by Lilly Wilder
“Now, we are going to call your father,” Sven tells me, finishing his cigarette and stomping it with his foot, a little agitated.
He makes me unlock my phone with my fingerprint, and he finds my dad’s number easily. He puts it on speaker phone, and lays it on the table before me. It rings only twice before my dad picks up.
“Sweetheart, is everything alright?” I hear concern in his voice.
But, before I can reply, Sven does it for me. “I’m afraid sweetheart is a bit tied up at the moment,” he explains, leaning a little towards the table.
“Who is this?” my father’s tone changes from concerned, to frantic, to pissed off.
“I’m surprised, shocked even, to see you don’t recognize the voice of your old time friend, Hugo.”
A moment of silence follows, and I can picture that look on my father’s face, like someone showing him a veiled box, then suddenly pulling the veil off, revealing the contents.
“Sven?” my father’s voice is not nearly as big as it was a second ago. “Is that you?”
“Who else could it be?” Sven laughs, but it’s an ominous laugh, promising more clouds to come, clouds bringing rain and thunder beyond compare.
“What do you want?” my father growls from the speakerphone.
I know that if he could, he would reach through the phone and grab this bastard by the throat, not letting go until the final breath finally escaped his wretched body. But, that is all wishful thinking. I remain here, handcuffed, with this crazy man whose intentions I still don’t know.
“The thing you’re hiding in your safe,” Sven leans in all the way to the phone, hissing right into the speaker, as tiny droplets of his sweat squirt all over the surface of my phone.
“What thing!?” my father thunders. “What the Hell do you mean!?”
“I’m not prolonging this conversation any more than I need to,” Sven replies shortly. “I’ll call again in two hours, with clear directions on where to leave the stash. Oh, and remember one thing,” Sven pauses for a moment, and his body slithers behind me, as his hand rests on the nape of my neck. He can probably feel my heartbeat, about to explode. “If I even smell the cops, I’ll leave a trail of Maddie’s parts, which you can follow back to me. I promise you that. Two hours, Hugo.”
And, with those words, he grabs the phone and smashes it against the opposite wall. The phone bursts into a million tiny little pieces, which glimmer on the concrete floor, like tears. But, I’m not crying. I don’t feel sad. I feel scared, petrified. My mother always taught me that crying when you’re scared is the worst reaction you could have. It hinders rational thinking, which might prevent you from reaching a solution to your problem. And, seeing this man, he doesn’t seem to be the type to fall for tears. It’s a futile effort at nothing.
I watch the metallic phone parts sparkle for a moment longer, then Sven pulls me up.
“Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?”
He is more agitated now, pushing me towards the door forcefully, even though I’ve done everything he asked me to do. We continue towards the car in silence, and he shoves me into the backseat again. He himself sits on the driver’s seat, grasping at the steering wheel hard.
“You better hope for your sake that your father brings me what I want,” he hisses, as he looks at me through the rear view mirror. There is no more trace of that nice, polite guy from a few hours ago. This is the voice of a man who is no stranger to hurting women. Those are the eyes that have seen his own hands do horrendous things.
I just nod, lowering my head. Whatever he is asking, my father will give it to him. I’m sure of that. He was told not to contact the police, but what do people usually do under these circumstances? I remember all those kidnapping movies I’ve seen and getting the police involved never turns out the way everyone planned.
I hear the start of the engine, and we’re back on the road. It’s difficult to stay awake. I feel drugged, but I’m sure I wasn’t. At least, not again. I didn’t drink anything, and by this point, I’m becoming parched. But, I won’t ask for anything from this man. Even if it’s the last thing I do.
I clench my hands into fists, and subconsciously try to pull my hands apart, but that only tightens the metallic grip, which digs into my flesh, leaving bright red marks. My eyelids are becoming heavier and heavier, and soon, despite all odds, I drift into sleep again.
CHAPTER 4
Andersen
Of course Hugo had no other way but to call us. This is exactly what I told Fynn, when we got the call. It helps that we all go way back, but despite what people think, it’s advisable to notify the police when someone has been kidnapped, and especially when there’s been a ransom call.
“You think Sven’s working alone?” Fynn asks me, downing his coffee. I always joke it’s like him, black and bitter.
It always surprised me how easily he could eat and drink in the car. Like, he had some inner balance the rest of us didn’t. He puts the paper cup in the pocket of the door.
“I doubt it,” I reply, with my eyes firmly on the road. “Hugo knows it, too. That’s why it’s crucial that we find his daughter in the next hour or so. Sven’s unpredictable, like a cat in a box. You open the lid and you don’t know if the cat’s gonna be sleeping or if it’s waiting to claw your eyes out.”
I swerve quickly to the left, and we both lean a little to the opposite side, then quickly regain our balance.
“We don’t even know if the girl is still alive,” he says.
“Don’t let Hugo hear you talk like that.”
“Shouldn’t he know the odds?”
“You don’t tell a father that his child might be dead,” I give him a scornful eye, but he doesn’t mind it, as usual.
