by T. Hammond
“Hello. March residence,” Henry’s steady voice announced.
“I need to speak with David Preston,” Grainger replied.
“I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Preston is out of town at the moment. Can anyone else help you? May I take a message?”
Grainger paused, obviously surprised to have my story validated. “Is Mr. Declan available?”
This time the silence was on Henry’s side of the phone. There would be no reason for anyone to contact Bas at my home. I’m not sure if Henry realized no one would call David on my house phone either. “I’ll get him for you. May I tell him whose calling?”
“Certainly,” he said, matching Henry’s politeness, “Mr. Smith. John Smith.”
I can’t help it, I rolled my eyes and I think I snorted in disbelief. It was under my breath, so I’m sure Henry would not have heard me, but Adamson’s clawed fingers latched on to my arm in a cruel grip, silently warning me not to make noise. The man was enjoying permission to cause me discomfort. He squeezed a little tighter, assuring me of more bruises later.
“Declan,” Bas answered, short and abrupt. Oh yeah, he knew what this call was about, and he was pissed.
“Mr. Declan, do you have access to a computer at the moment?” Grainger asked, without resorting to formalities.
Without directly answering Grainger, aka: Mr. Smith, I could hear Bas direct Henry to grab his laptop off the desk. “I’ll have a computer in a couple moments,” Bas confirmed. “What’s this about?”
“While you’re waiting, maybe you can get a piece of paper and a pen to write down a website address,” Grainger suggested, ignoring Bas’ questions. “The link will direct you to a video feed.”
Ahh, I get it now. The camera Grainger told me was mounted in the room. He was going to prove I was safe, or at least alive. When Bastian indicated he was ready, Grainger rattled off a lengthy URL address, ending with, “I’ll wait a moment while you establish the connection.”
“Son of a bitch!” Bas swore, less than a minute later. “Babe, the camera is behind you over your right shoulder. Look back and up so I can see you’re okay.” The echo in the room, or perhaps how Grainger was holding the device, probably clued Bastian the phone was on speaker. Obediently, I started to turn, but Adamson’s hand tightened painfully, and I let out an involuntary moan as his fingers dug in.
“Get his fucking hands off her. Let me see her face.” Bas’s voice was cold, harsh.
“Mr. Jones, please release Miss March’s arm so she can face the camera,” Grainger directed. Geez, Smith and Jones. I wonder what name they have for Banner. The grip on my bicep loosened.
“Teresa, push your hair back so I can see you. Lift your face a little more, the camera is mounted high,” Bas directed gently.
My arms were still stiff from being bound behind my back for so long, and my ribs protested my slightest movement; my hand reflexively pressed to the injured area in an effort to relieve the discomfort. I cautiously twisted my torso in the chair, discovering I would not be able to turn far enough. I swung my legs around toward the camera, so I was sitting sideways on the seat, my back to Grainger. My movements were slow and clumsy. My short braid had become partially unraveled, leaving loose strands tickling my face. It took two attempts to get my hair smoothed back from my eyes. I lifted my head toward the ceiling.
“Mother. Fucker.” Bastian’s tone when from harsh to threatening. “Who cut her face? Did one of you hit her? Take off those ski masks you cowardly fucks, let me see the faces of gutless assholes who beat up blind women.”
I lifted my hands to my cheeks, running fingertips over my features to find the cut he spoke of. There, high on the cheek. My mind flashed to the fuzzy moment in the abduction when my face hit the semi-frozen ground. A little pressure along that same cheekbone reminded me of Adamson’s little love slap.
Ignoring Bastian’s indignant questions, Grainger said, “Mr. Declan, Miss March informs me she and Mr. Preston are no longer an item. Really a shame, as her apparent value as a bargaining chip is greatly diminished. Luckily, Mr. Jones has taken quite a liking to her, so all is not lost if she’s of no value to you and Mr. Preston.”
“She has value,” Bas gritted through clenched teeth.
