The Crippling Terrors (Tracking Ever Nearer Book 1)

by Jeff Vrolyks

  Chapter 56

  It was cruel to tell Holly about the voicemail at this time, but I felt compelled to. The voicemail was recorded over twenty-four-hours ago. If they were able to find Alison, what else did they know? What if she told them where we were? People will do anything to escape torture. Did it reach that point? If it didn’t, we should be safe. If it did, they would be looking for us right now. I couldn’t take the chance. I told Holly what I heard.

  Being in labor and on morphine may have lessened the full impact of my words, but not by much. I need not describe how poorly she received the news. I urged her to put this behind her until Will was born. “We have an important decision to make.”

  When her emotions stabilized as much as one could hope for under the circumstance—emotions partially kept in check with the severity of each fierce contraction—she suggested I listen to the rest of the voicemail.

  “If Ali told them we are in Wawona,” Holly said, “we’ll have to move. If they,” she closed her eyes and winced as she said, “killed her, before she mentioned Wawona, we’re safe. You have to listen to the whole thing.” She looked me in the eyes and added, “And Kevin, if she died, I don’t want to hear about it. Not now. Okay? Later. Promise me you’ll keep me from learning it until after Will is born. I couldn’t go through with—”

  “I know, sweetie. I promise.” I would have to endure the dreadful voicemail again, which was peanuts in comparison to what Alison and Mike had suffered, and what Holly was currently suffering.

  The following seventeen minutes of the voicemail were far more telling than I could have imagined. The man demanded Alison tell him where Holly and I were. She refused far too long. He created reasons for her to tell him (I later discovered that he performed on her Ling Chi—also known as Slow Slicing—also known as Death by a Thousand Cuts). Each cut brought her new depths of pain, new reasons for her to be forthright with her assailant. There came a point when she didn’t scream when he cut her. She lost her voice completely. A hoarse gasp, like someone coughing or choking through a wet rag, replaced it. I don’t believe she consciously told him we were in Wawona. Her body croaked out “Wawona” in a desperate attempt to survive.

  Holly deduced what was happening to Alison by my reaction. When Alison choked out “Wawona” in a voice more animal than human, something inside me snapped. The tears stopped. A coldness pervaded me, clear to the bone, to the foundation of my being. My emotions hardened. There was no more faith in humanity or karma or justice or God. Last night Alison learned what most people never will: just how deep and wide rivers of pain can run; as deep as the soul, and as wide as the distance that separates us.

  A second man then accompanied the other inside Ali’s apartment. They spoke to each other in a foreign tongue. After conversing back and forth, one man demanded that Alison tell him information regarding VonFurenz, specifically their fan club. She labored raspy and hoarse expulsions of air that were scarcely English. She said the club consisted of more than thirty thousand fans. He asked if she had access to their information: she did, on her computer. She cooperated readily. Maybe it was because she felt the information demanded of her could in no way lead to our discovery. But more than likely she feared the repercussion of disobeying them. I was only listening to the message and I feared her disobeying them. After receiving the password from her, he hammered away at the keyboard of Ali’s computer while speaking rapidly to his counterpart in their native tongue. Some of the words sounded like Spanish, but many of them didn’t. There wasn’t a Latino accent attached to them. The word Latino resonated within me. Latin. It was possibly Latin.

  One of the two used a cell-phone to call The Wawona Hotel. He inquired into their vacancy for Wednesday night (tonight) with a satisfying reply. Within minutes, both men were engaged in conversations with VonFurenz Fan Club Members, inviting them to a concert that did not exist. I had no idea why they were doing it, but that they were suggested there was a great advantage over us in doing so, hard as it was to grasp. They emphasized to each club member not to tell anyone about the secret show. After one such conversation had ended, either Kenseth or Red told Alison that she was coming to Wawona with them. “You’re going to show us where Holly is staying.” Alison didn’t respond, either by choice or by her inability to do so.

