Don't Lose Her

by Jonathon King

  “Don’t care,” I said—and I didn’t. If they knew where I was and where I was going, maybe I’d have backup when I blew up somebody’s shit. And that’s exactly what I intended to do.

  Chapter 23

  Maybe it was the release of her hands—the fact that she could again cup her belly in her palms and massage her own skin, coo to her child while warming it with her own touch. Even if it was irrational, she wanted her baby to know she was there, watching, protecting. In a dream state, she thought back to the early months, to the elation she’d felt when she told Billy she was pregnant.

  It wasn’t as if it was unplanned. They’d talked about the risks involved in a pregnancy at her age, the changes in their lives, the challenges. But the thought of a baby, a child created by the two of them, had given her a glow that even people in the courthouse noticed.

  “Aren’t we in a good mood today, Judge?”

  “You are looking absolutely vibrant, Judge Manchester. What, you’re ahead of your docket again this month?”

  And then, of course, there was the downside as her body changed in those first weeks. Squirrels in her belly: tiny, bouncing, rambunctious squirrels mixing it up. The dreaming was real enough to take her back to those early mornings trying to do the everyday things to get ready for work, and suddenly being stopped by the squirrelly stomach. Even though she knew that right now she was in a half-dream, half-awake state in a prison room, the taste of bile rising in her throat became too real to ignore, and seized her.

  If I puke in this hood, they’ll still refuse to take it off, she thought. They won’t care. They’ll make me wear it. And what if I choke? What if I gag on my own vomit and choke myself to death and take my own child with me?

  She began to panic. Then her stomach began a lurch, a dry heave. She fought it. Then despite the voice in the back of her head that demanded her to leave the hood untouched, she lost control and began tearing at the cloth, pulling at the drawstring around her neck. She didn’t care what they might do and kept clawing at the fabric as her stomach spun. She knew about people aspirating on their own vomit. She was driven by the irrational fear that she would drown.

  She fought until the hood actually came free. A breath of clear air hit her face and cooled her cheeks and forehead and throat. It brought an instant relief to the nausea, even if she was dreaming it.

  But now she was not dreaming. The hood was in Diane’s right hand. She went still, waiting for the slap to the head. But no one hit her. No one pushed her back on the mattress. No one grunted or yelled at her.

  Still, the days of darkness had intimidated her. She kept her eyes closed, afraid to open them, despite the lack of reprisal. Had she been brainwashed so quickly? You will not see. We will not let you see. And so you cannot.

  Using her newly tuned senses, she listened for the sound of her captor’s breathing. Was he asleep? Had he slipped out while she was dreaming? How could he even tell if she was asleep or not? He could not see her eyes through the cloak.

  Open your eyes, Diane, she ordered herself. Still she hesitated. A minute? Fifteen? Finally, she willed them open, forcing her lashes, stuck by crusted, dried tears, to flutter. When she opened her eyes wide again, there was no reaction from her guard. Without moving, she looked around in darkness. But her pupils had been in darkness for days, and now they seemed to seek out the light, any light. Across the room, the bottom edge of a door offered the single source of a light that gave dimension and reality to her prison.

  It was a single room, maybe ten feet wide. She turned and scanned the walls for windows: none. The cot she sat upon was bigger than she had imagined. The portable toilet was in the far corner, seven steps away. Against the wall opposite her was one straight-backed chair. Something was on the floor next to it—a comforter, no, a long pad like a futon. Had her captor been sleeping right next to her all this time? Watching every movement?

  Next to the pad was a white sack of some sort, a group of standing bottles, and a clock, the old-fashioned kind with the green glowing numbers. She tried to focus on the clock as if knowing the time were of utmost importance. She moved to the edge of the cot to get a closer look and was about to stand when the familiar sound of creaking floorboards just outside the door froze her in place.

  Two thoughts: pull the hood back on and pretend it had never been off, that nothing had changed—or fight like hell.

