“Tonight on Larry King Live, Aynslee Kai. Entertainment reporter last week. Hottest crime reporter in the country this week. Why is a serial killer sending her videos? We'll ask her later in the show, but first—”
Eldridge shook his head. She's milking this for all it’s worth.
He flipped the channel to the local newscast and there she was again, wearing the same form hugging top and skirt as the day he had met her. It was as becoming then as it was now. The way she carried herself said I'm good looking, I know it, and I'm going to use it to get me where I want to go. He didn't get the impression she would cross any lines, the lack of sway in her hips when they had met giving that away, but he figured she would use her sexuality to bend people to her will. And he had no problem with that. He had even had to pour on the charm himself a few times to get a female witness, and even a couple of male witnesses, to tell him what he wanted to know. But this one could be a challenge. He needed her to cooperate, but he had a feeling her career came first and everything else, including civic duty, a distant second.
“—fourth murder victim. I must warn you, what you are about to see is very disturbing.”
Eldridge leaned forward on his couch. Don't tell me. A video played, showing a man tied up and gagged, pleading for his life. A gun slowly came into view, the finger on the trigger relentlessly closing. The image froze then the broadcast cut back to Aynslee. “We just can't show you any more than that. The identity—”. Eldridge shut the TV off in disgust, threw the remote on the table and grabbed his phone to find out where Aynslee was. I guess our little talk fell on deaf ears.
Chelsie woke with a start. Looking around, she saw nothing, only an inky black like she had never experienced before. Not even a hint of a reflection from some stray, indirect light source spoiled the perfect darkness. Where am I? She racked her brain, trying to remember what had happened. The van! Her memories surged forth, a tsunami of remembrance that sent her heart racing with adrenaline, as the events of earlier came back. Somebody grabbed me! And drugged me! She rubbed her leg where the needle had pierced through her nylons. It felt slightly hard, almost like after a vaccination. Is this the van? If it was, they definitely weren’t moving. She listened for a motor. Nothing. She listened harder. Are we parked? This excited her. If they were parked, she might have a chance. She listened for the sounds of pedestrians. All she needed was to be able to get someone’s attention. They could call the police. They could get help, or even help her themselves. She strained to hear something. Anything. But all she could hear was the sound of her own breathing. Maybe I’m not in the van? This admission made her notice her bum was quite cold. And damp. She reached with her right hand and was shocked to feel something completely unexpected under her. Is that dirt? She felt the floor some more, and was soon certain of it. This was dirt. This was definitely not a van. A cave? She had visions of werewolves and vampires flash through her head. You watch Twilight entirely too much.
She decided to take a chance. Maybe she wasn’t alone. Maybe there was someone else there, and they could work together, help each other. “Hello?” Her voice barely made a sound, her throat so dry. She swallowed and tried again. “Hello?” This time it was louder, the distance of the echo surprised her, revealing an area larger than she expected. She called out again. Nothing. She waved her hands in front of her face, and something heavy dragged down her left arm. She probed the smooth, hard object encircling her wrist with her fingers and found a part jutting out, leading to long, cold rings of metal linked together for as far as her arm could stretch. A chain! Pulling on it, she heard it rattle against something metallic far above her head. She rose and grasped for something, anything. She soon found a strange feeling wall, almost cave-like. As she followed it, dragging her chain with her, she heard metal scraping on metal overhead. The further she moved down the wall, the more the chain stretched, then every few feet a surge of scraping sounds accompanied by more slack. She rushed around the walls, her hands spread out in front of her, feeling the surface, desperate to find a door or window, any means of escape. She bumped into another wall and yelped, tears filling her eyes. She quickly felt around the corner, and stumbled headlong down this new wall, her heart pounding faster and faster, tears streaming down her face, her hands shaking more and more as she found each corner, and no way out. Her teeth chattered, her jaw vibrating with fear, tiny moans escaping her chest as she rushed again around the room, hoping she had missed something, anything.
But she had missed nothing.
She finally collapsed in a corner, exhausted, and hugged her knees, pressing her chattering jaw into them, trying to settle it, her mind a swirl of panic, as it raced to process the situation. She was trapped. She was a prisoner. She was going to die. To be raped. To be eaten. Hannibal Lector was nearby, watching her, laughing to himself as his next meal exhausted itself. Some creature, some beast, was waiting to tear her apart, some dirty, perverted, fat old man was going to make her his sex slave, and rape her, forcing her to have his babies for years to come, and they too would be trapped here with her.
