Abducted

by Brian Pinkerton

At first, Roy didn’t think too much about it. Somebody had torn down a poster because it was considered litter, creepy, unauthorized, whatever.

  But then Roy noticed that his posters were removed throughout the area, and they had been singled out. Other posters—for bands playing at clubs, dieting schemes, dog walking services, you name it—remained.

  Someone was deliberately removing Tim’s posters.

  After another block of this, Roy came across a garbage can containing a dozen or more crumpled yellow posters. From their position amid the other contents, they must have been placed there a while ago. He took one out, flattened it, and stared at it.

  Who is doing this?

  And why?

  For a second time, Roy stapled posters on the poles. He kept his eye out for anyone who might remove them.

  It filled him with anger.

  Roy felt motivated to stop more people and show them the poster. He received more responses of “I’m sorry,” head shaking, and shrugs.

  And then a breakthrough. He handed a poster to a teenage girl with a pierced belly button as she rollerbladed past him. She continued another twenty feet, then stopped.

  “Hey mister, I know a Jeffrey.”

  Roy caught up with her in an instant.

  “You do?”

  She handed back the poster. “I mean, I don’t know if it’s the same kid, but there’s a little boy Jeffrey that lives across the street in that building. I don’t know his last name. His mom kind of looks like that. Are they in trouble?”

  “No. Not at all.” Roy wanted to kiss her on the braces. He couldn’t believe how excited he suddenly felt. “Thank you!”

  The rollerblade girl said “Good luck” and continued on her way.

  Roy crossed the street. It was a residential complex that spread halfway down the block, dozens of units compiled in identical, U-shaped sections with courtyards.

  He approached the entrance to the nearest section. This was the building the rollerblade girl had pointed to.

  Roy stood outside the front door. Now what?

  After a few minutes, a lean black man with round glasses stepped out of the building.

  “Excuse me,” said Roy. He showed the poster to him.

  “I don’t know,” the man responded. He appeared to be in a hurry and walked away.

  Roy waited patiently at the entrance and gently interrogated people as they were coming or going.

  Some ignored him, and a few reacted with suspicion or disdain. “Who are you? Are you with the police?” asked one woman, heavyset, triple chin, in overstuffed polyester.

  “No,” said Roy.

  “Then why should I tell you anything?”

  But it didn’t take long for the next jolt of progress.

  A little old lady on her way inside stopped, put down her grocery bags, and studied the poster for a long moment.

  “Oh yes,” said the old woman. “The Riskins. They’re on six.”

  Dazed, Roy mumbled words of thanks, and she entered the building, unaware of the enormous value of the information she had provided.

  Roy felt hornets in his stomach. Should he find a phone and call Anita? Maybe not until he got a look at the Riskins. The last thing he wanted was another Anita outburst over a false alarm, like the day before at McDonald’s. She was a hothead.

  Inside the vestibule, the entrance to the building was locked, but Roy was patient. After ten minutes, an acne-ridden teenager exited and Roy strolled inside, holding out his keys, acting like a resident.

  The mailboxes for the units lined one side of the lobby. Roy examined them until he found what he wanted.

  RISKIN 612.

  He felt his heartbeat accelerate. He had a name, he had an apartment number.

  Roy took note of the name on the adjoining mailbox.

  WILHOIT 614.

  He tucked the bag with the posters and staple gun under his arm and went to the elevator. As he entered and pressed six, Roy mentally rehearsed his routine:

  Knock on 612, and then when someone answers, apologize and explain that he’s got the wrong apartment—he’s looking for Wilhoit.

  That would allow him to get a good look at whoever lived inside before they closed the door…enabling him to determine whether or not the Riskins resembled the woman and the boy on the poster. And if they did—find a phone and call Anita pronto.

  The elevator doors opened on the sixth floor. Roy stepped out and began examining apartment numbers. 616…614…

  612.

  Roy studied the door for a moment. He couldn’t hear any activity inside.

  He recited his lines again in his head. I’m looking for Wilhoit, Wilhoit.

  Roy knocked.

  There was a long silence.

  Then the sound of someone shuffling on the other side.