“Come on, it’s not like Hugo doesn’t know Sven. The guy’s an animal. He kills on instinct. Honestly, I’d be surprised if the girl is still alive and kicking,” Fynn snorts, and I know there’s no way prolonging this conversation. “But, you’re free to have your la-di-da moment, thinking we’ll swoop in and save the day.”
“Don’t we always?” I grin, stepping on the gas.
Fynn is right. I do want to arrive there and save the girl. Sven’s a monster. I still remember the last time we had to clean up after him. The thought of that sight churns my stomach. But, he always manages to get away somehow. Well, not this time.
“Like I said, keep dreaming, Prince Charming.”
With those words, we both stay silent for the rest of the journey. We reach the abandoned building easily. We find the broken phone inside. Fynn picks up the biggest piece, then smells it.
“They were here an hour ago.”
“Can we track them?”
I sniff the air, but a childhood fire accident rendered my sense of smell almost non-existent. Still, I occasionally try, just for the heck of it. However, I get nothing.
I turn to Fynn. His nostrils are flaring, his lips are half parted. His pupils are widening, barely noticeably. He’ll catch the scent. He always does. I follow him outside, and he stops on a small patch of gravel, surrounded by unmowed grass. It’s the dead of night, but the tire tracks are clearly visible when Fynn flashes a light onto the ground.
“The girl left this place alive,” he informs me, and a huge burden falls off my shoulders. But, that doesn’t mean she’ll arrive alive. Dammit. Fynn’s negativity always tries to get to me.
Sometimes, it’s hard to stay positive around him, but those of us who have gone through thick and thin with him, know this and accept this. I guess we all had some shit in our childhood that shaped us into the obnoxious men we are today. But, now's not the time to go down memory lane and plan on righting wrongs that may not even be made right. Now is the time to save a girl from a monster, like the story went in those good old fairy tales.
Fynn doesn’t say anything else. He heads over to the car, and hops into the driver’s seat. I ride shotgun this time. It’s always faster
that way. He knows where we’re going, so it’s easier to have him drive, rather than him giving me instructions.
The road we’re taking is dark. The trees are looming over the narrow dirt road, and there is a sense of impending doom. That’s at least, what I expect Fynn to say, to lighten up the mood, but he’s silent, and that is the unsettling part. He usually has some snarky comment to make, expressing the worst case scenario, and how we should all be ready for it. But, there’s none of that now. He is focused on the road; his hands are keeping a firm grasp on the steering wheel. Not even the radio is on.
“We getting close?” I ask, unable to stand the silence any longer.
Fynn doesn’t reply immediately. Just nods a moment later.
“You think Sven’s alone?” I ask again.
“Not unless he’s the stupidest idiot I’ve ever met,” Fynn replies. “And, we both know Sven. He’s many things, and idiot isn’t one of them.”
Fynn’s got a point. The last place was just a ruse. He took the girl there, knowing we’d be tailing him. This other location is where the showdown will take place. I can feel it in my bones, just like I can feel it that the girl is alive. She must be. Otherwise, Hugo won’t be making the deal. Like Fynn said, Sven’s no idiot. Keeping the girl alive is what keeps this exchange possible.
“What do you think he needs it for?” I ask once more, but this is more of a rhetorical question I’m asking myself.
Still, Fynn replies. “What do you think he needs it for?” Slightly cynical. Slightly making you feel like you should know better than ask such stupid questions. Classic Fynn.
“I’m surprised he even knows it’s been in Hugo’s possession all this time,” I just continue, shrugging off his comment, which I’ve gotten used to. “I mean, we also didn’t know it.”
“We’re small shits in the grand scheme of things,” Fynn explains his view. “Only big players knew this info.”
“Since when is Sven a big-time player?”
“Since he probably works for one.”
And with that, I see Fynn turn left and park underneath a big, weeping willow tree, which hid us from plain sight. Making as little sound as possible, we get out of the car, crouching behind the tree. Fynn points at a nearby lodge. It looks abandoned, but not dilapidated. There are no cars around it. We see no people either.
“Is this really the place?” I make the mistake of asking this question.
Fynn just gives me a look that tells me all I need to know. If he says the girl is there, she’s there. Dead or alive.
“So, how do we do this?” I whisper.
“Need to go around, see in the back,” he replies, surveying the lodge. “The girl is here. Her scent is unmistakable. But, Sven knows how to mask his. So, all I can smell is her. Be ready for anything.”
“Always am,” I grin in the dark.
We do as he instructed. We check the back, and it all looks clear. I’m not sure which one of us is more confused, but we keep on going. He burst in through the back door, and the first thing we hear is whimpering coming from one of the corners. Fynn rushes over there, while I switch on the lights.
In one blazing moment, the inside of the lodge is lit up. It’s just a single room, which functions as a kitchen, dining room, bedroom, all in one. My gaze wanders around it, until it finally lands on a young woman, tied up to a chair in the corner. Fynn’s hands remove the ropes quickly, but the handcuffs on her hands are still there.
“Where are the keys?” he asks her, taking off the gag.
Her eyes are still adjusting to the light, bloodshot and red. Her hair is a mess of a bird’s nest, and there are several scratches on her. But, apart from that, she’s alive and well, which isn’t what many who met Sven could boast with. This girl’s pretty lucky.
