by Lisa Jackson
So why the case of the willies?
There’s no one out here, Gina, she thought. Get over your bad self! You’ve done this hundreds of times, every night, like clockwork. No one’s ever bothered you. You’re just upset because the center is going to close unless you find a way to keep the doors open! You, Gina. Ain’t no one else gonna step up to this plate!
Walking briskly, she wondered how she was going to get the quick influx of cash. The trouble was, there just wasn’t enough money to go around, she thought, fighting with her umbrella in the gusts of wind and rain.
But she needed one celebrity type to help out. Someone the public could relate to, someone they would trust and give generously to. She thought of Billy Ray Furlough, that nearly rabid televangelist. He managed to get people to donate weekly to his church and his catchphrase, “Lord, love ya, brother,” was heard all over the country.
She’d never appealed to Billy Ray for money; there was something too slick, too big business, about him. But she might, after tonight’s meeting, have to swallow her pride and, rather than call in, see him personally and try to fight her way through the obstacle course of receptionists, bodyguards, and yes-men to get to the preacher, the tall man who’d been labeled as possessing a “Hollywood thousand-watt smile.” That phrase alone had made her want to throw up. She figured it was some spin doctor’s idea of good press. These days, apparently, even preachers had a public image to uphold—an image that probably wouldn’t need the world to know that the good preacher himself had worked through his own “issues.”
Yes, she’d call on Billy Ray Furlough personally. And once again she’d approach Asa Pomeroy, another wealthy man in the city, one she could barely stomach. Pomeroy traded in wives for younger models on a regular basis, and he sold weapons to the highest bidder. And yet, he’d been known to donate hundreds of thousands of dollars if the cause appealed to him. And even Asa, the almighty, had a son who had battled his own share of mental challenges.
Again, she’d have to smile, ask sweetly, and bite her tongue.
You’re a hypocrite, Gina. You hate preachers who are more about glitz and television ratings than God, and you despise anyone who makes money by selling arms.
But desperate times called for desperate measures.
Boy, did she understand that old bromide. Just last week she’d phoned her friend Eleanor Cavalier, who worked at WSLJ. Gina had wanted some on-air exposure, and she’d hoped to be a guest on Samantha Leeds’s program, Midnight Confessions. Dr. Sam was a psychologist who worked at the Boucher Center off Toulouse Street and sometimes helped out here at Crescent City Center. The trouble was the program manager for the station had thought it would be more interesting for the audience if Gina appeared on Luke Gierman’s show as well. Gina, fearing she’d just made a deal with the devil, had reluctantly agreed.
She figured now, with Gierman’s murder, she was off the hook.
She walked through the parking lot to her car, fighting the umbrella, stepping in puddles that had collected in the potholes and feeling the water seep through her boots.
A night not fit for man nor beast, her father used to say and she realized then why it was so dark. The only security light for the entire lot had burned out.
How odd.
She had a bad feeling, again.
The long hours were getting to her. Every little thing made her jump tonight.
What she needed was to drive the five miles to her home, take a warm shower, pour both Wally and herself a glass of wine, and beat the pants off him in a game of cut-throat Scrabble. He’d be waiting for her, just as he had for the entire thirty-six years of their marriage.
He was a good man, had always been there through times of plenty and want. She reached her car and tried to slide her key into the lock, but just like everything else on this cussed night, unlocking the car turned out to be a problem. The lock was jammed.
She tried again. “Come on,” she muttered between clenched teeth, her nerves strung tight as piano wires. “Oh, for the love of Mike!”
Flustered, she started to unzip her purse for her cell phone when she sensed something, nothing that she could see, just a dark premonition that made her turn, swinging the damned umbrella. Too late! Something cold and metallic was pressed against her neck.
She started to scream as thousands of volts of electricity sizzled through her body. Her legs gave way. Her arms flailed wildly. She couldn’t breathe. Her thoughts scattered. It felt as if a million tiny daggers were touching her skin. No! She tried to scream again and only a garbled, faint noise came out of her mouth.
Quickly and adeptly, as if he’d done it thousands of times before, her assailant slapped tape over her mouth, grabbed her keys from the pavement beside her, peeled something off the lock of her car, opened both doors on the driver’s side, and stuffed her unceremoniously into the backseat. Helplessly, unable to move, she saw him scrape up something from the ground…her purse, then the umbrella. He tossed both items into the front passenger seat.
Panicked, Gina tried to get away, to force her jellied limbs to move, but it was no use. He was quick, and using the same kind of tape he’d pressed over her mouth, he bound her ankles as her legs still dangled off the seat, hanging out of the car. Once her legs were lashed together, he crawled half inside, painfully wrenched her arms behind her back, and wound tape over her wrists.
She tried to see him and wound him, to scrape some of his skin from his arms, but he was too quick, disguised in a black wetsuit or something like it. Who was he and why, oh, why was he doing this? With all her might she tried to struggle, to fight, to save herself, but as many orders as her brain screamed, her muscles ignored. Her arms and legs were useless. A blindfold was swiftly tied over her eyes.