  Another long silence.

  Then the loud thunk of a bolt being unlatched. A doorknob rattling.

  The door swung open, and Roy found himself staring into the face of Dennis Sherwood.

  XVI

  Dennis was puffier, bearded, and without his glasses, but it was definitely him. Roy recognized him in an instant. And the intense gaze and wry smile from Dennis indicated that he recognized Roy as well.

  “Hello, Roy,” said Dennis. “I saw you through the peephole. Sorry for the delay answering the door, but I had to get something.”

  Dennis raised his arm to reveal a sleek, black semiautomatic pistol. He aimed it at Roy.

  “Please come in,” said Dennis.

  Roy remained where he was. He felt a trembling ripple through his body.

  “Don’t be afraid. I just want to talk with you,” assured Dennis. Then his tone curled with menace. “You will speak with me, Roy.”

  Roy knew he had a choice: run and maybe get shot, or stay and maybe get shot.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” continued Dennis. “Unless you choose to act stupid.”

  “What do you want to know?” asked Roy, trying to keep his voice even, unafraid.

  “Not here. Inside.”

  When Roy lacked a response, Dennis brought the end of the handgun forward until it nearly touched his navel.

  “Your stomach would make a nice silencer,” said Dennis.

  They locked stares. Dennis had bloodshot, unblinking eyes.

  “OK,” said Roy. “We’ll talk.”

  Dennis backed up to let him in, continuing to hold the gun steady.

  Roy entered the apartment and Dennis shut the door. He locked it. Bolted it.

  “Put your bag on the floor,” instructed Dennis. Roy set the bag down.

  The living room was partly furnished and partly in boxes. The boxes were neatly stacked against a wall. Against another wall, a stereo system with huge speakers was set up, bookended by CD towers. Beyond the living room, there was a small dining room area that connected with a kitchen on one side and a corridor on the other side. The corridor probably led to bedrooms.

  It all looked perfectly comfortable, domestic and nonthreatening…including one heart-stopping element.

  Trucks. A half-dozen toy trucks, some small and metal, some big and plastic, scattered near a low coffee table. On the table, a book of puzzles and games with a cartoon rabbit on the front, “for ages 3-6.”

  Tim is here.

  Dennis gestured to a large chair next to the sofa. “Have a seat, Roy. Your feet must be tired from handing out posters all day. Take a load off.”

  Roy didn’t react quickly, standing in the middle of the room.

  Dennis repeated, more firmly, “Sit down.”

  Roy slowly stepped back and sat in the chair. He kept his eyes on Dennis.

  “Thank you,” said Dennis.

  Behind Dennis, Roy caught a glimpse of something yellow on a table. He realized it was a stack of the yellow posters, torn and bent.

  Dennis followed Roy’s stare to the posters. “Yeah, those,” said Dennis. “I’ve been tearing them down for two days. They’re very bothersome.”

 
Dennis sat down on the sofa alongside Roy, keeping the gun on him. “My poor wife and kid, they can’t go outside ever since the crazy woman came after them. The neighborhood’s just not safe anymore.”

  Dennis intensified his glare. He hardened his voice. “Where is she, Roy?”

  “Who?”

  “Who else? Anita.”

  “Right now?”

  “Right now, pal.”

  “I don’t know,” replied Roy, and that was pretty much the truth. “She’s covering a different area.” After a discomforting silence, he added, “All she wants is her son.”

  Dennis erupted. “Her son is dead. Now there’s only my son.”

  Then he grumbled, “You’d be a lot better off if you had stayed home and stuck to your bread truck.”

  Roy’s eyes kept returning to the gun. He was familiar with semi-automatics; he knew a driver who carried one and showed it off. The guy drove a cigarette truck, made a lot of night stops in bad Oakland neighborhoods, and had been beaten up a couple of times by winos and crazies for cartons of Marlboros. Finally, enough was enough and he bought a gun.

  It was a single-action, requiring manually cocking the hammer for the first shot. To do that, you pulled back the slide. All subsequent shots simply required pulling the trigger.

  Roy thought, If I could get it away from him…

  Dennis promptly stood up. “You want a drink?”

