Never Gonna Tell

by Sarah M. Ross

  “Reagan! Hold on, we’re going to crash!” Marco turns the wheel forcefully, trying to correct, but we’re going too fast. My hands fly forward, clawing for the dashboard as we’re hit a third time, this time from the side. This isn’t an accident. Someone is aiming for our car. I grip my seatbelt and squeeze my eyes shut, now dizzy from spinning.

  “Marco!” I scream, but he doesn’t respond.

  Burning rubber fills my nose as he brakes hard, trying desperately to stop the car. I glance out the window to try to get a look at who is responsible, but I can only see a black blur before we are sent careening into the guardrail. The car flips upside down, and we roll several times down an embankment.

  When we finally come to a stop, we’re upside down. Somehow, thankfully, I’m still alive. My head is throbbing, and I can’t see out of one eye. Warm blood pools and drips onto the window in front of me, which is shattered. I do a quick inventory, making sure I still have all of my limbs and that I can move them. My right arm is twisted in an awkward position and is pinned. I wiggle my fingers, thankful that I can move them, but searing pain radiates down my arm when I try to free it, and I scream out in pain.

  I take a few slow, deep breaths as tears fall openly, praying that the pain will ease up. After a few minutes, it lessens enough that I don’t want to pass out. I am not going to be able to get out of here on my own, and Marco hasn’t budged since we crashed. I turn my head, careful not to move anything else, and check on him.

  “Marco?” I cry. “Are you okay? Oh please dear God, be okay.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “Marco! Marco, please.”

  Fighting through the nausea and dizziness, I reach my free arm forward and grab him, trying to feel for a pulse. He’s unconscious, blood pouring out of a very large cut above his eye. The airbag has deployed, but he’s not moving, and I can’t get a good enough grip on his wrist to feel for a pulse.

  Bracing myself for the pain I know is coming, I use my good arm to release the seat belt, sending me crashing onto the roof of the car with a thud. White-hot pain shoots through my entire body. It’s more pain than I’ve ever experienced, and it’s more than I can take. I can feel I’m going to be sick. I turn my head just in time to vomit, the motion bringing another wave of dizziness.

  Outside, I hear the telltale crunch of footsteps coming closer. Is it help? Or is it the same people who tried to kill us?

  “Marco, you’ve got to wake up. You’ve got to be alive,” I beg, the world around me beginning to blur and fade. “Be alive,” I whisper as darkness overtakes me, the world around me fading away.

  NOTHING BUT BLACKNESS surrounds me. I can’t move. Why can’t I move? A shiver runs through me, both from fear and the cold ground below me. The air is stale and smells like the earth as I try to take a deep breath, and I instantly know I’m inside of something or maybe under something. “Hello?” I call, my voice shaking and barely above a whisper. No one answers. I try again a little louder as I fight back tears. The only sound I hear is my heart pounding in my tightened chest, the noise filling my head. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

  I blink, my eyes adjusting to the darkness, but still I can’t see a thing. Pain radiates through my arm and head, but my fear is stronger. What happened? Closing my eyes, I concentrate on the last thing that I remember. The accident. Voices. Oh God, have I been kidnapped? The air around me grows thick and heavy. Sweat trickles down my face. My clammy hand trembles like a leaf in the wind as I stretch forward, feeling for something—anything. “Calm down,” I command my nerves. “It’s going to be okay.” But even I don’t believe my lies.

  My left hand has been wrapped in an Ace bandage, and the blood from my forehead is no longer caked in my eye. Does this mean they want to keep me alive? What are they going to do with me? I move, just an inch, to test out my arm. The pain is still throbbing, but it’s manageable enough to try to get out from … wherever I am.

  Taking another stale breath, I reach my right hand out and it connects with something hard and scratchy. Wood? It’s all around me, maybe a foot or so away. I push against it as hard as I can with one hand, but it doesn’t budge.

