Swamp Monster

by C. A. Newsome

  She took a quick inventory, calculating how to cook two meals with only one skillet and not enough pans. She started by cutting up beef for stew. While it seared in the frying pan, she peeled and sliced potatoes—what man didn’t love fried potatoes with onions? Especially with ketchup?

  She put the browned meat into a pot, set the potatoes to frying, then started cleaning and cutting vegetables for the stew. She’d fry up bratwurst with the potatoes, served with sauerkraut and the loaf of bakery bread she’d found in the cupboard. Once the skillet was free, she’d use it to bake cornbread to go with the stew.

  By the time the men ate and she cleaned up, the cornbread would be done. The stew could simmer on a low flame until they were ready for it. A few more pans would be nice. Maybe she’d ask Stu if he was in a pleasant mood.

  Maybe not.

  With the scent of frying onions and bratwurst in the air, she continued her inventory of the kitchen. No serving dishes, she’d have to fill plates off the stove. She set out flour and cornmeal for cornbread and lit the oven. Sounds drifted up through the heat register: low conversation, clanking, banging. The men must be in the basement.

  When they returned, the two men were quiet. Stu’s face flushed and his eyes glittered with something Rose didn’t want to know about. She dished out plates and turned to mixing cornbread while the three of them ate in the next room.

  As she stirred the batter—not too much or it would turn into a corn brick instead of cornbread—a muffled sound came up through the register.

  Something in the basement was moving.

  Day 22, Morning

  Saturday, May 11 , 2019

  9:37 a.m.

  Chewy sat and stared at Lia while she sipped her Bengal spice latte, doing his best to send a telepathic message along the lines of, “It’s time to go, Mom!” She’d normally be at the park by now, but Peter slept in on Saturdays and he wanted to come with her today to get Terry’s take on Jenny.

  Gypsy tugged on the hem of her jeans. Lia bent, caught the little demon’s eyes and said, “No!” She tucked her legs under her chair while Gypsy curled in a ball and pouted.

  Lia resisted the urge to pick her up and cuddle her, because you couldn’t reward destructive behavior. Some trainers used compressed air as a gentle deterrent. Maybe she’d dig up the can she used to clean her keyboard and give it a shot, since nothing else was working.

  Peter’s phone rang. Less than a minute later he shuffled in, phone clamped to an ear, eyes on the floor—no doubt searching for puppy puddles. He ended the call, dropping the phone on the table on his way to the fridge and his first Pepsi of the day.

  Lia dangled Susan’s scarf under the table, wiggled it until Gypsy pounced. Gypsy tugged, growling despite a mouth stuffed with silk. Neat trick. Girlfriend had the makings of a ventriloquist.

  “If you stopped drinking cola, you wouldn’t wake up with a caffeine hangover and you wouldn’t need more caffeine to fix it.”

  Peter poked his head in the fridge. “It’s a vicious cycle.”

  He shut the refrigerator door with his foot as he popped the tab and took a long swallow, which Lia suspected was made more satisfying by her disapproval.

  “One more time and you’re officially nagging. I thought the reason we weren’t married was so we wouldn’t get caught up in clichéd arguments over crap that doesn’t matter.”

  “Your health and well-being matters.”

  “Next year there will be an article on the web saying Pepsi is the new superfood and you’ll be all over it.”

  Lia opened her mouth, decided rebuttal was pointless, and shrugged. “As long as I don’t have to nurse you when you give yourself cancer.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll give up Pepsi and start smoking.”

  Lia rolled her eyes but didn’t comment. He’d feel his age soon enough, and pain often made people sensible. “Who was on the phone?”

  “Amanda. Looking for Jenny Olson.”

  “A bit early, isn’t it?”

  “They had an appointment an hour ago to expedite the paperwork for Heenan’s remains. Jenny didn’t show and hasn’t answered her phone the five times Amanda called her. Concern for Jenny’s welfare has now eclipsed Amanda’s annoyance at being stood up after she agreed to come in on a Saturday.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think I need to skip the park and hunt her down.”