  When the doorknob’s mechanical grind turned, her limbic system overruled. She stood and flexed her knees, and in that moment of expectation the first words she’d heard in what seemed like weeks came to her ears in a low, male, deep-chested voice: “Get her ready. We are going.”

  Going? Going? Going where? The words confused her.

  The explosion of light that came in with the opening door stung her eyes in the way a flare must do to soldiers wearing night-vision goggles. Blinded, she rushed forward, launching herself as best she could into the door panel and feeling it give under her weight and momentum. It was less an attack than a stumble, but she heard a high-pitched yelp and a definite clomping of unsteady footfalls.

  Just as she tried to gather herself for another lunge, a much greater opposite force hit the door from the other side and sent her sprawling across the room. She went down onto the iron frame of the cot, the edge catching her on a hip bone. Her cry of pain ripped the air. She looked up at the open door and got one glimpse of the backlit figure of an enormous man, taller and seemingly wider than the doorway itself. No face, but a scarf or maybe even a swath of long hair swung with his movement as he stepped into the room and backhanded her into blackness.

  Consciousness—no, a true focus—crept back with the mixed odor of gasoline fumes and new car carpet. Diane had not gone completely out with the blow delivered by the big man. But the swirling movements, being dragged up by the armpits and then pushed and pulled in directions unknown, were all a blur. She recalled the stumbling, the jostling, and then a panicking feeling that they were throwing her over a rooftop to her death. But she never landed.

  Then there were noises: a car engine, metal latches slamming together, the distant blaring of a horn, a siren—was it coming for her? An ambulance? A police car? Then came the movement, the pitching and a lurching stop before a feeling of momentum and speed.

  Only now, with the odors around her and the realization that the hood had again been draped over her head and her hands retied, this time in front of her, did she make a cognizant assessment: they’d tossed a pregnant woman into the trunk of a car and now they were on the road.

  There was no telling the amount of time they’d been moving or in what direction. Diane’s senses had been so scrambled from the visions and the blow to the head that she was utterly lost. She moved her limbs as best she could to judge if anything was broken. She felt with her feet and hands the dimensions of the space around her and listened. Would you hear someone talking through the backseat of a car if you were in the trunk? Would you know if you were in the city or on the interstate, near the beach or inland? She didn’t know. And soon she didn’t care.

  There was a constant high-speed hum of tires on a relatively flat roadway, and the odor of new car along with a tinge of exhaust. She encircled her stomach with her forearms and bound wrists and on the backs of her hands she felt a familiar texture. Someone had brought the blanket from the tiny cot and covered her. To keep her warm? Or keep her covered from prying eyes? She felt around more with her hands, let her fingers probe until she found a plastic bottle. She pulled at it and felt the shape.

  She knew it could be anything; still she brought it to her mouth, and using her teeth, twisted the top until it was open enough to leak. Then she tasted the first few drops of bottled water with her tongue. Was her guard being kind to her? Did he feel bad after smashing her unconscious? She drank some more. What had her doctor said about hydration? Did her captors know this? Did they actually care about her health? If they were holding
her for ransom, wouldn’t they have to keep her alive, at least until they got their money?

  Shit, Diane, they’re holding you in the trunk of a car doing 100 mph down the highway. They punched you in the head and dragged you down a flight of stairs and tossed you into a trunk like a sack of trash. You’re nothing to them but a means to some end, whatever the hell that might be.

  “Get her ready. We are going,” the voice had said. Was it the voice of the big man, the one she saw in the backlit doorway? She concentrated now on the words. She was good at accents. She’d lived in multicultural South Florida all her life. She knew the difference between a Florida backwoods cracker drawl and a southern Georgia inflection. She knew a Cuban aristocratic Spanish from a Castilian cadence and could distinguish a classic New York accent from a nasal, higher-pitched Brooklynese.

  Those six words had been none of those. They had a straighter, clipped feeling of Midwest America, but with an indecipherable spin. What they absolutely were not was Latin American, Colombian.

