Abandon All Hope

by M. J. Schiller

  “Well, there’s only one thing to do then. Make love to you right here.”

  With surprising speed, he began to clear the desk, sweeping off fountain pens, papers, and even knocking a lamp to the carpeted floor. She barely had time to react before he pushed her back onto the desk, kissing her wildly and then backing off to undo his tie. He drew the widened loop over his head and tore his collar open. His hands were on her breasts and his tongue ran along her neck.

  “Oh!” she cried out, frantically pressing on him. “I’m going to be sick!” She managed to push him off and sat up. “Do you have a trash can or something?”

  He stood there panting and staring at her for a second, his eyes still glazed over with lust. Then, as if finally understanding what she was saying, he sprang around the desk and retrieved a heavy, gold wastebasket. She leaned over pretending to be ill, and moaning.

  “Oh, Tony…I’m so, so sorry! I’ve ruined everything! Oh…I think it was the champagne…and Phillip shaking me. Mmm, and then when we were, you know…oh, I am just mortified. I was trying to just get past it, but I don’t think I can.” She continued to breathe over the trash can with a hand on her stomach.

  “Are you feeling better?” he asked after a few moments.

  “Well, I don’t think I’m going to be sick, but I have this raging headache. Tony, I’m sorry, but I think I need to go home.”

  He sighed, clearly disappointed. “Well, that’s okay. You can’t help it if you feel sick, I guess.” He made one last desperate suggestion. “Maybe if you just lie down for a while…”

  She shook her head mournfully. “I don’t think so, Tony.”

  “All right then,” he grumbled, no longer trying to hide his dissatisfaction. “I’ll have Milo take you home.” He escorted her down the long hall to the foyer.

  “Can I get a rain check, maybe next week?” She smiled at him weakly as he helped her out the door.

  “Sure. Sure. Here’s my business card. Call me.” He shoved his card into her hand as she bent down to get into the limo.

  Antonio closed the door behind her. “Make sure you remember where you drop her off. I want to know where she lives,” he told Milo quietly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  She sank into the leather seats. She should feel exhilarated. She’d done it. She had evidence Antonio Vasculli and Robert Mulrooney were in cahoots. But instead, she felt dirty and cheap and frightened. She couldn’t wait to get this story done and get to Chase and just melt into his arms. She curled her knees up and hugged them to herself. Phillip was right, she wasn’t cut out for this work; she never had been. She began shaking uncontrollably. She put her head down on her knees and began to weep. She didn’t know exactly why she was crying, only that she was overwhelmed.

  “Are you okay, Miss?”

  She sought for some control. “I-I’m fine,” she rasped out. “Just tired…and I don’t feel well.”

  “Let’s get you home, then.” She wiped her face and looked up into the mirror. She saw kindness in the driver’s eyes. He pulled away from the curb. “Where to?”

  “If you could just take me back to the restaurant, I need to get my car.” She glanced around outside her window, becoming calmer.

  “Mr. Vasculli told me to take you home, Miss. I don’t think he wants you to be driving in your condition.”

  Her eyes quickly returned to the rearview mirror. The dark gray eyes that met hers in the mirror from beneath the driver’s hat now had an edge to them.

  “I’m perfectly capable of driving my own car,” she returned with an air of haughtiness, trying to conceal her alarm.

  The driver seemed to consider this for a minute. “As you wish,” he said finally.

  She sighed in relief. Maybe she was just letting her imagination get the best of her. All those movies she had watch about mobsters had her nervous. She would return home, write her story, and before long she’d be winging it to wherever Chase was currently situated.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Hope was up all night working on her story. She ran out of coffee and trotted down to the corner shop to get a fresh cup and some beans. On her return, as she strode down the hall of her building, she slowed her steps. The door to her apartment was ajar. She was certain she had closed it. Cautiously, she crept forward. As she neared it she could see the wooden doorjamb had been cracked. Someone had been in her apartment! With her hot coffee in one hand, and the small bag of groceries in the other, she warily pushed the door open with her foot. A groan escaped as she surveyed her apartment.