She heard footsteps above her and let out a blood-curdling scream.
“Just up here on the right please.”
Ibrahim nodded to the portly woman in the rearview mirror and pulled his cab up to the corner of 42nd and 5th. He stopped the meter and turned to face her. “That'll be seven-fifty, madam.”
The woman already had a ten-dollar bill in her hand and passed it through the partition to him. “Keep the change,” she grunted as she opened the door and swung her legs out, relying heavily on the frame to pull her bulk out and onto the sidewalk.
“Thank you, madam!” He had started driving the cab three weeks ago and still got excited when someone handed him cash. He found he would sometimes just rub his thumb over the stack of bills, the paper’s wrinkled, almost fabric-like texture, thrilled him. But it was the smell he couldn’t get enough of. The smell of a thousand hands that had handled the worn bills before him, buying a thousand things he had never heard of before coming here. In a single day he now handled more money than he had seen in his previous life. Having fled the violence in Sudan two years ago with his wife and daughter, he had struggled ever since. His cousin had managed to get him a job as a cabby but took a large cut of his take under the table. There is no thief worse than one who is family. He could have lied about how much he made each night, but then he would be no better than his cousin and as anyone who knew him would tell you, he was honest, almost to a fault. He placed the new bill in his pocket, adding it to the wad he had already accumulated today, checked his driver side mirror and was about to pull out when he saw something move behind him. Startled, he whipped around to look. A man knocked on the trunk and pointed, holding up a carryon luggage case.
Ibrahim climbed from the cab, his heart still beating fast, and popped the trunk, placing the man's bag inside. Slamming the trunk closed he asked, “Where can I take you, sir?”
“La Guardia, please.”
They both climbed in and Ibrahim pulled out into traffic. “No problem. Things are pretty backed up so it will take a little longer than usual.” The man said nothing as he sat in the back seat behind Ibrahim. The large, dark sunglasses he wore revealed nothing about his eyes, the rest of his features hidden behind the shadow of a Yankees cap pulled low. Ibrahim shuddered at the complete lack of emotion displayed on his passenger's face as he stared straight ahead. There is something definitely wrong with this man. He pressed a little harder on the accelerator, eager for this fare to end.
They drove in silence for almost ten minutes. While passing on a side street the man leaned forward. “I need to get something out of my bag. Can you pull over, please?” Ibrahim nodded and pulled into the parking lot of a gas station. He popped the trunk and reached to take off his seatbelt when his passenger shook his head. “I'll get it.” The man climbed out and walked to the back of the cab. The car rocked slightly as the man did something in the trunk. Ibrahim watched in his side mirror for him to come b
ack but he didn't. What's taking him so long? He rolled down his window.
“Can I help you, sir?”
Silence.
Both fear and curiosity gripped him. Should I go look? He knew he shouldn't. He had heard too many stories, and the memories of the Janjaweed's brutal attack on his family were still fresh in his mind. He looked around the gas station parking lot. At the other end a family redistributed their luggage for a vacation, but other than them, he was alone. How long was he supposed to wait? He decided to risk it.
He stepped from the cab, and, cautiously leaning out, eyed the back of the vehicle. His passenger was nowhere to be seen. Did he skip out on me? “Sir?” He crept to the back, his heart pounding like a drum, his mouth dry with fear. As he neared the rear he heard a shoe scrape on the pavement behind him.
“Miss Kai, I thought we had an agreement.”
Aynslee looked up from her laptop and saw Detective Eldridge frowning at her from the entrance of her new office. Four real walls! “Detective Eldridge,” she smiled, knowing full well why he was there, the elation of the Larry King interview suddenly pushed to the background, a knot in the pit of her stomach replacing it. “Please, have a seat.” She motioned him toward one of two office chairs in front of her desk.
Eldridge sat, looked around for a moment then fixed his gaze on her.
