The Stolen (2008)

by Jason - Henry Parker 03 Pinter

  I took the exit ramp behind both cars, watching Petrovsky

  closely. I could make out the man hunched over the

  steering wheel, felt lead in my stomach as I prayed we

  were being cautious, keeping out of sight.

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  I followed his car down a one-lane highway, our speeds

  decreasing as the road became more residential. The

  doctor was steadfastly observing the thirty-five-mile-anhour speed limit. The silver Mercedes was only a buffer

  for a few minutes, as it peeled into a strip mall soon after,

  leaving our car as the only one behind Petrovsky.

  We followed him down this road for some time. Eventually the sun began to set. The sky grew darker. Soon all

  I could make out of Petrovsky’s car were the taillights. The

  faint hum of the tape recorder was the only noise in the

  car. My pulse was quickening. I had no idea how this

  night would end.

  About twenty minutes later, Petrovsky turned on his left

  blinker and pulled off onto a narrow street. I had to follow,

  had to hope it was too dark for him to recognize our car

  or see me behind the wheel. I was still about thirty yards

  behind him, but when his Nissan made another right and

  then a left within seconds of each other, I had to speed up

  before losing him among the turns.

  “There’s no way he doesn’t know we’re following him,”

  Amanda said, her voice quiet, fearful. “No way.”

  I said nothing. Just spoke the directions into the

  recorder and kept driving.

  We passed through streets lined with houses, lamps illuminating rows of homes. Most of them were in disrepair,

  casting an aura of poverty, carelessness, hopelessness. I

  tried not to look at them, focused on the car in front of us,

  felt cold sweat beading down my back. Fear and adrenaline coursed through me, and I wondered how much longer

  this chase would last.

  Then Petrovsky made a right onto another road, this one

  dimly lit. I couldn’t see any houses on either side. There

  were no lamps. It was just him and us.

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  I glimpsed the street sign, stated into the recorder,

  “Turned right onto Huntley Terrace.”

  Huntley Terrace was a narrow road. Once we’d driven

  a few miles, we passed by a few houses spaced sporadically

  apart, driveways hidden behind thick brush and wooden

  fences. There were no streetlights, no road signs. We were

  still twenty yards behind Petrovsky, but we were the only

  cars traveling this road. By this point, the gig was up.

  “Henry,” Amanda said. “What is that?”

  I squinted my eyes, felt my stomach lurch as I saw that

  we were approaching a pair of metal double gates up

  ahead. The were bracketed by a brick wall that encircled

  the property within. The woods were thick on either side.

  I couldn’t see anything beyond them.

  “Oh, fuck,” I said. Petrovsky had slowed down as he

  approached.

  “What now?” Amanda asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m scared,” she said. She turned to me. In her eyes I

  could tell she knew what I was thinking. We had to keep

  going.

  I slowed the car down, pulled to a stop and put the car

  in Park. I waited to see what Petrovsky would do next. His

  car stopped at the gates. It stayed there for close to a

  minute, then I heard the sound of metal screeching as the

  gates swung inward. They did not look like they enclosed

  a residential area. They were protecting a single home.

  Was this where Petrovsky lived?

  When the gates were open, the doctor pulled onto a

  gravel road and then disappeared out of sight. I waited,

  unsure of what to do.

  And after a minute of waiting, I realized something

  strange.

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  The gates hadn’t closed.

  They were wide open.

  Whoever was inside those gates was waiting for us.

  “Too late to turn back,” I said.

  I put the car into Drive and slowly approached the gates.

  I still couldn’t see anything beyond them, but as I got

  closer I could make out a red hue around the bend. Definitely Petrovsky’s brake lights.

  I drove through the gates, half expecting a Sonny

  Corleone sneak attack. But we passed through without

  anything out of the ordinary. I made the turn, then jumped

  as I heard the metal sounds again.

  The gates were closing behind us.

  “We shouldn’t be here,” Amanda said. “We should go.”

  “We can’t now,” I said. “Let’s just see what’s what.”

  As I continued down the path, Petrovsky’s Nissan came

  into view. It was parked at the end of a driveway. The

  driveway was next to a house. It was shrouded in darkness,

  but there was just enough light from the moon to illuminate the seven-foot-high brick wall surrounding the entire

  property. It confused me. The wall wasn’t high enough that

  an adult would have a problem climbing over it. I also

  noticed that every tree on the property was at least ten or

  twenty feet from the fence. There were no limbs that could

  reach the fence. It had been clearly built to keep someone

  smaller from getting out.

  Down the driveway, I could see Petrovsky. He was

  standing next to his car. Hands in his pockets. He was

  waiting for us.

  I pulled up close until I was directly behind the Nissan,

  then put the car into Park and shut the engine off.

  “Stay here,” I said to Amanda.

  “The hell with that,” she said, unbuckling her seat belt.

