairs, a couch, to the right a small kitchen. Nothing suggested recent habitation.
“There’s the bathroom if you need it,” the man said, pointing to a door in the narrow hallway.
Jennifer went in and shut the door. The lock had been removed. Besides the commode, sink, and medicine cabinet, there was a cramped tiled shower. She tried to think of something she could do, some weapon or ploy, but her right arm was useless, her mind hazy. When she came out, the man led her downstairs to a small, windowless room whose pale light came from a single string-drawn bulb. An air mattress lay on the floor, on it a pillow and neatly folded blankets and sheets. Next to them were a sweatshirt and string-tied sweatpants like those her father wore on weekend mornings, an outfit Jennifer and her mother often joked about. There was a chair and a card table, and on the table magazines and paperbacks in neat stacks. Everything seemed placed with considerable care, as if awaiting a guest more than a captive.
“I know it’s not very much, but once the ransom’s paid you’ll be back home.”
“But where are we now?”
“North Carolina.”
The man lingered in the doorway. A few years older than her father, she guessed, but also bigger than her father, stronger-looking.
“My parents and my little sister will be worried,” Jennifer said, having read that you needed to build empathy and thus be seen as a fellow human. “My little sister’s name is Linda. She’s only eleven.”
“I know they’re worried,” the man answered.
“Something’s torn in my shoulder. I need to see a doctor.”
“That’s why we’ll get this done as quickly as possible, but it could take a while.”
“Let me call them on my cell phone, or your cell phone. That way my parents will know I’m all right and you’ll get your money quicker. Just tell me how much you want. My parents will pay it and they won’t call the police, if I tell them not to.”
“Your cell phone’s where you dropped it, but I’m certain the police have contacted your parents by now,” the man answered. “That’s why this has to be done slower than you or me would favor. I’ll bring you some food directly. If you need to use the bathroom again, it’s that bucket in the corner. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it has to be.”
“Please,” Jennifer said, tearing up. “I’m really hurting.”
“I’ll bring you food and water,” he said, “and something for the pain.”
The man left. During last September’s media frenzy, Jennifer’s father had warned her that his prominence might cause some harassment at the university despite, or even because of, the endowment he’d made to the school’s fine arts center. But he’d never warned her about something like this. She had friends in prep school and at the university who came from families with similar wealth. Not one of them had ever
said a word about being kidnapped for ransom. After all, this wasn’t South America. UV rays, credit card fraud, opening email attachments—those they’d been warned about. Jennifer gave her right shoulder the slightest shrug and winced. Something was torn, which meant no Pilates for weeks, maybe months. She’d have to be even more diligent about her weight. Also her classes. What if she missed so many she’d lose a whole semester? You’re locked in a basement and could be tortured, raped, murdered, and you’re worried about fucking Pilates? she thought. This is real. You think those bodies they find in ditches and woods are just some illusion?
Jennifer tried to turn the doorknob with her left hand. It was locked. No windows. Her breaths grew rapid, but no air seemed to reach her lungs. She had been left inside this cinderblock tomb to slowly smother to death.
You’re being ransomed, Jennifer told herself. Ransomed. This wasn’t about hurting her. It was about money, and her family had plenty of that. Ransom, she whispered, repeating the word’s soft consonants until her breaths slowed. She and her parents had argued often, exchanged plenty of harsh words, but they did love her and would pay any price, even millions, to get her back safe. Her father would know exactly what to do. Though her breaths steadied, Jennifer’s hands still trembled, and she could not stop them from doing so.
The man returned with a bottle of water and a white paper bag. She smelled the grease that spotted the paper. He took out the food and unwrapped it. Soggy bread, some kind of meat stuffed inside.
“Take these,” he said, handing her two aspirin-sized tablets.