Are you interested in career women? “As you can see I'm moving up in the world,” she laughed, the half-heartedness of it betraying her nervousness. “No window yet, but better than my old cubicle any day.” Unbelievably better! When she had arrived this morning to a standing ovation from the staff, she saw Jeff at the end of the hall with a big smile on his face, leading the cheering. She knew she wasn’t the first reporter from the office to get on Larry King, but she was the latest, and she might as well enjoy the attention while it lasted. Next week it might be someone else, that damned intern for all she knew. Jeffrey shook her hand then motioned her into the new office. She pretended it wasn’t a big deal, but as soon as she closed the door, she did a happy-dance no one saw. Because I have four walls and a door! Immediately she took a few photos and emailed them to her mom and dad.
But one glance at Eldridge and she knew he could care less, his stare unwavering.
No small talk. “Yeah, well, I guess you're here to talk about the video. I'm sorry about that, but …” She trailed off, hoping he would say it was okay. Please say it was okay!
He didn't.
“Well, you know how it is, everything is about getting the story out first, early bird gets the worm, that type of thing.”
Eldridge said nothing.
Aynslee smiled, his lack of response making her uncomfortable. Say something! “Look, if I tell the police then that means it goes public and I lose my exclusive. I can't afford that!” It sounded feeble even to her.
Again, Eldridge said nothing.
Those eyes! It's like he's looking straight into my head, like he knows what I'm thinking. “Okay, you're right, I should have called you first, and I'm sorry I didn't, but I'm not going to apologize for thinking of my career first.” But I just did! “The guy was already dead, what harm is there in a few hours delay?” She cringed. No, I’m not heartless!
Eldridge blinked. Aynslee was sure it was the first time since she had started talking. And he still said nothing.
“Okay, you win!” said Aynslee, exasperated. “I promise, the next time I get a video, I will call you first. But you have to promise me that it won't get leaked to the press until I get my exclusive!”
Eldridge rose from his chair. “I'm glad we have an agreement,” he said and he stretched out his hand. Aynslee reached to shake it when she noticed it was palm up. Sheepishly, she pulled a memory stick from her laptop and handed it to him.
“See, I was already making you a copy.”
Eldridge walked from the office without saying another word. Aynslee slumped back in her chair and smacked her forehead. I wish he was fat.
Ibrahim awoke to find himself in near total darkness, the only light from the odd stray shaft making it through the walls of whatever prison he was in. He struggled to rise but found his hands and feet bound and tape over his mouth. It took him a moment to realize he was in the trunk of a car, most likely his own cab. The steady sound from the engine told him they were idling, the telltale sounds of other cars around him suggesting they were in heavy traffic. The car surged forward, slamming him into the front of the trunk, the loose tire jack digging into his side. He closed his eyes and tried to calm down but it was no use, memories of when the Janjaweed had come to his home in Silaya and tied him up, much like he was now, played on the back of his eyelids like a movie, perfect replays of a nightmare he would never forget. But then it wasn’t dark. It was all too bright. He had been able to watch every single thing done to his family. When he had tried to close his eyes, one of the vermin reached around and pried his eyes open, forcing him to watch as the soldiers raped his wife and his daughter, a mere six at the time, laughing and pointing at him as they did it, man after man, hour after hour. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to rid himself of the memory, but it was no use, the sound of their screams, the desperation in their voices as the marauders savaged their innocent bodies, too fresh. He opened his eyes, the images of that day replaced by his new nightmare.
The car lurched to a stop, sending him rolling backward in the trunk so he now lay on his other side, facing where the trunk would eventually open, signaling the end of his life. At the front of the trunk he spotted a green light with what looked like writing. What is that? He struggled forward, trying to see what was written on it. Push to Open! Shoving with his feet, he forced his head toward the button and stretched out his neck, inching his nose ever closer. The car made a hard left turn and he tumbled back again, away from the button and away from possible freedom. Gasping for breath against the tape, he positioned himself for another attempt. Pushing with all his might, he lunged his head toward the glowing beacon and winced as his nose made contact. The button pushed in slightly as the car hit a bump. Losing his balance, his head rapped itself against the trunk lid, sending shooting pain through his scalp. Ibrahim moaned but focused again on his target. Positioning his nose, he pushed forward one more time and made contact. The button moved forward but didn’t click. Fearful the next turn might send him sprawling again, he gave one final push, stretching his neck out as far as he could. This time the button clicked.