“Yes,” Grainger said, apparently smugly satisfied. “Apparently Miss March is a fast worker if she has moved so seamlessly from one partner to another. Mr. Jones, I believe Miss March lied to us when she said Mr. Declan was a family friend.”
“All women are liars,” Adamson agreed, his hand once again gripping my arm.
“I am a friend,” Bas confirmed. “Teresa and my sister Janey have been inseparable since they were five.” Bas was starting to realize what story I had concocted, but I think it was too late to back pedal and claim there were no feelings between us. His rage was overwhelming—his concern tangible.
“We’ll be contacting you again shortly. In the meantime, maybe you should spend some quality time with your monitor and determine just how important she is, and what you’re willing to give to have her back.” Grainger cut the connection on the call. I could hear him drop the plastic cell phone to the floor, and his boots repeatedly smashed it into little pieces until he was satisfied it was unusable.
“Adamson, gather all these parts up, use your coat pockets to hold the pieces, and toss them in the fireplace. May as well make use of the fire Banner insists on feeding. The man’s so thin, it’s a wonder he can generate any body heat of his own.” With a grumble, the other man moved around my chair to do as he was told.
“And, as for you. You lied to me Miss March. You tried to deceive me,” Grainger whispered in my ear, dangerously calm. I could feel him gather my hair into a fist, and I was expecting him to wretch my head back. I wasn’t prepared for him to use my hair to lift me off the chair, which he kicked sideways, out from beneath me. Without the chair’s support, I lost my balance, gravity pulling me unmercifully to the ground, uncaring of Grainger’s grip on my hair. My hip hit the ground hard, and my ribs felt like they were on fire. I felt the sharp jab of a needle in my shoulder, and I struggled to pull away before he could inject the full dosage, but I had no leverage.
Bas is watching, must be brave, I thought, as the bone chilling numbness overtook me again.
The last thing I heard was Grainger, gritting in my ear, “Don’t fuck with me, Miss March.”
Chapter Thirteen
The nightmare had me in a stranglehold, but it was slightly different than normal. Instead of swinging wildly, defending myself from my attacker, I was restrained tightly, unable to fight. Panic welled in me, I struggled to escape the suffocating hold which pinned my arms to my sides and bound my hands, leaving me defenseless. I was encased in an icy tomb…
Awake! Finally. Thank god.
The drugs in my system made it hard to shrug away the lingering fear from my new nightmare variation. Wonderful, now I was probably going to add claustrophobia to my growing list of night terrors. I gulped, harsh breaths which hurt my chest for reasons unknown to me, even as I catalogued the new aches and pains. The combination of Adamson’s abuse, and the stiffness from having my legs and arms re-bound, were taking a toll on my stamina. I had forgotten my gloves in the bathroom, when I washed my hands, so my fingers were icy.
The first thing I needed to do was reengage my brain. I vaguely remember Grainger said something about a normal injection lasting ten to twelve hours. Unless someone gave me another shot while I was sleeping, I could assume it was early, Saturday morning. I strained to hear birds, traffic, or any exterior activity. Nothing. I fought grogginess, threatening to pull me back to sleep.
Camera. I was being watched. The three stooges didn’t strike me as particularly computer savvy, so I was going to assume they wouldn’t bother watching the feed when it was so easy to walk down a hallway and open a door. First thing I needed to do was figure out where I was in relation to the camera. Wary of making noise by accidentally knocking something over, I lifted my bound legs in a sweeping moti
on. It took a few tries before I managed to inch my way to the tool bench I had used to brace myself when I fought off the asshole, Adamson. Right or wrong, I was going to consider the bench as my south. Therefore, the camera would be in the south-east corner of the room.
Much as I wanted to try sending a message to the security team, my need to take advantage of the tool bench trumped the camera. I didn’t know how often the kidnappers checked on me, so I planned to explore the room, specifically the tool bench, while I had an opportunity. I managed to struggle to my feet and partially hop until my hips aligned with the bench. Since my arms were useless, I bent so my face was an inch or two above the work surface, hoping if I used my head like a swiping hand, I could brush my cheek over the countertop to find a tool to use for defense or to free myself. Yeah, like I’m sure they left a box-cutter out in the open, right? I had to try. It was important to do something proactive. I listened for movement in the house, but even the TV was silent.