  I’m trapped. I can’t move and I want to scream. It’s bubbling up inside but I quash it back down. Screaming will only let them know I’m awake. That I’m alive. Panic begs to take over, to take control, but I need to get out of here before that happens. I want to take a deep breath, but can’t. There isn’t any to fill my lungs. But there has to be air coming from somewhere, or I’d be dead by now, I remind myself. And that’s all I need. I focus on keeping my breathing even, counting each breath and ignoring the burning in my lungs. After thirty exhales, I reach up again, trailing the tips of my fingers along the wood, hoping to find a handle or knob, but there is only a large, flat, solid piece of wood.

  This is it. My worst fear is coming to pass. Everything I worked for, everything I sacrificed, was for naught. My mom and dad’s faces pop into my mind as tears well in my eyes. I was so stupid. So foolish to think that I was doing the right thing. Now look where that’s gotten me.

  I’m going to die tonight. I’m sure of that now. All because I vowed that I was never gonna tell.

  Marco’s face flashes in my mind. The terrified look on his face when he realized we were going to crash. What happened to him? Did they kill him? Did he die in the accident?

  A door slams somewhere above me, followed by heavy footsteps and muffled voices. “Bring her out of there. He wants to talk to her.”

  The voice is coming from above wherever I am and is hushed, but I still recognize it as Marco’s dad, Frank. I make one final effort to free myself, but to no avail. The only thing left to do is hope for a quick death.

  A lock clicks seconds before I hear the telltale squeak of a door in desperate need of some WD-40. Heavy footsteps approach and within seconds the wood above me is lifted away. I shield my eyes from the sudden brightness as meaty arms grip me around the waist and heave me out of the ground.

  “Gently! She’s injured, you big oaf!” the beady-eyed one chastises. Well, that’s promising, I think. Maybe they won’t kill me after all. “I don’t want to have to clean blood out of the carpet again. It stains like a bitch.”

  Or maybe they will.

  I struggle to find my footing as they plop me down on worn area rug. It’s only after my eyes have had a few moments to adjust that I have the opportunity to look around the small room. There’s a twin bed in the corner against a wall, but the sheets have been stripped from the mattress. A small nightstand holds an AM/FM clock radio that looks straight out of the fifties, and a wooden rocking chair has been placed on an opposite wall.

  The hole they pulled me out of is in the dead center of the room and reminds me of maybe a tornado shelter. Two men I’ve never seen before are replacing the sheet of plywood that covers the underground crawlspace where I had been kept.

  Thank god it wasn’t a coffin, I think. I don’t think I could have mentally handled being buried in a coffin.

  After replacing the plywood, they smooth out the large area rug covering the handle before the larger of the two men scoops me up once more, tossing me over his shoulder. I wince in pain as my bad arm bangs against his broad body, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out. As much as I want to ask where I am and where they’re taking me—what they’re planning to do with me—I need to be smart about this. I need information, any information at all, and I won’t get it by asking a thousand questions. That never works. Sometimes it’s better to sit back and wait to see what happens next than to show your cards. Not that I have any cards to play right now, so keeping quiet and hoping someone other than myself screws up is my only option.

  Bouncing along, I take in my surroundings, hoping for a clue as to where I am, or better yet, a way to escape. The big oaf is taking me down a narrow, wood-paneled hallway that is plastered with dead animals that have been stuffed and mounted to the walls. A hunting cabin, perhaps? While it’s bigger tha
n the one-bedroom cabin Marco and I had holed up in, it’s still smaller than the average house. Maybe some sort of villa or chateau? Does Tennessee even have those? Am I even in Tennessee?

  Turning the corner, we arrive in what I can only assume is the living room. It too is wood paneled and has even larger animal heads mounted. A twelve-point buck head and what I think is a panther hang above an oversized beige leather sectional. Various other armchairs have been scattered throughout the room. Straight across, above a grandiose fireplace, hangs the head of a large black bear. The glow of the crackling fire illuminates the space. I scan the room hoping to spot Marco, but he isn’t anywhere to be found. His dad and Uncle Nicky, however, are. And judging by the scowls on their faces, they aren’t happy to see me.

  “Set her down here,” Frank instructs, pointing to the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace.

  The man who is carrying me plops me down, and I fall onto my bad arm. “Ow!” I howl in pain, curling into a tight ball and cradling my arm as my eyes water.