  Couch cushions had been slashed, their white fluffy batting strewn everywhere, books had been jerked from decorative wine crates, their torn pages mating with the pillow fluff, her lamp lay smashed on the floor and stools were knocked over. In dismay, she stepped into the room, afraid to look into the kitchen area and see further damage. As she approached Mewford hopped up on the bar, mewing plaintively.

  “Oh, Mr. Mewford! Thank goodness you’re okay.”

  She gingerly set her grocery bag down on the bar, her eyes scanning the cabinets, which lay open, empty except for pots and pans, all of the dishware lying smashed on the floor. My God, didn’t anyone hear the ruckus? But then she remembered most of her neighbors had already left for work, and the retired people who remained in the building were, perhaps, too hard of hearing to have noticed. She let out several small soft “ohs!” before her eyes landed on her laptop. Strangely it was not smashed, the screen flipped open as she had left it, her inbox visible.

  Her inbox visible. It had not gone into standby, which meant she had either just missed the vandals, or…they were still in the apartment. She dug in her purse. She heard a floorboard squeak and looked up, catching a figure reflected in the door of the microwave approaching from behind. She made a dash for the front door but was intercepted by another burly man who grabbed her around the waist, picking her up off the floor and dragging her toward the kitchen.

  “Let me go!” she screamed, but his tight grip around her midsection strangled the cry. He swung her around, throwing her against the post that ran from the bar to the ceiling. He clapped a rough hand over her mouth. He was about average-height, with dark, close-cropped hair, almost as short as the stubble on his face. He wore a one-piece jumpsuit with the name of a laundry service embroidered on the left-hand side of his chest.

  “Okay, darlin’, that’s enough!” He leered at her as she stood gasping for air, smashed by the weight of the lower half of his body, pressed against hers. “God! She’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she?” he commented to his friend with a low chuckle. “Now, listen, sweetheart, there’s no need for this whole thing to get out of hand. We just want to ask you a few questions, then we’ll leave, okay?” She gave a slight nod as he stared into her eyes. “I’m going to let my hand down, and I don’t want to hear a peep from you. Not a peep!” His hand lowered to just below her throat. He let his eyes wander there. “Built, too,” he commented.

  The second man stepped closer to get a look. He was shorter and not as heavy, but his muscular frame was evident even through the jumpsuit he wore. She let her gaze shift back to the man in front of her. His hand had drifted further down her shirt, and he began to undo buttons, pulling the blouse loose from the top of her jeans. He grunted his pleasure and slid his hand around her breast and began to fondle her.

  “Hey,” the second intruder said in an irritated way, “we’re not here for that!”

  Despite his words, she could see his eyes were riveted to her body as well. He took a step closer, his resolve weakening. Meanwhile, the first man shifted his position, bringing one arm up to lean it across her upper chest, putting pressure on her windpipe. She could feel he was excited as he forced his hard body against hers. He started to dip his head toward her chest, but he never got there as she brought her forehead down, hard, into his face.

  He screamed and staggered backward, hands to his face. She made another break for the door, but a third man she hadn’t noticed befor
e blocked her path. She turned back in time to see her molester bring his hands down, covered in blood. A steady stream began to drip off his chin.

  “Geez! Stupid bitch broke my nose!” The other men chuckled without sympathy. She stared in fear as his eyes narrowed forebodingly. “You’re gonna pay for that!” He clutched a handful of her shirt and pulled his elbow back. His fist connected solidly with her face, and her head hit the wall with a sickening thud. He released her shirt and she slid down the wall, crumpling to the floor and blacking out.

  * * *

  Chase stamped down the hall, wondering why Hope would be stupid enough to try to investigate a mobster. Had they finally gotten back together, only to have her fling her life around like a ball attached by elastic to a wooden paddle? And why hadn’t she told him about it? Why hadn’t she trusted him? Because, he answered himself, I would have told her she was being a little fool! He’d had plenty of time on the flight over to work up a full head of steam. And for that matter, he added, in this age of space travel, why did it still take so long to fly from the coast to the Midwest? He fed the anger, because the anger kept the fear at bay.