  Toward the end of the twenty minute voicemail, both men were temporarily between phone calls. They said something to each other and laughed. One of them said something that stood my hair on end. I didn’t know why at first, but then the second man repeated it precisely. Both said it spiritedly, as a motto or declaration or anthem.

  “Pro meus Dominus, ego addo vos Septima.”

  I repeated, “Pro meus Dominus, ego addo vos Septima. Pro meus dominus, ego addo vos Septima.” I looked frantically for a pencil or pen and something to write on before I forgot the words. I opened the side pocket of my duffel bag and found a pen. A receipt was in another pocket; I used it to jot down Pro meus Dominus, ego addo vos Septima. I continued to listen to the remainder of the voicemail.

  When the twenty minute message ended, the two men were still in the process of inviting specifically chosen fan club members to the hotel.

  Pro meus Dominus, ego addo vos Septima. Two words stood out: ego and Septima. Sue Ellen had mentioned both words. She said there were seven written words—what I just wrote were seven words. It could be a coincidence, but it didn’t feel like it.

  I considered September and its origin. In the military we often referred to the Julian Calendar. Julian from Julius Caesar. The early Romans are credited for our current calendar. I remembered learning in high school that Augustus Caesar renamed a month to August to commemorate himself (humble guy). I believe it was he who also renamed a month to July to commemorate Julius Caesar, as well. As I recall, March was the first month of the calendar year. They added January and February afterward. I couldn’t be certain, I learned this many years ago. The main difference between their calendar and ours today is that their calendar was two months shy of our twelve. December means tenth, or something along those lines. If November is ninth, October is eighth, September would be seventh. And if I’m not mistaken, if you take away the suffix, they are numbers in Latin. Octopus has eight arms; probably a Latin word.

  So it was Latin.

  One of the seven words, Septima probably means seven.

  In the RV, when [the woman I had perceived to be] Sue Ellen counted events on her fingers, she stopped at seven. Holly was the seventh person that they tried to alter the fate of. Maybe it was a coincidence, but once again, it didn’t feel like a coincidence.

  I wanted a Latin-to-English Dictionary excruciatingly so. Or the internet. If I got through this night, I would learn what it meant. For now, I put it on the back burner.

  Our plan of keeping our situation hush-hush was no longer relevant. They knew where we were, relatively speaking. We needed immediate help and lots of it. I called 9-1-1 and explained our situation in quick detail. I sensed the operator didn’t take me as seriously as she should have. I estimated that she would send one cop to scout the situation before responding appropriately. Unacceptable. I decided to play the Kloss card.

  “The woman who is in danger is Kloss VonFuren’s sister, Holly VonFuren.”

  Again, I sensed disbelief on the other end. Kloss VonFuren’s sister is with you? Uh-huh, I’ll be sure to make a note of that, sir. The bitch was patronizing me and didn’t even try to mask it. Maybe she did it intentionally to hint that I needed to give her something concrete before she sent a firestorm of law enforcement and a medical team our way. If that was her reason, she was smarter than I gave her credit for. I handed the phone to an anxious Holly and she laid into the operator. Her tone was sharp and urgent. She stated her birthday, social security number, and some of her brother’s personal information that the public wouldn’t easily know. If the operator still doubted who Holly was, they could verify what she just said. The dispatch said she would send units to Wawona and needed to know
where she was, precisely. That wasn’t an easy answer to give. She suggested we relocate to an area more easily identifiable so help could find us. The problem was there were two patrolmen who we didn’t want to find us, and they were most likely searching the area. I suggested they go to the campgrounds with their sirens blaring and I would come to them. I requested an ambulance and informed her that Holly was nearing full-dilation with contractions a couple minutes apart. I hung up feeling somewhat satisfied.

  “Within twenty minutes this place is going to be lit up like the fourth of July.”

  During the phone conversation I had decided I would call someone with internet to surf for a Latin translation for me. Maybe there were things more pressing (okay surely there were plenty of things more pressing), but my curiosity is what it is, and it would literally only take one minute. I called Greg Jones. His wife picked up just before the machine did. Greg was drinking beer at a buddy’s house—sounded about right. I asked her for a huge favor and she agreed to it. She wrote down the sentence and went to work on the internet. I asked if I could call her back shortly to see what she found: “Sure, but don’t get your hopes up.”