  “You really are good for nothing, aren’t you, Travis?” Nicky chides. “For Christ sake, I give you one job and you can’t even do that.” Nicky points down at me. “What good is she if she passes out again? I need to talk to her.”

  “Sorry, boss,” Travis replies, hanging his head before backing out of the room quickly.

  Nicky sits in one of the high-backed chairs and faces me. “So sorry about that, my dear.” He smiles, and it’s one of the creepiest smiles I’ve ever seen. “We haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Nicholas Calotta. And you must be Marco’s little girlfriend. Reagan, isn’t it?”

  He extends his hand, but I don’t make a move to shake it. My injured arm throbs too much to imagine offering it up to the monster before me. “Where is Marco?” I ask. “Is he okay?”

  Nicky smiles and glances over at Marco’s dad. “See that, Frankie? The girl here cares for your boy.” Marco’s dad nods stiffly but doesn’t reply as Nicky continues. “Maybe we won’t have to kill her after all. Maybe she’ll be a good little girlfriend and realize how helpful to Marco she can be.”

  Frank grimaces at the mention of Marco. “Let me take him to the hospital, Nicky. That’s what will be helpful right now. He needs a doctor. He ain’t doin’ too well.”

  Nicky shoots out of his seat, almost knocking the chair over, and gets in Frank’s face. Pulling out a gun, he shoves it in Frank’s face. “I said no! No doctors. No hospitals. Not until I’m sure that no one is goin’ to the cops with what they think they know.”

  Frank nods, lowering his eyes to his brother, and looks over at me, his eyes pleading for me to help, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

  Nicky resumes his seat, putting his gun in the waistband of his pants before crossing his legs slowly and smiling as if he didn’t just bite his brother’s head off and threaten him. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes, we were getting better acquainted. Why don’t you tell me about yourself, Reagan?”

  “I … I don’t know what you want to know,” I say softly, trying to keep the quiver out of my voice. This man is loony tunes. And a wacko with a gun, void of any scruples, makes it a thousand times worse.

  “Well, why don’t you start with telling us about how you know my nephew and what you two were doing at his grandfather’s old hunting camp? You two thought you could give me the slip, but I remember more than Marco thought. Lucky for us that Travis spotted his car while we were on our way to check out that old dump.” He sneers at me. “Not so lucky for you.”

  “I…” Think, Reagan! What can I say that will not make him go off the deep end? “Marco is my boyfriend. He took me away for the weekend so we could … you know.” I pretend to be shy and look away, but really I’m eyeing escape routes. The front door is behind me, but is guarded by the beady-eyed guy and has two deadbolts on it. No quick escape through there.

  “Is that so?” Nicky asks. “You two were just having a romantic getaway?”

  I nod, keeping my eyes lowered.

  “So your little weekend jaunt had nothing to do with you two conspiring to go to the cops about Daniel Everett?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know who that is.”

  “Tsk, tsk, Reagan. You shouldn’t lie to me.” He leans back and extends his leg, kicking me square in the ribs. I hear them crack as I topple backward and cry out, curling into a fetal position momentarily before trying to regain control. I cannot break down, no matter how badly it hurts.

  “I mean, I know he’s Hunter’s dad,” I try again, fighting back nausea and tears. “But I don’t know anything else. I swear.”

  “I find this very hard to believe, Reagan. Especially with your mother’s position in the ADA’s office and all.” My eyes widen at mention of my mom, and I try to suck in a breath, but a sharp pain in my chest stops me. “Oh yes, I know all about you, Reagan Wilcox. I’ve done my homework. And I know that last week you left the library one block from the fishing pier at the exact time I happened to be taking a stroll that way. And I also know from hacking your phone that you’ve been very upset about something. So much so that you begged your foster brother to buy a bus ticket to come home, isn’t that right?”

  “Mar … Marco and I had a fight. That’s all. I was upset, but we made up.” I need to shift the conversation away from me. “Where is he? Can I see him?”

  “He’s not available at the moment.” His eyes momentarily dart over to the closed door at his left. A tell! I’ll bet that’s where Marco is being held. I glance over at Frank, who is also staring at the closed door, his hands in two tight fists at his sides.

  “Is he okay?”