  Friday, Late Afternoon

  All Jenny had wanted to do was grab a chicken combo at Popeye’s, ditch her wet shoes, and fall into bed. Spooking herself in the garage and feeling like an idiot had made her ignore any warning bells when, on that back road by the city garage, a man honked at her and pulled alongside.

  He’d pointed at her car, yelling that the rear tire was going flat. She pulled over to look without thinking about how deserted the road was.

  The tire was dangerously low, almost running on the rim. She knelt to take a closer look. She did not know the man with the friendly face in the nice car had also pulled over until the steel of a gun muzzle pressed against her kidney.

  Before she could form a coherent thought, he threw a blanket over her head, strapping the blanket in place with what she later learned were bungee cords. A hand groped her hips. She freaked, shrieking, twisting and kicking. The gun came back, a hard, bruising jab in her side.

  “Shut the fuck up or I’ll kill you.”

  She froze.

  “Where’s your fucking phone?”

  Her throat froze along with the rest of her. She pushed hard to force air past her vocal cords.

  “Car.”

  Blind and helpless, he dumped her in the trunk of his car and shut the lid.

  She was Houdini, handcuffed in a locked trunk. Only there was no key up her non-existent sleeve. Andrew talked about such things. If there was any evidence that he had been a death-defying headliner magician, it was this: he said focus was everything in a crisis, shutting out the woe is me, all the whys, and keeping your eyes on the here and now.

  Gimme Shelter blasted from the stereo, cranked so loud motorists would attribute any screaming to Mick Jagger, any thumping to an over-active bass.

  The car pulled forward.

  She felt around with her feet, wiggled her shoulders, seeking an interior latch. But she had no clue where it would be or if this car even had one.

  She rolled around to face the rear of the car and thought she detected pale areas through her shroud. Taillights? Could she kick one out? Difficult with sneakers, even if she could get leverage.

  She continued to feel around, for a tire iron, a screw driver, anything. The trunk was bare. No weapon, no way to alert other motorists to her kidnapping-in-progress.

  The pounding rock made it impossible to think, but she had to focus. What did he want? Scratch that. Where was he going?

  The car had made several quick turns, then accelerated. I-74. East to I-75, or west to Indiana? When the car didn’t slow to merge onto 75, she decided they were heading west, then wondered if knowing this would be of any help.

  She’d seen his face. That didn’t worry him. In the movies it was always because they planned to kill you. But why? What could he possibly want with her?

  Gimme Shelter faded, replaced by Brown Sugar, then I Can’t Get No (Satisfaction). The car slowed and entered normal traffic. Still in Cincinnati, on the west side.

  Too many turns later, the car stopped. She heard the rumbling of an automatic garage door under Sympathy for the Devil. There would be no opportunity for her to run or call for help.

  The car pulled forward. The door rumbled shut and the stereo cut off. Jenny’s ears rang in the silence. A car door opened. Footsteps on concrete. A key fob chirped and a horizontal slash of dim light appeared inches from her nose, bleeding through the cloth around her head.

  “You can get out now. My gun is pointed right at you. Don’t think you can do anything smart.”

  Jenny struggled, rolling from side to side, sending pins and needles up her arm
s and legs. She sat up in the trunk. Pain speared through her skull as she banged her head on the lid.

  She breathed slowly till the pain subsided to a manageable level. “How do you expect me to climb out when I can’t see? Why bother letting me out at all? If you kill me here, you can just drive me to the river and toss me in.”

  The voice was too reasonable. “I don’t want to kill you. I only want to talk to you.”

  “So you kidnap me?”

  “Wasn’t sure you’d agree to talk to me and didn’t want anyone to see us together. Didn’t want you to have a chance to tell anyone about me.”

  Jenny shrugged inside her cocoon. She wished she could see him. Andrew said to watch their eyes, they always told you what people were thinking. “You must not do this often, or you’d know I can’t get my balance when I’m wrapped up like a burrito.”

  “I’ll put the gun down and help you out. Do anything funny and I’ll break your face.”