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  We both stepped out of the car. Petrovsky was standing

  in the middle of the driveway. He did not move as we approached. He did not seem surprised to see us.

  As we got closer, I could see that the doctor was trembling slightly. His hands were in his pockets, his body too

  rigid. As I got closer, a wave of fear coursed through me.

  I saw that Petrovsky was shaking. The man was afraid.

  “Dr. Petrovsky,” I said. “It’s Henry Parker. I know you

  saw us following you. I’m sorry to approach you under

  these circumstances, but I have more questions.”

  “Yes, Mr. Parker,” the doctor said, his voice low, remorseful. “I am very sorry, too.”

  I heard a faint rustle come from behind us, then there

  was a sharp pain in my leg. Before I could shout, the

  gravel of the driveway came hurtling up to meet me, and

  then everything swam away.

  22

  I woke up groggy, with pain in my head and my leg. It

  took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the faint crack of

  light coming from a doorway on the far side of the room

  that was otherwise pitch-black. I was standing up. I was

  shirtless, my bare torso cold against a metal pole behind

  me. My head pounded, and when I tried to move I realized

  my hands were bound above me, my legs bound below.

  My arms were bound and tied to what felt like a metal

  pipe. I groped around, felt that the pipe went straight back

  into th
e brick wall behind me. My feet were bound behind

  the same pipe. I wriggled but it did no good.

  Suddenly my eyes flew open. Amanda. Oh, God,

  where was she?

  I struggled against the bonds, but I couldn’t see

  anything, couldn’t reach the rope that bound my hands.

  Then a voice spoke out from the darkness, and I

  stopped moving.

  “Don’t worry, she’s fine. I’m sorry my associate had to

  restrain you, but I promise it’s for your own good.” The

  voice was gruff, older, slightly raspy. A smoker’s voice.

  “Who are you?” I said. “Come over here so I can see

  you, asshole.”

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  “Listen to you, talking as though you’re holding all the

  cards. When your hand was folded before you even woke up.”

  I heard a spark, like a match striking flint, and then a

  small orange flame lit up the darkness. The flame rose until

  I heard a sucking sound. The flame lit the end of a cigarette, and with a puff was blown out.

  I could see the cigarette about ten feet from me, and

  with each inhalation I caught the outline of a man’s face.

  I couldn’t see much detail, but he looked to be in his late

  fifties. Harsh light to go with the harsh line. He just sat

  there, sucked his cigarette and said nothing.

  “Come on!” I shouted. “What do you want?”

  “What do I want,” the man said. He flicked away the

  cigarette and stood up. He must have turned on a light

  switch, because suddenly an overhead lamp cast a soft

  glow over the room. I made out what I could. I was in what

  looked to be some sort of basement. Bare cement walls and

  a tiled floor. There were no windows I could see. The

  room wasn’t dingy, though, and in fact I was surprised that

  it appeared to be rather well maintained. A plush leather

  sofa rested in front of a television set, and a long-forgotten treadmill sat adorned with boxes and discarded clothes.

  If this was a prison or interrogation room, it wasn’t the

  most intimidating one. The man approached me, took

  another cigarette from his pocket, lit it and took a deep

  drag.

  Then he approached me, plucked the cigarette from his

  lips and held it out.

  “Want a puff?”

  “Yeah, nothing satisfies me more than sucking on a

  butt that was just in some strange asshole’s mouth.”

  “You sure? It’s a Chesterfield.”

  “Gee, now, that makes a difference. Go screw yourself.”

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  The man shrugged, took another puff.

  “I haven’t smoked another brand in over thirty years.

  You know, you can enjoy the pleasures of so many things

  in life without knowing where it came from. Who made

  it. Thirty years ago, I would have taken a beating before I

  smoked. Now I can’t get enough of ’em. Ironic, ’swhat it

  is. That delicious burn inside your lungs, just makes me

  want to close my eyes, savor the feeling. My ex-wife

  always asked why I spent so much time reading about crap

  like that and never listened to her. I’d say, baby, because

  one’s interesting, and one ain’t.”

  I stayed silent. The longer he talked, the longer I

  stayed alive.

  “Chesterfields started to become popular back in the

  day when Arthur Godfrey ended his radio program by

  saying, ‘This is Arthur buy-’em-by-the-carton Godfrey!’

  Since the program was sponsored by Chesterfield, pretty

  soon that’s all anyone wanted to smoke. The nonfiltered

  Chesterfields were popular during Vietnam, allegedly the

  strongest nonnarcotic stimulant in the country. The government dropped Chesterfields into the jungle by the thousands. And the common man, he figured whatever was

  good enough for the fighting men and women of this

  country was good enough for him.”

  The man stepped into the light, and I finally got a better

  look at him.

  His graying hair was full, skin worn and weatherbeaten.