Ten minutes or so after my attempted grid search, I determined the house was probably vacant, or a rental, as there wasn’t even a loose screw to be found. On to Plan B, communication with the camera. I knew the Mustangs would be taping, so even if the people monitoring the feed didn’t understand sign language, they could play it back. But, I knew Bas would be watching. If he wasn’t at the console himself, he would have been alerted as soon as I started to wake up. He’d be watching the monitors by now.
One of my worries was to be discovered using ASL to the camera, so I decided I would lay back on the floor, all the better to pretend unconsciousness if one of the kidnappers decided to check on me. I would assume David and Bastian’s computers could zoom in on my hands. Belatedly, I remembered the chair. Did Grainger leave it where it fell, or did he move it out of the way? I didn’t want to lay back down, and find out later, the chair was between me and the camera, blocking their view of my hands.
I resisted the temptation to swing wildly, risking noise if I connected with the chair and knocked it over. Patience was rewarded when my ankle brushed the leg a few minutes later. I was in luck, the chair was between me and the garage door, according to my mental map, located to my south-west. I was bruised and battered enough, so I carefully lowered myself to the cold floor, rolling so my hands would (hopefully) be visible to the cameras.
It was painstakingly slow, but I signed the events which led to my capture. Since I had no range of motion, most of my story was spelled out alphabetically—letter, by letter. The tape on my wrists was loose enough to allow movement to sign a period dot, but commas and question marks would probably not be clear, so I decided to keep my ASL short, using only full-stop punctuation. I finished explaining the darts, when I heard movement from the house.
“Ah, you’re finally awake,” Grainger declared, as he entered the garage. “You can continue to pretend you’re asleep, or I can escort you to the bathroom. I won’t offer a second time.”
My bladder decided for me. I partially rolled to my back, indicating my awareness. “I’d appreciate the bathroom break,” I said sincerely. I didn’t want either of the others touching me, even if it was to remove the tape binding me. Banner would cut me for the thrill of drawing blood, and goodness knows what Adamson would try.
I struggled to a sitting position, an attempt to appear groggy and listless. Too late, I realized my position on the floor had given me away, as I probably hadn’t moved for hours after the drug pulled me into unconsciousness. “What time is it?”
“Morning,” he answered. There was probably a deep, psychological reason not to answer the question. I simply found it annoying. I barely bit back the sarcastic remark hovering on my tongue. Best not to make an enemy of this one; he stood between me and the other, more volatile men. I would take what protection I could get and be thankful for it.
When I was returned to the garage, I was told to sit on the floor. Much as I would have loved a cup of coffee right now, I gratefully accepted the bottle of water pressed into my hands. Grainger left me alone with a warning “not to move” and came back with a slice of cold pizza. Yuck. Yeah, I ate it. It was the only food I’d been offered and a strange combination of toppings. “Pineapple, garlic, olives, and chicken? I don’t think I’ve ever had chicken on pizza before,” I said diplomatically. I was pretty traditional with my pizza topping choices.
“Banner’s a weird bird. This is about the only thing he eats. Disgusting, and unfortunately for you, the only thing left over from dinner.”
“However bad it tastes when fresh, I assure you, it’s a thousand times worse when cold,” I joked. “I can honestly say this is the worst thing I’ve ever voluntarily eaten. But, thank you for the food.”
I gnawed the last gummy bite, trying not to gag on the congealed cheese. My stomach was queasy, I’m guessing a result of the tranquilizers they gave me. A few swallows of water helped wash it down, right before Grainger poked another needle into my arm.
“Aww, man. Really?” I mumbled as I slipped away.