  Roy shook his head no.

  Dennis walked over to an elaborate, oak-wood liquor cabinet. Behind little glass doors, various brown, green, and clear bottles were lined up, labels facing out, orderly and dignified. A shrine to booze.

  Roy watched Dennis carefully, but Dennis did not turn his back to him. Dennis did not put the gun down.

  Roy calculated that he and Dennis were roughly the same size, although Dennis had some belly, and Roy was probably in better shape.

  I could probably take him, Roy figured, if he puts the gun down…or if I can catch him off guard.

  Dennis filled a glass with vodka for himself without taking the gun off Roy.

  “So what else do you want to know?” asked Roy. How long would this last? The living room curtains were drawn. He could hear birds chirping outside, but they felt a million miles away.

  “Tell me about the investigation,” said Dennis. “Are the police involved?”

  “Not really.”

  “Not really,” echoed Dennis. “That’s not much of an answer, Roy.”

  Roy said nothing. The condescending tone angered him.

  “She hired a private detective yet?”

  Roy remained silent. Maybe it was better to let him fear the worst. Let him think the jig was up.

  Dennis took a long swallow of vodka and put the glass down. “I don’t think you appreciate the disruption you’ve created in my life. Do you know what a hassle it’s going to be, changing my name again. My son’s name. My wife’s name. I kind of liked Riskin, too.”

  Dennis picked up Roy’s bag of posters from the floor. He placed it on the table with the other posters, pulling one out to examine.

  Dennis frowned. “I don’t like how you made her nose look, it looks like a beak. That’s rude. She’s a beautiful woman, Roy. She made the last twelve months of my marriage with Anita bearable.” He crumpled the poster and tossed it at Roy’s feet. Then he returned to his vodka and took another drink.

  Keep drinking, thought Roy. It’ll just slow your reflexes.

  “Anita and I, we grew apart,” said Dennis. “Our marriage had cancer, Roy. It was inoperable. She figured it was her career causing it, and that when she quit her job, everything would be cured. Well, Roy, as you know, that didn’t work out so well.”

  Roy remained silent, eyes glued on Dennis.

  “If I didn’t care so much for my son, it wouldn’t have come to this,” said Dennis. “It would have been a simple divorce. But I didn’t want to lose my son. If you had a son, you would understand. There’s a bond that you have with your child, it’s deeper than anything else in life. This is all about…love.”

  Dennis sat back down on the sofa, gun in one hand, vodka in the other. He looked at Roy. The alcohol had not taken the edge off his intensity. “In a divorce with Anita, I never would have gotten custody of my son. Not with my history. The drinking. The domestic battery charge. No, not when she’s the one who gives up her career to take care of him, even though I’m the one supporting them both.”

  Dennis sighed. “Roy, she would have gained custody of him in a snap. It’s not right, but that’s the way the system works. Us guys get screwed, Roy. Being a father puts you at an immediate disadvantage. Check the case histories. It’s not fair. Fine, then I don’t play fair.”

  Dennis took another swallow of his drink, anger growing. “I have been really happy for two years, Roy. I completely disconnected from my old life, started a new one, and kept my son. Then one day, it all comes crashing down. And do you know why? The Shedd Aquarium. We took my son to see the whales. And we took him on the bus. All of this because of some beluga whales.”

  Dennis gestured to the boxes on the other side of the room. “You saw the boxes? Yes? It’s time for us to move on. I had hoped we’d be gone by the time you found us. One more day, and this would have been an empty apartment. Anita expects me to arrive in Chicago tomorrow. But it’s backward. That’s when I’m leaving Chicago.”

  Dennis finished the vodka and his face hardened. “I have a beautiful new wife. I have a beautiful son. That’s all I want. Nothing will fuck that up, Roy. Do you understand me? You and Anita will not fuck this up. I worked way too hard to get here.”

  Dennis let his words hang in the air.

  Roy had kept quiet for most of the tirade, but now it was his turn. One simple question.

  “What did you do to my sister?”

  “Oh, Roy, you really don’t want to know.”

  “You killed her.”