  I thanked her and ended the call.

  “You’re going to have bring the medical team to me,” Holly said. “I can’t walk there, honey, I’m sorry. It’s not that—”

  “I know, don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll bring them here and EMT can deliver the baby.” She went into another excruciating contraction, moaning and grunting louder than ever. I gave her another pain pill and said, “I don’t think Will wants to wait for the EMT to arrive.”

  I glanced at my watch: 9:58 P.M.

  Chapter 57

  Red’s knife had been a very busy knife, its user a very cunning tactician in the realm of inflicting pain, and done so not with the clinical detachment of a surgeon cutting through patients, but of an impassioned artist who puts his heart into his every project and feels his works are but an extension of himself. The Van Gogh of torture. Undoubtedly it took great restraint for Red to preserve Ali’s life. A man who enjoys what he does to that high a degree could hate nothing more than to resign short of finishing what he started, to put the paintbrush down before his newest masterpiece has been completed.

  At the end of the most insufferable day of Alison’s life, she had mixed feelings of gratitude for remaining alive and regret for remaining alive—with regret following each remembrance of Mike’s passing. And why they let her live was simple enough: they needed her to find Holly and myself. She had spent the night in her apartment with one of the two men (the second to arrive, introducing himself as Kenseth to the fan club members). Having departed to finalize preparations was the apparent leader of the two, the man wearing the Vacaville Police Department uniform, introducing himself as Thomas ‘Red’ Hunter. In spite of Ali’s hatred for this murderer of her fiancé, she was grateful for whatever he had said that ceased Kenseth’s sexual advances. Before Red had departed, Kenseth had already touched her provocatively; she expected to be raped. Instead, Alison sat on her couch with Kenseth sitting in a chair facing her, doing all things disgusting and fiendish to her in his mind’s eye (she could feel it no less than she felt it the night she looked out the sliding glass door). It wasn’t long before he broke the room’s silence with an attempt to strike a deal with her: “Don’t tell Red that I fucked you and I will see to it that you live through this.”

  If he had sex with her she would have no desire to continue living, so it was a moot point. She cautiously and respectfully declined his offer, in a voice that was broken from tortured screams. She was relieved his offer didn’t include the exemption of Holly from being killed, for it would have weighed much heavier on her conscience to decline.

  He asked if he could at least see her undress. “No,” she said politely. “Thank you, but no.” He asked if he could touch her through her clothes: “No, I’m sorry.” Then he asked if she would touch him how he saw fit: “It’s probably not a good idea, I apologize.” Then he asked if could press her clothes against his face and inhale her sweet scent: she wept.

  She wore beige Capri pants—with ventilation and red stains added to her inner left thigh—and a v-cut three-quarter-sleeve knit shirt (conveniently red, some parts deeper than others). Most of her clothes-covered skin was spared the blade, with a few devastatingly painful exceptions. Much of her fair skin was mottled with caked blood, only some of which was Mike’s. The exposed skin not marred with gashes was black and blue. Her face, what she had considered to be her most attractive feature, had been a late-October pumpkin in front of a very festive carver. Her left eye was swollen nearly shut. Assuming she made it through this alive (some people assume they’ll win the lottery, too) it would be a long, long time before she sought the mirror’s honest opinion.

  None of it much mattered anymore. It was more of an observation than a concern, but it was still in her mind—they defiled more than her relationship with Mike, they defiled the essence of her beauty (she never considered the essence of her beauty was insider her, the one thing they could not cut).

  At this new moment she desired to live, even with the insurmountable anguish of remembering Mike. She would cultivate this desire and nurture it, despite the fact that they destroyed almost every reason for her to live, and were contriving to kill the remaining two and a half reasons. The possibility of being the salvation of Holly, Will, and myself, no matter how bleak the possibility, was incentive enough to persevere through this hell. And she’d die when and only when she either succeeds or fails at this mission.