  Until he saw the door. He ran the last several feet and pushed it open. The first thing he saw was the pool of blood on the floor.

  “HOPE?” he shouted in a panic. He looked behind the counter, but saw only ruined dishes. He ran into the bedroom, into the bathroom.

  He kept calling, although he knew the small apartment didn’t have any other places to hide her. “Hope? Oh, God, Hope!”

  “Chase?”

  He ran back to the front room. The kid from the roof? “Kip?”

  “I saw it, Chase! I saw the whole damn thing!”

  “What did you—?”

  “These guys came in and tore the place up, just tore it up. They were looking for something, I guess. They had one guy as lookout at the door. He must have seen your girlfriend coming, ‘cause all of a sudden they all went into the bedroom, and a few seconds later she walked in and they jumped her.”

  “Was she hurt?” Chase stared with alarm at the blood on the floor.

  “Oh no, man. That’s not her blood. She was so cool! They were…uh…messing with her, and she head-butted this one dude in the face and he was bleeding everywhere!”

  “And then what happened?”

  “Well…he got really pissed. He knocked her out and then they put her in one of those rolly laundry cart things and just carried her out of here. Rolled her right through the lobby, man!”

  “Did you see what they did next?”

  “Of course,” he said proudly, “they put her in this laundry van and drove away.” When Chase’s face fell, he quickly added, “But I think I know where they took her.”

  “You do?”

  “I’ve seen that van before, when I walk to school. It’s always parked in this section of warehouses nobody seems to use much, which I’ve always thought is strange, seeing as it’s a laundry truck and all.”

  “Do you have a car?”

  “Yeah, dude, I have a car.”

  He grabbed the teen’s jacket and pulled him with him out the door.

  “But I can’t drive it. I’m grounded.”

  “Well, I’m sure the hell not grounded. I’ll drive!” He dragged him down the hall.

  “I don’t know, man…”

  Chase stopped suddenly. “Kip, they could be killing Hope right now.”

  “Yeah, maybe. But if I let you drive my car, my mom will definitely kill me. She told me not to ever—”

  He gave the teen a look of exasperation, and then had a flash of inspiration. “What if I gave you concert tickets?”

  “Come on! It’s parked in front. But hey, I called the police ten minutes ago. They’re supposed to meet me here.”

  Chase pushed him into the elevator. “We’ll call them on the way.”

  * * *

  When Hope came to, she was lying on her side along the cold metal floor of a stripped-down van. She had duct tape covering her mouth, hands tied behind her back, as well as her feet.

  “Hey, look who’s up.” The heavier-set man knelt beside her and started stroking her face, his eyes lit up as he again slid them over her body.

  The slighter man kicked him. “Knock it off! Tony wouldn’t like that.”

  The van came to a jarring halt, and the big man made a move to pick her up. “I said get your stinking hands off her!” The smaller man stepped in front of him and scooped her up easily, trudging, stooped over, to the back of the van. The driver threw the doors open, and she was handed down into his arms. The man carrying her never said a word, never made eye contact, as if she were just another pile of laundry.

  Mr. Handsy, as she now named the bigger man in her head, rolled open a large door on the side of an unmarked warehouse surrounded by broken-down equipment, forklifts, and bobcats, which looked like they hadn’t moved in years. The day was bright and she was surprised they would just carry a woman, trussed up like some cannibal’s dinner, out in the open. But, from what she could see, the place was deserted. The warehouse they brought her into was also relatively bright, with lots of narrow windows high along the ceiling on all sides. The majority of the space was nearly empty, maybe a couple of dozen crates, with a bunch of empty palates scattered about. The last quarter of the room was floor to ceiling crates, unmarked except for some shipping numbers burned into the wood. The air smelled mustily of oil and dirt, and the more welcome scent of the wooden crates. There was a broken-down table and a half dozen chairs in the middle of the room. They pulled one of these aside to stick her into.