In less than two minutes she was trussed and locked into the backseat of her own car and he, whoever he was, began to drive. She felt the Regal’s tires bouncing over the ruts and holes in the parking lot as he eased down the alley.
Throughout the entire ordeal, he’d been silent.
Deadly efficient.
Working with a cold brutality that drove fear straight into her heart.
It was as if he’d planned the attack for days, or weeks, possibly even months.
But why?
Who would do this?
Dear Jesus, help me! Tears burned behind her eyes and her entire body trembled. She tried to concentrate, to figure out a plan of escape, to, at the very least, fling herself out of the moving car, but just as the thought hit her brain, she heard the childproof door locks click down.
He slowed at, she assumed, the alley’s entrance and eased onto the street, turning toward the river.
Oh, God, where was he taking her?
To do what?
She was shaking all over, tears tracking from her eyes, and she blinked hard, tried to get her bearings.
Think, Gina, think! Your cell phone! If you could just get to it and hit speed dial for 911.
Frantic, she willed her muscles to respond, but what good would it do? She was tied, her arms pulled behind her back, her shoulders aching in their sockets. Besides, her phone was in her purse and her handbag was in the front passenger seat.
Her heart dropped like a stone.
There was no escape.
There isn’t unless you find a way! Don’t give up, Gina…find a way out of this mess! Isn’t that what you tell the people that you counsel, that God always gives you an opportunity, you just have to discover it and work for it? Then find that opportunity, now, before it’s too late!
This is a test. God’s test.
You can save yourself. The Lord will be with you.
She tried to stay calm, to keep her wits about her, to find comfort in her faith. God helps those who help themselves. What she could do was concentrate on where they were going. She couldn’t see, but she knew the streets of this city like the back of her hand. The center was two blocks off Esplanade and he’d taken the alley to the west.
Now, h
e was driving slowly, winding through the city. She thought they were continuing west. Through the blindfold she sensed illumination, streetlights. She heard other traffic as well—tires humming, engines racing, people shouting—and then, as her Buick picked up speed, she knew they were on the freeway, but which direction? She waited for the sound of a bridge. A short one over the Mississippi River, or the bridge across Lake Pontchartrain that would go on for over twenty miles.
However, he’d taken so many corners before he accelerated onto the freeway that she was confused. Soon the illumination from the city lights no longer bled through her blindfold. She felt that they were on the freeway, but had no clue any longer which direction.
She was lost, hog-tied and alone with a would-be killer.
She prayed for her safety, but with each passing mile, her hopes for rescue died.
She knew the odds. This monster’s motive wasn’t money. Otherwise he would have stolen her wallet and jewelry and left her. Nor would he be demanding ransom as she and Wally lived modestly and had no money to speak of. She wasn’t a rich woman. So if her abduction wasn’t for money, his motive was darker, more frightening. Deadlier.
He wanted her body. To rape her or kill her or both.
She told herself that if she could get out of this with her life, she would be lucky. She reminded herself that no matter what vile or painful acts were to come, nothing else mattered but that.
Suddenly muted music, a lilting little jingle, rang through the car. Fresh tears slid from her eyes as she recognized the ring tone she’d assigned to her home phone. Wally was calling. Waiting. The wine poured, the Scrabble game on the kitchen table. Her throat clogged. She was probably only ten minutes late and he was already checking on her. Oh, blessed, blessed man. I love you, she thought, her heart squeezing as she conjured up his face, and remembered marrying him after high school graduation, making love with him for the first time in a tiny apartment on their wedding night. They’d sacrificed even then, forgoing a honeymoon to save money. The next five years they’d worked and gone to college, taken out loans and gotten scholarships. During that time they’d made the decision not to have children because they both wanted to help their large families, their siblings. Wally had become a teacher and she, because of her brother Martin, had decided to work with the mentally ill.
It all seemed so far away now as she lay in the backseat listening to the cell phone.
The phone quit ringing and her heart nosedived.
Don’t give up on me, Wally. Please!
Ten minutes later the same song began to play from inside her purse. The driver ignored her cell phone. As if he didn’t care. As if he wasn’t worried.
Didn’t he know about GPS chips? That the phone could be found by the cell towers where the signals were picked up, or something? She hadn’t paid much attention to the spiel when the salesman had gone on and on about the value of the Global Positioning Chip which was part of her new cell phone, but now she only hoped that, however it worked, it would help.
Again the phone stopped ringing and she imagined the worry in Wally’s voice as he left another message in her voice mail box.
Still her abductor drove. On and on through the night. Gina had no idea where they were but assumed from the lack of sounds of traffic and the time that had passed that they were far from New Orleans.
When the phone rang for the third time, she nearly sobbed. Poor sweet, brilliant Wally. He was probably worried out of his mind. But he would start looking for her and that was good. He would call the police, they would search for her car, and the GPS chip…oh, Lord, she’d never put her faith in technology before.
They drove for what seemed an hour longer before he turned off the freeway and onto a smooth, curving road. The cell phone rang twice more…and she expected that Wally had started calling friends and family.