The trunk swung open with a rush of wind, the stifling heat replaced by sweet, fresh air. The car was travelling at least thirty miles per hour but he had to chance it, he knew the driver would notice almost right away the trunk was open. Using his head, he shoved the lid up and struggled to his knees. The flood of light momentarily blinded him as he leaned forward over the lip of the trunk. He made eye contact with the startled driver behind them, then poured himself onto the rushing pavement below.
Ibrahim heard muffled sounds as he gradually regained consciousness, a steady beeping to his left and several voices he could not place competed with the roar of pain filling his ears as his body screamed in agony, the overwhelming sensation drowning out almost everything else. Every nerve ending was on fire, the unbearable pain sent stabbing sensations from his chest as he breathed, each bone in his body carrying the pain to every extremity, no part of him was free from the torture, yet through it all there was something else. He sensed something other than the pain, something calming, something gentle. He focused on it, trying desperately to feel through the pain, and, finally breaking through the fog of agony, he found it—the tender, gentle squeeze of somebody holding his hand. He struggled to open his eyes. As the lids slowly parted, a blinding light caused his eyes to burn and tear up. He squeezed them shut.
“Doctor!” Someone in the distance was yelling. Or was it in the distance? He fought to hear, to cut through the roar, as the person continued to call for a doctor. The voice neared as he broke through the din raging in his ears. The grip on his hand tightened. It h
urt but he didn’t care. He focused on it and again tried to open his eyes. “Doctor, he's awake!” Fatima, my beloved! He forced himself to keep his eyes open. Blinking rapidly, the blur of images slowly focused. Directly in front of his eyes a dark mass moved and something wet splashed on his cheek. The mass coalesced into the worried, tear drenched face of his wife. To his dismay she pulled away and a man in a white coat replaced her, shining a light in his eyes, making him squint and tear up again.
“Well, Mr. Jamar,” he said, “you're very lucky to be alive.”
Lucky to be alive? What happened? The events of earlier flooded back like a tidal wave of emotions. He shook in fear as tears welled in his eyes, blurring the image in front of him again. His chest heaved and he gasped as spasms of pain wracked his body. The sounds around him faded as he passed out.
Chelsie sat collapsed in the corner of her prison, her arms, exhausted from tightly squeezing her still raised knees for hours, now dangled at her sides, her hands palm up on the dirt floor. Her head rested where it had fallen, on her shoulder and the dirt walls behind her, as she drifted in and out of a restless sleep that brought no relief. It had been days since she had been taken. At least she assumed days. There was no light where she was, no way to tell the passing of time. All she had seen of her captor was his silhouette as he lowered a platform from the ceiling. The light pouring in from above blinded her every time, but when they adjusted she was able to see food and water sitting on a tray in the middle of the platform. Too terrified to approach it, she would remain in her corner, watching it sit there for what she figured to be ten minutes, before the platform would rise back into the ceiling, leaving her in the dark again.
But now she was thirsty. So thirsty fear ruled her no longer and she prayed for the tray to return. Please, let me have water! She screamed silently in her mind, her mouth and throat too dry to make a sound, as she waited for what seemed like an eternity. She drifted back to sleep, her mind filled with visions of fountains, water rushing from their spouts, her dancing amongst the sprays, head tilted back, as streams of water landed on her face and in her mouth, the taste so sweet she swore it was the greatest she had ever had.
She stirred, creaking sounds overhead, footsteps on an old wooden floor, waking her. She clawed her way toward the center of the room where the platform would soon appear, so weak she couldn’t manage to crawl. She looked up, at what she did not know, but nothing came. Nothing. Too weak from the effort, she collapsed into the dirt floor of her new home.
Like a choir of angels in heaven, the sweet chorus of a rattling chain sounded above her. She rolled over on her back and looked at the shaft of light growing steadily larger. Framed in the middle, the silhouette of her savior, her captor who she hoped was about to relieve her suffering. The platform reached the ground and she saw the life-giving bottle of water and a sandwich sitting on a plate, just out of reach. She crawled on her elbows, so weak she managed only a few inches at a time. She reached the platform’s edge, the water a few inches from her now. She reached out to take it as the platform shifted. Above, her captor pulled the chain to raise the platform. No! she silently screamed. Lunging forward with her last ounce of strength she grasped for the bottle, her hands so weak, all she managed was to knock it over. It fell off the tray and she watched as the bottle slowly rolled in an arc away from her as the platform rose toward the ceiling, the sound of the plastic against the wood teasing her, reminding her of how close she had come to the prize she could no longer see.
