Seven, eight ... gonna stay up late (Rebekka Franck #4)

by Willow Rose

  They had to know who she was, she thought calmingly to herself. That meant she wasn't a random victim to some psychopath. This was arranged. This was a kidnapping. Of course it was. They wanted money. The bastards.

  Amalie chuckled to herself. They had to be very stupid bastards. Most people would know to pick a different target, she thought grinning. Most people would have sense enough to never dare touch her. She amused herself by imagining how they would get what was coming to them.

  Amalie kept thinking about what her dad would do to them, imagining the worst things she could come up with, and decided to not give her captors what they wanted. She wasn't going to cry, she wasn't going to be weak. Instead she began planning her revenge.

  Once my dad gets to them. They won't know what hit them.

  Chapter 6

  Allan was preparing dinner for himself and Sebastian. He stared at the butcher's knife and turned the blade to make it catch the light. Such a marvelous instrument. Such beauty in its simplicity. He touched the blade and cut his fingertip slightly. A drop of blood landed on the raw meat. Allan smiled, then found a paper-towel and wiped the blood off. The meat looked fresh even if it had been in his freezer for months.

  Allan lifted the knife in the air, then stabbed the meat. He exhaled satisfied as it penetrated the raw meat, as it cut through the flesh. He cut it into big slices that he placed in a baking dish, then sprinkled herbs on it and covered it with a sauce he had been cooking for hours on the stove. He smelled the dish just before he sent it into the hot oven. It smelled heavenly.

  "The secret’s in the sauce," he said to himself while chuckling at his own reference to one of Sebastian's all-time favorite movies Fried Green Tomatoes.

  Allan loved cooking for his boyfriend even if he never enjoyed his company much. Allan wasn't really gay, to be frank he wasn't anything really. Not homosexual, not heterosexual, not bi-sexual either. Allan really wasn't any of those things. He was more sort of ... well the word psychopath would be closer to the truth, but it had such a negative ring to it, didn't it? That's why he liked to see himself as more of an artist. Like other artists, he created things. And like most artists he would never be recognized by his time, but he would be remembered for many years to come. People would talk about him and discuss his work. Most of them with repulsion, but that was always the risk one took as an artist. You had to not care what people thought about it. An artist had to create what his heart longed to tell the world, didn't he? Whether they liked it or not. That was the blessing and the curse of being a true artiste, as they liked to pronounce it. And Allan was a true artiste, he thought to himself as he looked inside of the oven and stared at the herb-covered meat boiling in the hot sauce.

  "Another creazione by the marvelous Allan Witt," he said to himself lifting up his fingers pretending to be artistic, then blowing finger kisses and bowing like he was receiving applause. Standing ovation, naturally.

  Oh, they would get to respect him and admire his work. One day they all would speak his name in awe and admiration. They would write about him everywhere and people would shiver in fascination. Ah, yes, Allan thought to himself as he closed the door to the basement and shut out the screaming. Then he turned on the music to drown her out completely. One day they'll understand my genius.

  Allan was ripped out of his daydream by the sound of the bell. He jumped with anticipation, then ran to open the door. Sebastian stood on the outside steps wearing a short-sleeved white silk-shirt from some overly expensive Italian designer. He smiled showing pearly white teeth.

  "Right on time," Allan said.

  Sebastian stepped inside and kissed Allan on the lips. "Smells absolutely fabulous," he said and looked at Allan. "Are you about to spoil me again?" He tapped his well proportioned six-pack stomach. "I know what you're up to," he said. Then he leaned over and grabbed Allan's face between his hands and kissed him again. The kiss left Allan feeling nothing.

  "You just want to fatten me up, don't you? Fatten me up so no one else will want me, and you can have me to myself? Ah, don't think I haven't noticed how you put extra cream in the sauce to make it so good I can't resist it. I'm on to you, sweetie-pie. I am so on to you."

  Then Sebastian clicked his tongue which made him sound gayer than ever and walked towards the kitchen. Allan closed the door.

  "You got me there," he said.