And so began the pattern. I’d no sooner awaken, usually in the throes of a nightmare, when Grainger would offer to escort me to the bathroom, give me a bottle of water and a slice of pizza—different types each time, and knock me out again. A few times, I thought I heard the doorbell ring. Pizza delivery? Honestly, I lost track of what was real and what was drug induced dreaming. There wasn’t another opportunity to search the room, or orient myself to take advantage of the camera’s observers. Grainger was now able to anticipate how long I’d be knocked out and came for me shortly after I managed to rouse myself to some semblance of awareness.
I was always cold, and vaguely concerned by the numbness in my feet. But I was able to walk to the bathroom, and took advantage of a few minutes of warm water over my hands to ease some of the chill in my fingertips. I had, long ago, lost track of what day it was, or even how many times I’d been tranquilized. My hours consisted of an endless loop: awaken, bathroom, bottle of water, slice of pizza, needle in the arm, sleep. I tried to concentrate, to sign, regardless of whether my hands may or may not be seen by the cameras. Part of me wanted to scream and struggle, but another part was a disinterested observer, shrugging at the unfairness of life, content to let fate play itself out. I knew the drugs were making me docile, but I couldn’t gather enough energy to care. I wanted the cycle to end.
Chapter Fourteen
“Teresa! Teresa! It’s me,” Red shouted excitedly, as our mind link established suddenly. I was unsure if his enthusiasm, or the feel of the bond snapping into place, woke me from a dead sleep. A sign of my discomfort, and the lingering traces of drugs in my system, my first thought was, “No shit. Who else would be talking in my head?” I was grouchy, in pain, hungry, and worst of all—suffering from caffeine withdrawal. I hated the disorientation of not knowing something as basic as if it were day or night. I had no idea how long I’d been unconscious when Red’s excited voice woke me up.
Crap! If I could hear him, they were within two miles. For the first time in memory, I hoped our links hadn’t increased exponentially since we tested them… Damn, I didn’t know how long I’d been here. A day? Two? A week? I had no idea how long they’ve kept me drugged.
“Bas is with me. He’s pulling the car over and he’s going to tell me what to say. I miss you Teresa, I hope we find you real soon.” There was a slight pause, possibly Bastian giving Red some instructions? “Okay, Bas is ready.”
I rolled to my side, my hip and ribs protesting the movement. Drawing my knees up toward my chest, in a fetal position, I attempted to hold on to what little heat I had. That’s when it hit me—the prick stripped me while I was knocked out this last time. He left me in bra and panties—probably leverage to insure my good behavior from this point forward. The rest of my clothes were gone. Even my socks were missing. No wonder I felt so cold. As my brain cleared, I also considered my clothes were taken to emphasize to Bas I was vulnerable. Oh, I bet he was pissed.
My bound arms ached, especially my shoulder j
oints, hyper-extended behind my back. Shit, they’d retied my hands behind me again, only this time much tighter. The tape dug into my wrists, punishing. My ankles were also wrapped in duct tape, but there was deliberate space between them, as if they meant to hobble me, rather than restrict all movement. Cold fury filled me as I imagined Banner or Adamson had stripped and re-bound me while I was unconscious. Grainger, at least, treated me with a modicum of respect.
“Bas says to tell you that you’ve been missing a little over forty hours, roughly two days. It’s Sunday morning, a quarter after four. The overhead light in the room where you are is always on, so we can see you sign ASL.” There was a pause before Red added, “Right now, your hands are away from the camera. Bas says you need to roll over to your stomach, or your other side, so he can see them. Bas doesn’t think they’re monitoring the camera, because they keep checking on you every few hours.”
Red’s information mirrored my own observations. I wasn’t sure if I could straighten my legs out again, so I rolled onto my back, swinging my legs to gain enough momentum to roll one hundred-eighty degrees, until I was resting on my left side. It made sense the kidnappers would leave the lights on to assure David and Bas I was alive. I’m sure there was an element of torment involved, also, as I was left on the cement in my underwear with no blankets.