  The crow’s-feet at his eyes actually made him look

  handsome, like one of those blue-jeaned cowboys who

  spent their days on oil rigs, the kind that actually needed

  a Chevy flatbed. He was lean, about five foot eleven,

  wearing a dark green T-shirt and jeans. There was a thin

  scar about an inch long that ran down his right cheek. It

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  was a faint line, slightly jagged, as though it hadn’t been

  stitched up right. He took another pull, let the ash hang on

  the end for a long while smoldering before tapping it onto

  the floor.

  My heart hammered in my chest. My wrists ached, and

  the pins and needles in my feet let me know they wouldn’t

  be much help.

  “Where is she?” I said.

  “You need to be more trusting,” the man said. “I told

  you she’s fine. So you should believe that she is fine. I’m

  not gonna lie to you, Henry. You do me the same courtesy,

  and things are gonna work out just splendid for Ms.

  Davies. But let’s just focus on the here and now. You and

  me. Got it?”

  “Who are you?” I said.

  “Who I am isn’t as important as what I have to offer,”

  he said.

  “I don’t want anything from you,” I spat. “People know

  I’m here. That door’s gonna get busted in any second and

  I’m gonna laugh as they haul your ass away.”

  “Really…they’re coming for you, huh? Who, the CIA?

  FBI? Batman? Guess you wouldn’t mind then if I leave

  your girl alone for a few weeks. She won’t need food or

  water since, you know, they’re coming for her.”

  “You’re making a mistake,” I said. “She doesn’t

  belong here.”

  “Well, she’s here. No changing that now. Anyway, back

  to what I was saying. I have something to offer you, Henry,

  and if you’re as smart as I think you are you’ll take this

  offer.”

  “What is it?” I said.

  “It’s simple, really,” the man said, taking another puff.

  “I need you to tell me everything the good doctor told you

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  and everything you know about the kids. Spare no detail.

  It’s very important you lay all your cards on the table. And

  if you do just that, and I believe you, behind door number

  one will be your girlfriend’s life. You spill, she lives. You

  don’t spill, her blood does. Simple as that.”

  “I’ll take the offer,” I said, “because we don’t know

  anything. Petrovsky didn’t say a word to us. Now, let us

  go.”

  “Oh, come on, Henry, you think it’s that easy? You

  think that’s it? Nah, we can get some more out of you.”

  He took the cigarette from his mouth. Looked at the

  filtered end.

  “Chesterfields,” he said. “Just about heaven. Can’t find

  the unfiltered bastards anywhere nowadays, but smoke

  enough of these and they do the trick.”

  “Hope that lung cancer acts mighty quick,” I said.

  “If it gets me, it
gets me,” he said. “But I’ll go out

  with a smile.”

  A spark fell off the end of the butt. I watched it flutter

  to the ground. I moved my wrists around, tried to feel the

  pipe where my hands were tied, sliding my fingers back

  and forth out of view until my thumb caught on something.

  A piece of metal. Something jutting out from the pipe.

  The man reached into his pocket, brought out his wallet.

  He pulled out a one-dollar bill. Held it up in front of me.

  Then he took the lit cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. Slowly he brought the cigarette to the bill. There

  was a crackling sound as the lit end burned a perfect circle

  through the paper.

  When the cigarette had passed through, he held up the bill,

  looked at me through the hole, smiled. “Peekaboo, I see

  you.”

  He walked toward me, still holding the lit cigarette. As

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  he got closer, the light illuminated the man more. I began

  to shiver, my bare torso shaking. Then I noticed something

  that nearly made me gag. Covering the man’s arms were

  a road map of small, white marks. Scars. Perfectly round.

  They were cigarette burns. And there were dozens of them.

  “So what did Petrovsky tell you?” he said, his voice

  frighteningly calm.

  “I told you, nothing. Leave us alone.”

  He scratched his chin, looked at me. “Hmm…no.”

  He took another step forward, leaned down and pressed

  the lit end of the cigarette against my chest.

  I screamed as I heard the sound of burning, waves of

  pain shooting through me as I bucked and tried to kick to

  no avail. The pain was horrific. I hoped I would pass out.

  Finally the man removed the cigarette from my skin.

  Then he leaned over and blew gently on the spot where

  he’d just burned me.

  “That’s gonna leave a mark,” he said.

  I was panting. I could felt sweat pouring down my

  body, getting into my eyes. I felt around where my hands

  were bound, found that piece of metal I’d felt before. I

  rubbed it with my thumb. It was a screw attached to a bolt.

  The end of the screw jutted out from the metal about half

  an inch. Just maybe…

  I slowly moved my wrists until the half-inch screw was

  fitted snugly inside one of the loops of knot that bound my

  wrists. I moved it slowly up and down, back and forth,

  trying to loosen the knot, to create some slack.

  The man tossed his cigarette onto the floor, stubbed it