  The three men almost immediately got started on some animated conversation about the Sox game from the previous night. She had a sort of surreal feeling. They’re going to kill me and move on to conversation about who should win the Kentucky Derby while they’re cleaning up the blood! But they simply ignored her. She heard a faint noise outside and prayed somehow help had arrived. But when the door rolled back, her heart skipped a beat. In strolled Anthony Vasculli, trailed by two thugs, and he did not look happy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  They pulled up to a rundown warehouse in Kip’s burnt orange ’76 Malibu. Chase turned off the ignition when he was about fifteen yards away from the laundry van. He handed Kip his cell phone.

  “Tell the police exactly where we are, and if you see anyone, duck down.”

  Kip nodded silently, his usual gusto gone. Chase heard him start to dial as he carefully shut the car door behind him. He crept forward until he could see into the door, which had bounced open a crack when the thugs had tried to slam it shut. He saw a bunch of men standing around, one in a suit, and he saw Hope in a chair. He allowed himself a sigh of relief, at least she was okay. But as he watched, the man in the suit cracked her viciously across the face, knocking her to the floor. He started in surprise, feeling the fury leap inside him like a fire someone had just thrown gasoline on.

  * * *

  “Hope,” Antonio said jovially, as if she weren’t sitting there in front of him bound and gagged, “so good to see you.” She stared at him stonily. He looked at the men behind her, who had come to a sort of awkward attention. “Why is there blood on her shirt? I thought I gave you explicit instructions she was not to be harmed.”

  “Uh…that’s ‘cause Joey, here, got a little fresh with her and she head-butted him in the snoot.” He chuckled, but then cleared his throat as he could see the mobster wasn’t amused. “That’s Joey’s blood, boss. We didn’t do nothin’ to her.”

  “Is that so?” He eyed Joey coldly. “When I give instructions, Joey, they are to be followed to the letter. Do you understand?”

  Before the man could answer, one of the two muscular men who had come in with Antonio dealt him three quick blows to the body and a crushing right hook to the chin. Hope’s eyes grew wide as he fell near her feet, unconscious.

  “Get him out of here,” Antonio instructed. The guy who had dropped him dragged his body off to one side. She
watched with concern, even if part of her thought justice had been served.

  “Now, Hope.” Antonio strutted back over to her. “I am sorry for my cohorts’ ungentlemanly behavior.” He slowly began to button her shirt up, his eyes lingering on her body as he did. Halfway up, he stopped and rubbed the back of one of his knuckles between her breasts. “You know,” he said only loud enough for her to hear, leaning in, his eyes set on hers, “I had planned on undressing you myself.” He opened his hand, so the back of it just touched the curve of her breast as it moved up and down. He sighed. “And then you had to go and ruin everything.”

  His eyes became hard, and he finished buttoning her shirt quickly. He grabbed hold of a corner of the duct tape covering her mouth and, with a savage yank, ripped it off. She gasped in pain. Antonio turned his back to her and walked a few feet away, turning again to face her with arms crossed over his chest.

  “Where is the film you took in my office?” Perhaps seeing the spark of surprise in her eyes, he added, “What? Did you think you were the only one with a camera?” He took a step forward. “Where is it, Hope?”

  She set her jaw without commenting, staring at him in defiance. Even if her hands had been untied, she still wouldn’t have had time to block the blow that sent her sprawling to the floor. She moaned as she lay there, and then felt hands on her upper arms, jerking her up to the chair. Her shoulders ached from the strain of her body weight, and she breathed in the pain jaggedly.

  She had no more been put in her seat, when the door opened and a man brought in Chase’s limp form, supporting him under the arms. Chase? But that was impossible. Chase was in Canada somewhere, safe, with Hal…safe…

  “Looky what I found snoopin’ around outside. Chase Hatton! When he wakes up, do you think he’ll give me his autograph?” They chuckled coarsely. With a heave, he plopped his burden down and Chase rolled face-up in front of her. She looked on in horror.