  If Escalante was behind all this, these were hirelings, not men from his own country, which made less sense to her. Such a man and his cartel minions didn’t kidnap a federal judge and send anyone but their most trusted soldiers to carry it out.

  So who are these people? What do they want and when are they just going to kill me and my unborn child?

  Chapter 24

  Fucking Geronimo. Fucker walks right up behind when I’m about to go back in that goddamn room and says, “Get her ready. We are going.”

  Rae was still trying to figure out what the hell that meant when she opened the door and, boom, all hell broke loose. All the sudden, she was on her ass on the catwalk and well that bitch got hers when old Geronimo put all 260 pounds to the door after it knocked her back. Then he stepped in and put her down with that fucking backhand of his.

  “Get her ready.” Yeah, right. The first thing Rae had to do was get a new pair of flex-cuffs on her. Hell, she didn’t know if Geronimo even noticed that the woman wasn’t cuffed. Fucking bitch! You give someone an inch and they take a fucking mile. She didn’t know where she’d learned that old saying, probably from her mom, but ain’t it the truth.

  Rae had cut the woman’s hands loose “so I can touch my baby, please,” and what does she do? Knocks my ass over and tries to run. So then while Miss Priss was out like a light on the mattress, Rae got a new pair of flex-cuffs on her and got everything in the room rolled up and out of there so Danny could take it all out to the Dumpster. Man … when she saw his face, he couldn’t even look her in the eye. Hey, a couple of days of babysitting and, wow, big money Florida vacation whoopee! My ass.

  But the no-talking rule was still in effect so all she could do was give him her look, and even if he didn’t turn to see it, she knew he could feel her eyes on the side of his face ’cause his skin was turning red right there on his neck and cheeks like it always did when he knew she was pissed at him. What the fuck did you get us into now, Danny?

  Well, she kinda knew the answer to that one now, didn’t she? Hell, she’d been texting Kelsey since like day fucking one and her girlfriend had been getting all the news back to her.

  having fun in the sun yet?

  no.

  sup?

  no gd fun. lotta shit.

  huh?

  d n another of his big ids

  u in trouble?

  not yet. but coming.

  u not into illegal again.

  yep. but this 1s big.

  Rae had been trying to keep the messaging to a minimum, afraid fucking Geronimo or one of his braves were gonna catch her, but shit, this last couple of days things were getting out of hand. She’d slip out of the room when the pregnant princess was asleep, but the Indians had a hawk eye on Danny and her. All they could do was whisper and, of course, he was giving her the “everything’s gonna be all right” line from that old-timey Loggins and Messina song that he said he loved because it had his name on it.

  He’s so full of shit. He played that song from his iPod the first time he’d taken her down to Crystal Lake and they were making out in some car he said he didn’t steal from the country club lot but then admitted later that he did and had to get it back before Sunday checkout. Back then it was kinda romantic, “Danny’s Song,” and all. But every time they got into some sketchy situation he’d come up with that “everything’s gonna be all right” again and it was getting real old.

  how big?

  big.

  how illegal?

  damn illegal.

  Rae knew Kelsey was worried about her. They’d been friends forever and she was the only one Rae could really talk to about her mother and how pissed Rae was that she’d died and left her all the fuck alone. Kelsey even said that if Rae wanted, she’d tell her own mom and they’d like adopt her, make her one of the Preece family. But that was all fantasy and Rae had said, “No way.” She could take care of herself and did.

  Even when the worker from child welfare services showed up, she’d been able to shine them on and get them off her back and say she was with relatives. It was bullshit and her so-called aunt had just backed her story but let her stay in the trailer by herself—and why not? Rae was a hell of a lot smarter than any of her so-called family and got that job at the country club—like they needed another mouth to feed anyway. Kelsey was always there and she kept Rae’s secrets and they kept their friendship. But Kelsey also had a sense when Rae was in trouble and knew this time she was in deeper than usual.

  big illegal trouble in FL?

  d’s shit again.

  it’s not about a preggo judge got snatched down there?

  says who?

  all over the tv rae plz don’t say it’s that.

  ok. no say.