  But had she known that the night she became engaged to be wed, that the two passionate hours spent making love in a Wawona Hotel suite had procreated more than just fleeting pleasure, but something much, much more precious, she would have had the unparalleled resolve of a third reason.

  She fully anticipated failing at what she sought to do, having devised an admittedly weak plan, but she’d put no less of her heart and soul in the endeavor. At the very least she would make their mission more difficult than it had to be.

  It would be a physically demanding and hellishly long day ahead of her. She tried to nap on the couch to rebuild strength and energy while Red was out running the devil’s errands. The thought of what Kenseth might do to her while she slept was dreadful enough to keep her in limbo between sleep and consciousness.

  She opened her eyes when the apartment door opened. The sun was low and golden. It suffused the dreary room with dewy yellow light; she shaded her eyes. The police officer from hell entered. “Let’s go,” he said. “Be smart. There are no second chances. First warning is execution.”

  They took two vehicles, neither was a police cruiser. Red drove a Tahoe, empty, save for Ali in the back seat. Kenseth followed them in a Ford Explorer. It was loaded with weapons for any occasion, every possible scenario. Some single-loaded, some with magazine clips; some pump-action, some semi-automatic, some fully automatic, some with silencers; rifles, shotguns, two dozen handguns ranging from .22 caliber to .50 caliber; a variety of knives. It was enough weaponry, in fact, to arm every occupant of the Wawona Hotel.

  The drive was four hours. Alison slept through most of it. On her very short list of things to be thankful for was not having to travel the four hours with that rapist, bubbling with testosterone and ideas. Not for a second did she believe that Red transported her to spare her from becoming a receptacle of sexual aggression for Kenseth. After the torturous acts performed on her yesterday, she knew there was no humanity within him. Red commuted her for his benefit, not hers. He depended on Alison to get to Holly, and a reprobate as depraved as Kenseth would surely cross the line during his voyage to self-satisfaction through the adventures of the flesh and their many avenues of pleasure and release. Red would preserve her because to not do so could mean failing, and no fucking way was that an option.

  She had managed to grab two apples before being rushed out of the apartment. She hadn’t appreciated her hunger before, but it was the
re. She was voracious. She ate them both in the first hour of the trip. Her empty stomach quickly absorbed them and remained unsatisfied. Four hours later it was as though she had never eaten them. She wondered if her injuries depleted her stores of energy. Her hunger wasn’t a nuisance as much as it was an obstacle to her plan, which required endurance and a gas tank full of energy reserves to fuel it.

  Their first stop was Wawona Hotel, just before two in the afternoon, this the day of Holly’s childbirth. Kenseth went inside and fifteen minutes later returned with two greasy sacks of food. He sat in the front passenger seat of the Tahoe and emptied the bags on the center console. They stuffed their mouths feverishly. Alison’s stomach gnarled from the savory aroma, redolent of barbecue and French fries.

  “I’m sorry, but it’s a long hike,” she said from the back seat, “and I’m not sure I’ll be able to lead you guys there without having eaten. Would it be possible—”

  “No.”

  She decided against continuing her plea.

  They pulled out of the parking lot in the Chevy Tahoe. The Explorer stayed behind, unlocked and now acting as a two-ton arms cache. Red chose to arm himself with a 20 gauge shotgun and a Colt .45. Kenseth chose a Mossberg semi-automatic rifle and a Walther 9mm pistol. Under the direction of Alison, Red pulled into the Wawona campgrounds and drove past the lot of campsites (mostly empty) until they reached a dead-end and parked. The hunt was on. And Ali, under threat of execution (and worse), was their guide.

  * * *

  They hiked the dense Sierra Nevada forest without break. The terrain sloped uphill with very little level ground. She maintained a straight trajectory, pointing to anything that could pass for a landmark, and declared, “Yep, we marked that sequoia with those three rocks,” and, “that branch points in their direction.” Their patience wore thin after the first hour, and the threats began. “They went far, they knew you guys were smart enough to find them otherwise.”