“Let me do this.”
I walk over to them, and I notice a hair pin in her hair. I reach for it, but the girl flinches, and scurries backward.
“I won’t hurt you, I promise,” I say this as soothingly as I can.
She opens her eyes again, so I reach for the pin and this time, she lets me have it.
“May I?”
I take her by the hands, and pick the lock on the handcuffs easily. One of my talents, I guess, if you could call it that. It’s weird that a cop would know how to pick locks. But, it did come in handy more than once over the years of our service in the force.
“There,” I take them off her cold, trembling hands. “Better?”
She nods. “T-thank you,” she manages to muster.
“Are you alone?” Fynn asks, still on the lookout. It wouldn’t be the first time someone jumped on us from the darkness, just as we were letting our guard down.
“The guy just… left,” she says, not believing it herself. But, a few more seconds assured us that the inside of the lodge is safe.
“What the Hell, Sven?” Fynn grunts, resting his hands on his hips, and sniffing the air again.
“Are you alright?” I ask the girl. “Cold? Hungry? Thirsty?”
She rewards my efforts with a worn out smile. “A little thirsty.”
“Let’s get you back to the car, I have a bottle of water there and a blanket if you’re cold.”
She smiles even more widely at this, then follows me outside. I find the bottle in the glove compartment, and she drinks half of it thirstily. I also take out the blanket and wrap it over her shoulders, knowing it’s not the cold that makes her tremble like that, but still, a warm sensation will relax her muscles.
“We’ll get you back to your home in no time,” I tell her. “Your father is eagerly waiting for your return.”
“Did he send you?”
“Yes,” I nod.
“So, you’re the cops that the guy who kidnapped me clearly stated he doesn’t want on the case?”
I can hear the brittle sharpness with which she cut me just now, but just like with Fynn, I choose to ignore it.
“This is a delicate situation, lady, and - “
“Don’t call me lady, I have a name, you know.”
“Miss Holloway, as I was saying, the guy who kidnapped you isn’t just a small time crook, nor is the thing he asked for simple money. It’s actually - “
“None of her business,” Fynn appears, interrupting me curtly. “We’re just here to get her home. Sven’s not here anymore, so we can get the Hell out of here.”
“But, why did he just leave me like that, after all that effort at getting me here?” the girl asks.
I look at Fynn, hoping he might have an answer to this, because I sure as Hell don’t. This doesn’t look like Sven at all. This is too calculated, like he’s planned out 5 steps ahead, and is letting the situation unravel exactly according to his plan. That feeling doesn’t sit right with me.
“Let us worry about that,” Fynn chooses not to reply to that. “You just relax and you’ll be home in no time.”
The girl settles in the back of the car obediently. Her head rests on the back, and the slightly bumping motions of the car surging through unchartered paths outside the city finally make her drift off to sleep. I occasionally glance at her in the rearview mirror. She is breathing softly, barely visibly, her entire body wrapped up in the blanket I gave her. She looks like a little, lost lamb. More so than ever, I thank the Providence that we got this one back safe and sound.
I notice Fynn just stares at the road in front of us.
I don’t like the look on his face. I don’t like it at all.
CHAPTER 5
As we enter my father’s study, he is sitting where he usually sits for important, possibly life-altering situations. I don’t have to look at the heavy, crystal ashtray to know that there would be butts and ashes. His study looks smaller now, than it did before, when I was looking at it with a child’s eyes. That big carpet on the floor has gotten a bit used up, as many shoes have crossed over it, some that would never step on it again. His library spanned all over one single wall, occ
upying the space from top to bottom. I remember leafing through them as a child, when he was in a good mood and allowed me to sit with him in here, on the condition that I didn’t bug him. To my curious little brain, that was easy. I could have bugged him at any other time, but that was the only time when I could peruse all the books in his library, and even take one if I liked it enough to try and read it. Of course, most of it was dry economics, accounting and law related stuff, but in every row of books, there was one or two that didn’t belong to any of these. He had The Malleus Maleficarum, translated as the Hammer of Witches. As a lonely child, I was interested in the uncanny, the unnatural and everything in between. So, this was the first book I took off his shelf. I still remember the feel of the old pages, as he managed to find an edition from about 100 years ago. I still remember that it was written by a Catholic clergyman by the name of Heinrich Kramer and that it was first published in 1486. He was pro killing witches and this was his goal in writing this book: a whole legal and theological theory regarding it.
As my dad’s eyes raise to meet mine, I look to the side, straight to where the book is situated on his shelf. It’s still there, in the same place where I left it 13 years ago.
My dad gets up and rushes over to me with arms stretched as wide as they go. He wraps me up in his bear hug, a strange but pleasant mixture of tobacco smells and warmth that emanates only from the realization that someone you thought might be dead wasn’t really dead. I hug him back and bury my face in his neck. The two cops who brought me in give us a few moments.
When we finally separate, a little unwillingly though, my dad speaks to them.
“I really don’t know how to thank you,” his voice trembles, something I’ve rarely witnessed. Maybe only once in my entire life.