  “That’s a matter of semantics,” Nicky says. I sneak a glance over to Frank, who is subtly shaking his head no. This can’t be good. I need to get out of here and get Marco help—now. I need to be on my A game. I have one shot at this, and everything is riding on what I say next.

  “Mr. Calotta,” I start, trying again to take a deep breath and failing. My eyes water from the pain, but I somehow manage to hold back the tears.

  Nicky smiles that creepy smile again. “Such respect. Call me Nicky, please.”

  “Nicky. I understand that you may be…” I pause, searching for the right word. “Apprehensive about me and what you may believe about my role in assisting the authorities regarding the death of Mr. Everett. I would like to reassure you that you have absolutely nothing to worry about from me.”

  Nicky crosses his leg and smirks. “Is that so?” He’s clearly amused by my statement. I need to convince him that I’m no threat.

  I nod, keeping my face straight so he knows I’m taking this seriously. “Yes, that is so. For several reasons. One, I didn’t actually see anything. I only heard muffled voices. I couldn’t pick them out and could never honestly testify as to who they belonged to. Second, as I mentioned, Marco is my boyfriend, and I would never want to do anything that would disrupt that. I love him, and hurting his family would hurt him. I couldn’t do that.”

  Nicky sits back in his seat, the smirk on his face gone as he takes in what I’ve said. I think he may be buying this. Could it be this simple? “Go on,” he urges.

  I straighten momentarily before hunching over again. It’s easier to breathe this way. Convincing Nicky to believe my next lie is going to be the hardest one yet and if I want to get Marco help and get out of here alive, I need to pull it off flawlessly. Let’s hope that years of lying to Mom and Dad have perfected my skills.

  “And lastly, my mother is a royal bitch.” I emphasize the last word, biting out the last word for an extra effort. “She hates that I’m dating Marco just because of his last name, which is totally prejudiced and unfair. She’s doesn’t care about my feelings at all and won’t even listen when I tell her what a great guy he is.” I pause, glancing over at Frank. “And he’s such an amazing guy.” I turn back to Nicky and scowl. “But she just wants to control me and treats me like a little kid. She’s all but forbidden me to see him, so trust me when I tell yo
u I’m not giving her any more ammunition to use to tell me why I have to stop seeing him.”

  Nicky uncrosses his leg and leans down, resting his elbows on his knees and places his chin on his folded hand. “That’s all well and good, my dear, but what about when you and my dear nephew split up? Are you telling me that you wouldn’t go to the police then? Scorned lover and all? Women are so temperamental that way. I’m sorry, but that’s a risk I’m just not willing to take.”

  I hold a hand up before he can go on. “I understand your hesitancy, but like I said, I love Marco. And he loves me. We’re not going to split up.” Nicky is shaking his head, not buying it. I try a different direction. “And anyway, if for some reason the police did find out, I could be charged with impeding a criminal investigation. It’s mutually-assured destruction.”

  Frank chimes in. “Se … see, Nicky? She’s harmless. And you know Marco is loyal to the family. He’d never rat on us. Never. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  Nicky is quiet, as if pondering our words. I say a quick prayer that they work, because I have no plan B.

  “You’re a very articulate young lady, you know that, Reagan?”

  I smile slightly. “Thank you.”

  “But you’re flawed, and so is your plan to butter me up. You moved your rook, and while I applaud the effort, it was no match for my queen. I can see six moves ahead, and I know you’d say just about anything to save your hide. The second I’d let you go, you’d run so fast to the cops, they’d call you Forrest Gump. No, I don’t buy it. I’m not letting you go. There’s nothing mutually assured about it. The Feds will undoubtedly offer you immunity in exchange for your testimony and while you claim you didn’t witness anything, they’ll convince you to testify anyway and say that you did.”

  He stands, and I slink back toward the closest armchair. “It’s a shame it’s had to come to this. You seem like a great kid.”

  Nicky reaches into the back of his waistband and calmly pulls out his gun again. My eyes widen at the large black gun now pointed at my head, and I can’t maintain my composure any longer. My lip quivers, and I begin to cry like a baby. I don’t care about keeping up pretenses any longer. I just want my mom and to not die.