If she had tears, her eyes would have filled with them, but all she could do was sob in silence as the tray made its inevitable climb to the ceiling, taking with it the water she so desperately needed. She watched the shaft of light get smaller above her and her mind closed in on itself, despair taking over. Then she saw it. The end of the bottle, hanging ever so slightly over the platform’s edge. Please, God, please! The platform jerked up another few inches. The bottle rocked back away from the edge. Her heart sank, but the bottle rolled back toward the edge again, this time more of the end revealing itself to her, tantalizing her. The platform moved again, and again the bottle rolled back but this time on its return it teetered on the edge. Chelsie willed it on, begging for it to fall off the platform. She rose to her knees, her arms at her sides, too weak to raise them. She stared straight up and watched as the bottle slowly tipped over the edge. It fell toward her, almost as if in slow motion. She watched as it seemed to land gently at her knees, bottom first. Smiling upward to heaven, her dried lips cracking with the effort, she collapsed in a heap on the floor, the bottle a mere foot from her nose. She eyed the precious liquid it contained and reached out with both shaking hands, and, grasping it, twisted off the cap. Raising it to her mouth, she drank, the water rushing over her lips like desert rain over a landscape long parched by the sun.
The all-consuming pain from earlier was distant, dulled somehow into the background. Ibrahim felt groggy, a feeling of floating in a pool filled his senses now, the pain pushed to the bottom of a deep cushion of water, away from his tired and broken body. He smiled. Opening his eyes, the room was a blur. The same beeping sounds from earlier persisted, strange whirring sounds of machines pumping as they rhythmically sustained their charges’ stranglehold on this world, and through it all, the sounds of misery. Coughing, moaning, crying. Memories from the United Nations hospital rushed back and anxiety gripped his chest, the beeping nearest him increasing its rate. His vision cleared and he saw he was in a hospital ward, curtains separating him from patients on either side. He noticed an IV connected to his right arm, a wire clipped to a finger on his left hand, and at the foot of his bed, his daughter, looking at something intently, while his wife dozed in a chair against the wall.
“Amina,” he called, his voice weak and hoarse. His daughter looked up at him, her eyes wide with delight, a toothy smile spread across her face as she forgot completely about what had been occupying her attention.
“Daddy!” She jumped on the bed and crawled toward him to give him a hug. She squeezed him tight, burying her head against his shoulder. The pain forced its way toward the surface, but it was worth it to feel her once again. He tried to hug her back but he was too weak to raise his arms off the bed. The weight on his chest lifted as his wife picked their daughter up and placed her back on the floor. She smiled down at him, trying to fight back the tears of joy filling her eyes.
“Just lie still, my love, the doctor said you are going to be okay.” She took his hand and squeezed it gently. “You were in a coma and just came out of it last night. They were able to give you some medicine for the pain after that.”
Ibrahim nodded. He looked down at the foot of the bed, his daughter again enthralled with something. His wife followed his gaze. “Amina? What is that?”
“It's a DVD player!” An extremely excited Amina spun it around to show them.
“Where did you get it?” Fatima reached down and lifted the player so she and her husband could see it. “This looks very expensive!”
“A nice man gave it to me while you were sleeping. He told me to make sure Daddy saw it when he woke up.”
Puzzled, Ibrahim and Fatima looked at each other. “Watch, I can make it play!” Amina proudly pressed the Play button. The blank screen was replaced by a jerky video.
“What is this?” asked Fatima. But Ibrahim knew within seconds what it was. He hadn't told his wife about the subway, too ashamed at what she would think of him. When they were raped, at least he was tied up with no way to help. He had no such excuse this time. He knew he should have helped that poor girl, but he hadn't. Paralyzed with fear, flashbacks of that day in his village filling his mind, he had sat there, gripping the seat in front of him, staring in horror. And that is exactly where the video stopped. As the camera spun around he saw himself sitting there, doing nothing. Fatima gasped and looked at her husband.
Nausea gripped his stomach and bile filled his mouth, an overwhelming sense of shame swept over him. He watched his wife’s rea
ction to the video turn from horror, then, as the implications of what she had just witnessed sank in, disappointment. He turned his head away, unable to face her.
FIVE
Depraved Difference (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #1) Page 5