Finally, her kidnapper slowed the car. He turned hard to the right, and the car jostled and bumped, the sound of weeds or brush scraping the undercarriage. Dear God, where had he taken her?
Her heart was knocking as the tires slid to a stop. He cut the engine, then opened the car door and she smelled the heavy, loamy odor of forest and swamp. Crickets chirped, bull frogs croaked, and the wind swept into the Regal’s interior, bringing with it the scents of swamp water and decaying vegetation.
She braced herself. This was it. Well, she wasn’t going down without a fight.
The back door of the Buick was yanked open and she started to squirm and struggle.
“I’ve got a gun,” he said. “Don’t move.” To reinforce his warning, he touched the cold, hard steel barrel to her thigh. He wasn’t kidding. “And a knife.” This time a long, cool blade slid down her leg.
She nearly lost control of her bladder. Now for certain she knew. He was going to kill her. With the gun, if she was lucky. There was no way out of this.
Lord, please help me. Give me strength.
He slid the blade of the knife between her knees and lower. If she could get some control of her muscles, she could kick up with both feet, maybe slam him in the face with her boots, but just as she thought of it, the knife sliced down hard and cut through the tape surrounding her ankles. She reacted, swinging a booted foot in a hard kick, but he caught her foot in one strong grip and twisted. Hard. Pain shot up her leg. Her knee popped. She squealed behind her gag.
“Bitch!” he growled, in a deep, disguised voice. “Don’t you understand?”
Oh, God, yes, she understood. Pain screamed up her thigh. He was going to hurt her. Badly.
He pulled her roughly from the car, and though she was far from petite, he was strong enough to set her on her feet and prod her forward, the nose of his gun at her spine.
“Move.” He pushed.
Had she heard his voice before? Was it familiar?
She inched forward in the blackness, her knee throbbing, her entire body quivering with fear. Her boots sank into the mud, but she plowed forward, refusing to cry out, determined to either find a way to thwart him, or die embracing Jesus.
All around her the smell of the swamp was thick and she imagined snakes and gators and all manner of beasts slithering through the night, none deadlier than the creature who had abducted her.
The toe of her boot slammed against something solid and she almost fell. “Up,” he commanded. “Two steps.”
Swallowing back her fear, she managed to climb the two risers, and as she did, she felt his breath on her neck as he reached around her. A screen door squeaked and he urged her again with the gun’s cruel muzzle. Her boots clunked unevenly across what she assumed to be a porch.
Another door creaked open and her heart was hammering so loudly she thought it might explode.
“Inside!” The gun pushed urgently against her.
She inched forward. Even with the blindfold, she felt a new darkness, a closeness. Her every nerve ending was alive, her muscles tense, sweat covering her body. She was in a house, an empty house, she thought, her footsteps loud and reverberating against the floor. It smelled of dirt and misuse and something else, something acrid…urine?
Animal?
Or human?
Her stomach shriveled.
Oh, dear Jesus, were there dead people in here? Or were they alive, kept here against their will? A tiny bit of light pierced through her blindfold, a dim illumination. Her imagination ran wild as she felt him step closer to her.
“That’s far enough,” he said into her ear, and she felt the edge of a cold steel blade against her cheek. He was behind her, pressed tightly against her, and she felt a fear as cold and dark as any she had ever known.
He shifted, one arm around her ribs, the gun pressed under her breasts as he slowly and sensuously slid the blade of the knife down the slope of her cheek. Against her back, she felt his erection. The jerk was getting off on this!
Tears burned her eyes. All hope drained.
The knife moved lower, beneath her chin. To that soft, vulnerable tissue.
Oh, G
od… She quaked inside, her tears drenching the blindfold.
The blade pressed hard, moving seductively against the column of her neck, lingering at the soft spot between her collarbones. He was breathing rapidly now, short panting bursts against her ear.
Her knees gave out in fear, and had he not been holding her up, she would have fallen.
Jesus, give me strength.
Just when she was certain he would slice her throat, he moved and, as she gasped, cut the tape at her wrists. If she had known his plan, she would have been ready, but in the split second when she realized she was unbound, he shifted, holding the knife to her throat and forcing the gun into her hand.
She couldn’t believe it. If she turned the weapon on him now, took the chance that she could kill him first, what did it matter? He was going to kill her anyway.
“Shoot,” he commanded as his steely, gloved fingers covered hers.
What?
He aimed the weapon in front of her, pointed downward, and she heard another sound…a muted cry?
So there was someone else in the room.
“Shoot, Gina!”
Hearing her name made her want to throw up. That she was a part of this macabre, twisted act, whatever it was, made her stomach wrench.
The knife wiggled at her throat and she felt a hot, searing pain as he cut her.
“Shoot and end this.”
Don’t do it. Gina, don’t…there is something horrible happening here, something worse than you originally thought.
Another muffled squeal.
From the area in front of her. The spot where he was aiming the gun. Dear Jesus, what was he forcing her to do?
She tried to jerk away, but the hand over hers tightened, positioning the heavy gun. It was wobbling in her hand, but he took control and squeezed, forcing her finger to pull the trigger.