  Sebastian looked inside of the oven, then drew in a big breath and looked back at Allan. "Oh, that is so good," he said. "What are we having?"

  Allan smiled widely. "Just a little something I pulled up from the freezer."

  Chapter 7

  I asked Camilla to meet me after I finished the interview with Patti Scialfa. Sune stayed behind to take some more photos while I hurried to our meeting place. Camilla was waiting when I arrived. She stood in front of a stand that sold vegetarian dishes. Her face seemed strained and her eyes showed she hadn't slept much. It wasn't unusual at a festival like this, but in her case it wasn't because she had been partying all night. Her eyes were flickering like they were constantly scanning the area surrounding her, on the lookout for her friend, anxiously hoping that she might catch a glimpse of her somewhere in the crowd of hundreds and hundreds of people constantly passing by.

  "I keep thinking I see her," she said as I approached. Camilla kept sweeping the area with her eyes and spoke without looking at me. "But it's just someone looking like her. Like that girl over there. Her hair looks just like Amalie's."

  I put my hand on Camilla's shoulder. She turned and looked at me. Then she exhaled deeply. "Do you think she's still out there somewhere?" she asked.

  I nodded. Not because I knew anything about it, but because I wanted to comfort her. Plus it was very unlikely that she had left the festival. I wasn't afraid of that. But I was afraid that something had happened to her inside the fences, on the festival grounds. I was afraid that she might have been hurt somehow and unable to contact Camilla.

  "Does she have her phone?" I asked.

  Camilla shrugged. "I think so. It wasn't in her backpack anywhere." Camilla pulled out her phone and looked at the display. "My own is running out of batteries soon."

  "I can help you charge it. I can bring it to the media area and plug it in," I said.

  "Thanks," she said with a sad voice.

  "But you're thinking that if your phone is almost dead, then hers might be running out of batteries soon too?"

  Camilla nodded.

  "What happens when you try and call her? Does it go directly to the voice mail?"

  Camilla shook her head. "No."

  "Okay. That means it's not dead yet," I said.

  Camilla looked up at me. "But it could also mean that she can't answer it."

  "Let's not get ahead of ourselves," I said. "She might have dropped it somewhere, have you thought about that? It could have fallen out of her pocket somehow." I looked in the direction of the campground with thousands of tents. "It happens that people get lost here. Maybe she is simply lost. Did you make a plan for what to do if any one of you got lost?"

  Camilla shook her head. "No. But she is smart enough to find the paramedics or some officials working here and have them help her."

  "Well maybe she has done just that. Maybe we should go and talk to them? Ask them if they have seen her?"

  "I did that yesterday. I wondered if Amalie might have been hurt. She was pretty drunk when she left me, so she might have fallen or something, or maybe gotten sick. So I went to talk to the paramedics but they hadn't seen her."

  "Maybe they've seen her today?" I said. "Let's go ask them."

  Camilla nodded, then began walking. I looked at my watch. "I think I have about half an hour before I need to get back to write my article."

  We walked in silence. Camilla kept handing out papers with Amalie's face on it to people passing by, while I continued to wonder who Amalie really was and why Camilla didn't want her last name out. Was it just because she was afraid of the parent's reaction, or was it true that
her name would make the headlines? I kept wondering what kind of name would trick such a reaction.

  I received a text from Sune telling me he was done and on his way back to send the photos. I texted back that I would meet him there. I looked at my watch, then sensed the pressure of my deadline. I began walking faster. I didn't have much time.

  We spoke to the paramedics. They recognized Camilla from yesterday and told her they unfortunately hadn't seen Amalie today either. They had had many patients with minor injuries, mostly blisters on their feet from walking and dancing in boots for too many hours and Amalie might have been among them. Since they saw so many faces for only a short period of time it was possible that she could have been there without them knowing it.

  "I tell you what," the guy said. "Hang your little poster on the wall over there and I'll make sure to keep an eye out for her, okay?"

  Camilla did as he told her. The paramedic watched her closely. "And remember. This happens all the time," he said. "Every year someone disappears but they always show up eventually. She's probably just having fun with some guy in a tent somewhere, forgetting that she has people caring for her and worrying about her. It happens all the time."