  Fuck! So the bitch had been telling the truth about being a federal judge. Independent corroboration, right? She’d heard that one a few times on those law-and-order shows and now her best and only true friend was giving it to her. If it had hit the news stations up in Michigan, then it was big stuff. Then this morning, she’d heard that overhead garage door open for the first time since they’d brought the woman in. Rae got up from her bedroll on the floor and carefully cracked the door to peek out.

  A silver Chrysler 300 was pulling in and she watched as it stopped and Danny got out of the driver’s seat. Shit. What? He’d gone out and stolen another car? Since it looked brand-new, Rae wondered if he’d taken it right off the car lot like he’d done that time in Traverse City. That time, she’d caught him staring at a Cadillac Escalade the dealership was pimping by putting it up on a ramp out by the roadside. Thing was six feet above all the other cars on the lot like a trophy, and Danny would just stare at it when they passed by on their way to the country club. She knew, just knew like radar, that he was challenged by the damn thing and was trying to figure out how to steal it.

  Sure enough, maybe three weeks later, she gets off work and Danny calls her cell and says, “Meet me out back by employee parking.” When she gets out there, he’s sitting in the driver’s seat of that big black Escalade­. They spent the night smoking reefer in the thing down by the point and making love in the back with the tailgate open to the lake. The next day, he ditched it, taking only the mag wheels, which he said he could sell in a heartbeat.

  So she had no doubt about the Chrysler 300 down there even though Danny didn’t say a word when she slipped out of the room and went down to find out what the hell was up.

  It was then that fucking Geronimo cut her away from Danny and without a word ushered her back up the stairs like some cattle dog cutting her out of the herd. He said,“Get her ready,” and the shit hit the fan.

  Hell, Rae couldn’t even take her vacation clothes with her. But carefully, she put her cell down the front of her panties and just slightly up inside her so those morons couldn’t tell and wouldn’t dare search her there. Then they’d
all piled into the Chrysler 300 after Geronimo had physically picked up the woman, carried her down the steps, and stuffed her into the trunk.

  Now, Danny was driving with Geronimo in the front telling him where to go and Rae was in the backseat with the fucking braves. She’d made damn sure she was next to the window so she didn’t have to squeeze between the two Indians like a white meat sandwich. Off they went.

  They hit the interstate in twenty or thirty minutes, Danny driving­ the speed limit and using his turn signals to merge and the whole nine yards. Then they were on this wide, multiple-lane road for what seemed like hours. Rae stared out the window and couldn’t even tell which direction they were going. Then there was a long, clean stretch of nothing­—and she meant nothing.

  They were on an interstate called I-75 and on either side was nothing but open land that looked like wheat fields stretching out to the horizon. She let herself relax but kept thinking about the text to Kelsey and her phone and whether she’d remembered to put it on vibrate. Then she giggled, considering where it was tucked. When Rae looked over from the window, she could see Danny staring at her through the rearview mirror.

  “Something funny, Little Squaw?” Geronimo said the first words out of his mouth to her since he’d told her they were leaving.

  “There’s not a goddamn thing funny about this whole shitstorm, asshole,” she’d let loose, surprising even herself, and adding, “now that the no-talking rule is obsolete.”

  “Obsolete? I like that,” Geronimo said to Danny more than her. “That’s one smart-mouth woman you got there, bro.”

  Danny said nothing but readjusted the mirror so he didn’t have to look at Rae.

  “Yeah, well, bro,” Rae said to Geronimo, in for a dime now, in for a dollar. “You’re the one who broke the no-talking rule.”

  “Don’t matter now,” the Indian said.

  Rae felt the man next to her move, almost involuntarily, just a flinch of nervousness.