  “What an offer. How can I resist?”

  Rough hands dragged her out of the trunk, standing her on numb feet. Her knees buckled. She dropped to the floor.

  “I said don’t fuck with me!”

  “I can’t stand. Don’t hit me!”

  Silence, then, “We do this the hard way.” He scooped her into a fireman’s carry, out of the garage, down steps, finally dumping her on something spongy and sagging. A basement couch?

  “I have to leave you for a while. I’m going to tie your legs so you can’t leave, but you’ll be more comfortable. Don’t bother calling for help, no one can hear you. If I hear you screaming when I come back, I will break your face. I won’t want to, but I will. Then I’ll duct tape your mouth.”

  In a few breathless seconds, he released the bungee cords, removed the blanket, and zipped tied her hands behind her back. He shoved her back on the couch, pulled her feet up in the air, and zip tied her ankles together like the calf in a rodeo event.

  They were in a basement lit by a single bulb. He picked up a coiled steel cable, the kind used with bike locks, and ran the cable between her legs, giving her thigh a friendly squeeze and laughing when she jolted.

  The couch butted against a vertical pipe. He locked the cable around a ceiling pipe, hauling her legs upright so the only way to rest them was against the vertical stack. It was brilliant, really. With her legs raised, she was no longer a roped calf. She was a turtle on its back. A turtle with cold, wet feet.

  He turned to leave, turned back, grabbed a cushion and stuffed it under her shoulders and head, taking the pressure off her wrists and hands.

  “You’ll be comfortable enough until I get back. Then we’ll talk. It will be okay, you’ll see.”

  She very much doubted that.

  Saturday, 10:13 a.m.

  Jenny Olson’s rented Kia Soul was a boxy car with rounded edges. It looked like a child’s toy, except for a designer blue exterior that deserved a name like “dirty sky” or “polluted lagoon.” It sat as far as you could get from the door of Quality Inn, in a nearly empty lot.

  Peter wondered why.

  One more call to Jenny’s phone. Peter ended the call before Jenny’s recorded voice made it past “Hi! I’m—”

  He stared through the car windows, willing the Soul to give up its secrets. The interior yielded nothing out of the ordinary except smears of dirt in the back. Jenny had stowed something there. Her shoes from the canoe trip? Analysis of the dirt might yield something, but it was premature to be thinking in those terms.

  It was difficult to tell, but the rearview mirror appeared angled for someone several inches taller than Jenny, with the seat positioned for longer legs.

  Suggestive, not conclusive.

  He resisted the urge to tug the handle. Not only did he not have a warrant or even an investigation, anything he touched would be compromised.

  So he observed and kept his hands in his pockets.

  10:24 a.m.

  A stocky, middle-aged man emerged from the back office in response to a call from the desk clerk. His brass tag read D. Hollis, and he met Peter with a practiced expression of polite inquiry.

  “Detective Dourson? I’m the manager. May I see your identification?”

  Peter flipped his badge case open on the counter.

  Hollis nudged his bifocals up to examine it, then nodded. “How may I help you?”

  “You have a guest, Jenny Olson. Is she still checked in?”

  “Your interest?”

  “She’s assisting with a case. Her car is in the lot, but she’s been out of touch since yesterday afternoon and we’re concerned.”

  “I see.”

  Hollis looked at the computer, then punched three numbers on the phone.

  Calling Jenny’s room.

  Hollis' brow crinkled. He hung up the phone and attacked the keyboard of the computer with rapid-fire strokes. “The last time she used her keycard was 7:43 p.m.”

  “Yesterday?”

  “Thursday. Of course she wouldn’t have used it when she left on Friday.”

  Hollis rattled more keys. “Yesterday her room was serviced at 1:17 p.m. Perhaps she entered while the maid was there?”

  Terry last saw Jenny after five the previous day. “She was elsewhere. I don’t believe she ever came back.”

  “But her car is here?”

  “Can you pull the security feed on the parking lot? I’d like to see when it showed up and who brought it.”