  Camilla sighed, then nodded. I put my arm around her while we left. "See," I said. "I told you it's common. I don't think you need to worry this much. Try and enjoy the festival. Amalie will show up eventually. Just wait and see."

  Camilla seemed to lighten up slightly. "Okay," she said. "I really wanted to go see Suicide Silence. They're playing now. Some friends Amalie and I met here at the festival are over there."

  "Then go join them. Try to have a little fun. Forget about Amalie for a little while."

  "I think I will," Camilla said with the hint of a smile.

  I hugged her. "Let's meet tomorrow in the same place," I said. "I'll charge your phone and bring it back to you, okay?"

  "Okay."

  Chapter 8

  There were people upstairs. She heard the doorbell, then footsteps, then voices, people talking and lots of laughing.

  Here is my chance, Amalie thought to herself. If I make myself heard, then they'll certainly come to my rescue.

  So once again she screamed all she could and banged on the plastic surrounding her. With great strength she banged on the sides, on the top, even kicked her feet at the bottom as hard as she could to make as much noise as humanly possible.

  "Help me! I'm down here!" She yelled. "I'm being held hostage down here! I'm right here! I'm down here!!"

  She realized she still didn't know where "down here" was. If it was the basement of a house, or maybe she was in an apartment and what she heard were the voices and footsteps of people living upstairs. She had been in the darkness for so long that she hardly knew what was up or down. But somehow she had to alert those people, let them know that she was there, and was being held against her will. Someone had to hear her, someone had to be able to help her.

  Her voice soon became hoarse from the yelling. Her mouth was so dry by now and she was so, so very thirsty.

  "PLEASE!" she pleaded one last time, then gave in to the sulking and tears that had been wanting to get out for many hours. She sobbed and cried in agony and anguish, feeling sorry for herself and finally admitting she was terrified that she would never get out, never see her beloved horse again, never breathe the fresh air or see the open ocean again.

  The very thought arose something in her, some kind of strength to lift her head and put her mouth to the hole and scream into the tube.

  "HEEELP!"

  Then she sunk back into her own feelings of misery and pity. She cried and howled and let her tears wet the floor of her cage. Her body was beginning to hurt from being in the same position for so long and from the hard material she was lying on. She tried to move, to turn her body, but there wasn't enough room.

  She was afraid to lose her mind while wondering why this was happening to her, what she could possibly have done to deserve this? She hadn't been a good person, she knew that. She was spoiled, a typical rich-girl with an attitude that she expected everybody to wait on her. Yes, she knew that. And it was bad. She was bad. She knew she had not treated people well. Was God somehow punishing her for that? She had been mean, acting superior towards even her best friends, even towards Camilla. Oh, Camilla. How worried she had to be. She at least had to know that Amalie was gone, didn't she? Had she told her father by now? Amalie hoped she had, cause then this would be over soon. But what if Camilla didn't care? What if she thought that Amalie had deserved what she got? Deserved it for treating her poorly?

  Amalie had brought so much pain to others, she thought and regretted each and every thing she had ever done. She had hurt so many people especially her own mother whom she didn't care much for, since she left four years ago for some Spanish man named Pedro and moved to Spain to get away from Amalie’s father. Amalie detested her for that. No, she loathed her for leaving. The few times she had been invited to Spain to visit, Amalie had acted like a spoiled brat, slammed the doors, refused to spend time with her mother and constantly told her how much she hated her and how she hated Pedro even more. In the end her mother had stopped inviting her to come. It was her own fault, she had said to Amalie's father on the phone. And her dad's fault.

  "You have turned her into this cold beast with no emotions," Amalie heard her say while listening in on the conversation from a phone in another room. "She's all yours."