  “No, no. She killed herself, remember?”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “She killed herself and killed Tim, case closed. Read the papers and learn a thing or two. Or don’t truck drivers read?”

  Roy felt rage. His words turned to steel. “You are going to burn in hell for this.”

  Dennis’s expression didn’t change. He leaned forward on the sofa and brought his face close to Roy’s face. Roy could smell the stink of his breath. He could see the tiny dots of perspiration on Dennis’s nose, the gray in his beard, the broken veins in his eyes. Dennis locked a stare on Roy for at least half a minute.

  Then he asked, “Do you like The Who?”

  “What?”

  “Not The What. The Who. Rock and roll, Roy. Heard of them?”

  “Of course.”

  Dennis leaned back now, strangely jovial in a jarring shift of moods. “I like The Who a lot. Always have. I like The Stones, too, but The Who more. Better dynamics, they rock harder. Roy, do you have a favorite Who album?”

  Roy was speechless. Dear Christ, this man was totally insane.

  Dennis continued, “I have most of them. The good ones, anyway. Especially the Keith Moon period. Boy, could that guy bash the drums.” He gestured to the wire towers of compact discs alongside the stereo. “Go pick a Who CD.”

  Roy didn’t move. I’m not going to engage in this conversation. It’s ridiculous.

  Dennis jumped to his feet. “Then I will.” He put the vodka glass aside and leaned over one of the CD towers. He ran his fingers down the CD spines until he found what he was looking for. He moved quickly, and Roy studied him, adrenaline racing, wondering if this would be his best shot at tackling the bastard…or should he wait until Dennis consumed more alcohol…Shit, what should I do?

  Dennis turned from the CDs, pistol aimed at Roy in one hand, a copy of Who’s Next in the other hand. “Got it.”

  Dennis punched a few buttons on the stereo. Various lights lit up, the CD tray slid out.

  “This is their magnum opus,” said Dennis, inserting the disc, never fully t
urning away from Roy, never lowering the gun to the floor. “More than thirty years old, but it’s got the energy of right now. Listen to this track. It’s called ‘Bargain.’”

  Dennis entered the track number and turned away from the stereo, beaming.

  The song started softly, Dennis nodding along inanely, watching Roy’s reaction. “Ohm Walsh speakers,” Dennis said, and it meant nothing to Roy, but at least Dennis was impressing himself. “Wait until you hear the bass on these things.”

  The music suddenly shifted tempos. A burst of drums, followed by thundering guitars and the familiar, soaring voice of the lead singer. Roy couldn’t remember his name, although he had heard his voice on the radio a million times since childhood. Peter…Daltrey?

  “To really appreciate The Who, they have to be played loud,” said Dennis. He gradually turned up the volume, grinning as the rock and roll thrashed with monster intensity, filling the room.

  The guitars stung, the drums exploded, the bass throbbed. Dennis was singing along now, his voice straining above the booming stereo. He placed dramatic emphasis on the lyrics. “I’d pay any price just to win you, surrender my good life for bad.”

  Then he stopped to shout at Roy, “HOW ABOUT THOSE SPEAKERS? AREN’T THEY GREAT? I CAN’T EVEN HEAR MYSELF!”

  Dennis turned around, facing the stereo receiver. Is he going to turn it up louder? thought Roy. Does it even go louder? Will he shut the fucking thing off?

  Suddenly, Dennis spun around, and Roy realized in an instant that he had not been fiddling with the stereo.

  Dennis had cocked the hammer on the pistol. He aimed the gun at Roy. There was no time to react. Dennis fired two shots, sudden cracks, buried under the noise of the music.

  Roy slammed into the back of the chair. He felt a searing burn in his chest. He felt his hands and feet twitch and prickle. He choked for breath, shuddering. His lungs were filling with blood.

  Dennis gradually reduced the volume on the stereo. The music shrank. “Better turn it down,” Dennis said. “Don’t want to upset the neighbors.”

  Roy slid to one side of the chair, still choking, feeling a cold wave of nausea rise over him like a blanket. His shirt was soaked with blood. He felt it rolling in little streams to his waist. He wanted to stand, but could not. The pain spread like wildfire.