  Hollis escorted Peter into his office and brought up the feed on his computer. “I’ll leave you here to look through it. I imagine you’ll want to see her room. I’ll be out front when you’re ready.”

  He cued the video to 7:00 a.m. He fast-forwarded until he spotted Jenny crossing the parking lot, then paused the feed. 9:21 a.m. Nothing about her body language suggested anything was wrong as she got in her car and drove off.

  He skipped to 5:00 p.m., then continued scrubbing the video. At 8:41 p.m., the blue Soul made a right-hand turn into the lot, disappearing behind a van as it pulled into the first parking space.

  8:41 p.m. Three hours after Terry said good-bye to Jenny. Twenty minutes, max, from Millvale if she’d stayed on surface streets instead of hopping on the highway.

  Peter stared at the screen, waiting in vain for someone to emerge from behind the van. He backed up and played the tape again, hunting for signs of movement anywhere near the van and the Soul.

  Nothing.

  The car had been driving west. Coming from Millvale, it should have turned left into the hotel from the eastbound lane. Peter backed up the recording to ten minutes before the Kia’s arrival. This time he trained his eyes on the narrow slice of eastbound lane visible at the top of the screen. He caught a flash of the distinctive blue and hit pause. 8:39 p.m. The car left the screen, reappearing in the westbound lane a hair over two minutes later.

  Quality Inn was the biggest building on the strip. The designated turn lane was hard to miss. Two minutes wasn’t enough time to stop at a gas station or drive-through.

  The driver had not wanted to be caught on camera while waiting for a break in traffic to make the turn. Instead, he drove past and circled around, turning into the lot at the edge of the video frame. For the few seconds the car faced the camera, the sun visor was down, obscuring his man’s face.

  He’d spent the minimum time possible on the feed, invisible on the far side of the car. Parked at the edge of the lot, the driver could exit from the passenger side and duck around the wall surrounding the property without ever appearing on screen. The van was a bonus.

  It was a neat trick. And if someone put that much energy into staying out of sight, Jenny was in trouble.

  Friday Evening

  Jenny’s shoulders ached and the bones of her wrists dug into the small of her back. Her middle-aged hips grew stiffer by the minute. Something tiny crawled on her skin. Dust mites, or her imagination? At least her legs had the pipe to rest against, even if her feet were still wet.

  She wished she’d asked h
im to take her shoes off, though the last thing she’d wanted was him touching her. And if she had a chance to escape, she needed shoes. Better wet feet. Wet feet are nothing.

  Not being able to move made her desperate to do so, magnifying discomforts until they overwhelmed her ability to think. To gain perspective, she imagined patients confined for months to full body casts.

  Worse than a body cast, she could have her skin covered with third-degree burns. The itch from the cheap upholstery against the back of her neck was nothing compared to that kind of unrelenting agony. She shifted her shoulders and turned her head from side to side, scratching as best she could.

  Stress was the enemy, draining resources desperately needed during a crisis. She drew on strategies she’d taught to hundreds of patients and their families, starting with slow, deep breaths.

  Next came a reality check. She could change nothing about her situation, but she could manage her emotions and stay rational. And as long as he—whoever he was—was gone, she was safe and could rest.

  Composed and fearless, that’s how she wanted to be when he returned. She crafted her desire into an affirmation, then closed her eyes and mentally recited her progressive relaxation sequence, contracting and releasing muscles from her head to her toes.

  She had the hysterical thought that the sequence sometimes put her to sleep and wondered if that would be a good or bad thing. Still, thousands of repetitions over the years meant her muscles responded automatically, and focus on the process calmed her mind. The hamsters in her brain slowed on their wheels, then curled into furry balls for a nap.

  She pictured a heart beating strong and slow, then connected it with her own heart, counting as it beat. When she achieved clarity, she recited the affirmation she’d designed:

  I am calm and alert. When the time comes, I will know what to do to achieve freedom and safety.

  She continued to repeat this message to her subconscious, focusing on the words as she breathed, shutting out the room, the pain, her fears.