  Now Amalie missed her mother more than ever. She missed the mother she remembered from her childhood, the one who had enjoyed her company and loved her like a mother should love her child. But something had happened. Something that had made her mother angry and resentful toward her father. Suddenly they barely spoke and her mother started drinking before noon. In the beginning it was just a glass of white wine now and then when only Amalie noticed it, but later her mother would lie in her bed upstairs in the middle of the day when Amalie came home from school. She would be asleep, an empty bottle on the floor and several pill bottles on the nightstand. In the end Amalie hardly saw her mother anymore. Her father took over the education of his daughter and soon he had taught her all she needed to know. All he had learned about life. When Amalie's mother came back from her third stay at a rehab center, she came home only to pack her stuff. She was leaving, for good, she told Amalie. She had met someone else, Amalie overheard her tell her father. She also heard her father laugh and send her away with the words: Get out. I'm busy.

  Amalie's father had told her that he didn't care, but Amalie knew he did. He cared so much he had sent a pack of his reservoir dogs to beat the living daylights out of this Pedro and send him to the hospital for several weeks. He was attacked in his village in Spain by what seemed like a random gang only out to rob him, but both Amalie and her mother knew who sent them and they also both knew that this was just the beginning of it.

  On the day the mother told them she was leaving, Amalie's heart was torn to pieces. Still she managed to keep her calm like her father had taught her. Never lose it, he said. Never show emotions in front of people. They'll think you're weak. So she stood proud and stoic, not moving a muscle in her face while watching her mother pack her bags. Her mother looked at her just before she went out the door.

  "Not even a tear, huh? Well you certainly are your father's daughter," she said, her last words before she went out the door.

  Amalie hadn't shed one single tear for her mother. She decided she wasn't worth it; she didn't want to give her the satisfaction. Instead she made her life a living hell every time they were together. That was her way of getting her revenge. But it had failed. Now she needed her mother more than ever. Now she was shedding all her piled up tears for her mother and for herself.

  But it was much too late.

  An hour later, maybe two, she heard a noise above her. She was sniveling and gasping for air. Suddenly she saw a light somewhere. It almost blinded her eyes since they had gotten too used to the darkness. She blinked fast to force her eyes to
work properly. More light emerged as she realized a door had been opened. Someone was coming!

  She heard a voice. Someone was talking! A face was revealed in the door opening. She gasped and saw for the first time her cage. It was a small box, not much bigger than her, made from see-through plastic.

  "Help!" she said from inside of the box. "I'm in here." She repeated it a few times, then stopped. The face in the doorway smiled and winked at her. Seeing the face and especially the peculiar eyes made her stop yelling. It was him. The guy from the festival and he was walking towards her small plastic cage on the stone floor. Then he winked again and took a turn towards the racks of wine that covered the entire wall to her right. He grabbed a bottle and pulled it out.

  "Got the wine," he yelled towards the open door.

  Then he winked at her one last time and ran for the stairs. Startled Amalie saw him disappear up the stairs. She wanted to yell at him, she wanted to scream to let whoever was upstairs know where she was, but she couldn't. She was simply paralyzed. Paralyzed by something she had seen. Right there, right next to her was something hanging from a hook under the ceiling. It was the remains of a human body. The hook was pierced through the neck and the head fell to the side, the eyes staring wide and empty into the air. The skin was smeared in dried blood. One leg was missing and pieces of the flesh on the back had been removed.

  Then the lights went out as the man closed the door. Everything went quiet except for the low shrieking sound coming from Amalie's mouth.

  Chapter 9

  When they were done eating, Allan walked into the basement to get a second bottle of wine. Not because he intended to drink much of it, but he wanted Sebastian to. He had been chatting and blabbing on and on all night about his last trip to Milan. Allan couldn't care less about the designers or the fashion-week or any of all that Sebastian talked about. To be honest he didn't care much about Sebastian at all. But he did care about having an alibi for tonight and as usual Sebastian could deliver just that. He was the perfect cover completely oblivious to what was going on behind his back, mainly because he was so self-involved that he hardly noticed anything, not even the distant sound of the muffled screaming coming from the basement, that Allan tried to drown by turning up the music. Nor did he suspect that he had once again enjoyed part of Allan's latest victim in a delightful sauce.