Save Me from Dangerous Men--A Novel

by S. A. Lelchuk

  If I was going to do anything, I had to hurry.

  I didn’t see any good options. But I had to do something. Even if that meant a great deal of extra pain for the slimmest of chances.

  I made up my mind.

  “You like hurting women?” I asked Victor.

  He smiled, revealing a crooked overbite. I wondered how many women had turned down his advances over the years. “I like hurting everyone.”

  “Think you could hurt me?”

  He heard the challenge in my voice and his eyes sharpened, the pupils dilating slightly as if exposed to bright light. “I think I could do all kinds of things to you.”

  I shook my head contemptuously. “Bullshit. I know your type. Jackals, that’s all. You prey on easy victims. That’s all you’re good for.”

  His face flushed. “No one ever taught you manners, did they, sweetheart?”

  I took a guess and spoke deliberately. “Sweetheart? What a joke. Guys like you used to ask me out all the time. Bottom-feeders, buzzards. I used to laugh in their ugly faces while saying no.” I looked straight into his eyes and laughed scornfully. “Just like I’m laughing in your ugly face right now.”

  Victor ran his tongue along his lower lip. His eyes flickered. “Just when it was going to be an easy night for you, you go and make it difficult.”

  “Think I give a damn about easy? You talk tough with a crowbar and a one-hundred-twenty-pound computer scientist begging for her life. Such a tough guy.”

  Victor’s voice was dangerous. “That’s what you think?”

  “Deep down, you’re a pathetic coward. I can see it all over your ugly face.”

  He was no longer smiling. “You’re about to make your final hour hell on earth.”

  Behind him, Joseph held the second syringe, probing my brother’s other leg. Like a vampire. I shuddered. I had to hurry. He was angry. Close to where I wanted him to be. But not quite there.

  “I’m curious,” I went on. “In high school, when all the other boys were dating, finding girlfriends, going to dances and parties, having fun—what did you do, Victor? Walk around setting cats on fire and pulling wings off bugs?”

  I saw something click in his face. It was his eyes. For a second they grew fuzzy and unfocused. As though he had forgotten all about me. As though he was thinking about something completely different. Then the eyes sharpened again. In one quick motion he pulled a knife out of his back pocket, leaned down, and slashed the ugly triangle blade through the duct tape that bound my feet.

  “What are you doing?” shouted Joseph.

  Victor seemed to barely hear. “She’s going to need her legs free for a while.”

  “She’s supposed to be a goddamn suicide.”

  “Then we’ll throw her off the damn roof,” said Victor sullenly. “I don’t care. But no one ever taught this bitch how to keep her mouth shut, so I will.”

  “We have to get out of here.”

  “You didn’t let me play with the last one. This time I want to have my fun.” Victor’s tone was determined. His mouth pursed. Under different circumstances it would have been funny. Like a parent arguing with a petulant child over whether they had time to stop at a toy store before going home.

  Only the child was a six-foot-four sociopath.

  And I was the toy store.

  That made it less funny.

  “Fine,” Joseph acquiesced. “But hurry.” He gave a grunt of satisfaction as he found a second vein. Brandon’s body stiffened and his eyelids fluttered. He was completely unconscious. I watched his chest as it moved almost imperceptibly up and down.

  Victor put his knife back in his pocket and grabbed me. “Come on, bitch. This is as close as you’ll ever get to your wedding night.” He dragged me toward the bedroom door, my feet stumbling to keep up. As we got into the bedroom he shoved me. He was freakishly strong. Hands still taped in front of me, I lurched across the room and banged into the wall. From the light of the closet bulb I could see him pulling his jacket off, revealing a shoulder holster. The butt of a gun stuck temptingly out.

  He headed my way. “Let’s see what you have under those jeans.”

  I aimed a hard kick at his groin. I didn’t think Victor was the father type, but I was doing my best to make sure of it. If the kick had landed, what was under my jeans would have been the last thing on his mind. But for a big man he was surprisingly fast. He shifted his weight and brought up a knee, turning so my boot glanced off his thigh.

  He licked his lips and sneered. “Cheap shot.”

  He grabbed me again and I kicked him as hard as I could, this time connecting with the shin. With my hands taped together I couldn’t do much more. He grunted in pain and hit me on the temple with a chopping downward blow. I rolled my head away but the force still knocked me backward and filled my eyes with slowly blinking sparks. I got in another kick and in response he slapped me hard across the face. The room spun crazily. I tasted blood. The sparks danced faster.

  He got hold of me and then I was on the bed under him. A rough hand tore open the front of my blouse, the other fumbling at my jeans. I tried to kick but he shifted his weight onto my hips, sitting over me. My legs churned uselessly. His eyes were excited as one hand pulled the front of my jeans so hard I felt the button tear off. I was too full of adrenaline to feel sick at what was happening.

  “Fight back,” Victor said. “I want you to. It’s more exciting that way.”

  He used his left hand to pin my bound wrists above my head. I struggled to free my arms, but with his strength and vantage he didn’t even have to really try. His right hand went to his own pants. I heard the zipper of his fly. A zipper. Such a normal sound. Now, here, the worst sound. I wondered how many women before me had felt Victor’s weight crushing down, heard that sound, thought those thoughts.

  He smiled as he undid his belt one-handed. “Bet you wish you hadn’t talked so much.”

  I said nothing. He was taunting me, trying to get me to struggle. There was no point in expending needless energy. Still easily pressing my arms down against the bed with his left hand, he leaned forward and stroked the fingers of his right hand tenderly against my cheek. I felt his fingers brush slowly down my face. Somehow that was a far worse feeling than any of his blows. I swallowed hard and forced myself to stay quiet as the fingers gently traced their way along the underside of my chin, my throat. I felt them on my lips and involuntarily tried to bite him. He jerked his hand away, laughed, slapped me hard with his right hand.

  “That’s not so nice on a first date.” He seemed almost relaxed as he undid his pants, sitting forward slightly, his legs folded under him, eyes narrowed in excitement. His right hand went again to my unbuttoned jeans, first one hip, then the other, tugging them down. I bucked my hips hard but it was a losing battle. Victor had to weigh close to double what I did. With my arms pinned above me there was nothing I could do. We both knew it.

  We were both startled by a loud jangle as my brother’s old Mickey Mouse alarm clock on the night table went off, to my right and Victor’s left. Victor’s head turned sharply and I felt his weight shift as he instinctively prepared to face this possible new threat. Almost as quickly, he identified the noise for what it was. He cursed, hesitating as he realized the clock was out of reach of his right hand, and I felt the pressure against my arms free as he leaned over and seized the clock with his left hand, hurling it against the wall. It broke apart into plastic shards as he reached back to re-pin my arms. He had correctly reasoned that even if I was able to hit him once or twice, lying pinned on my back, wrists bound, he had little cause for concern. Even the hardest puncher in the world couldn’t do much lying on his back, and Victor was too heavy for me to buck him off. The whole thing had taken him no more than a second.

  A second was all that I needed.

  In the moment that Victor’s hand left mine I swung my arms up. The light from the closet bulb glinting off the syringe clenched between my hands. I didn’t have the luxury of searching for t
he best spot. And I just had one chance. I played the odds and stuck the needle into the right side of Victor’s neck. There were all kinds of important veins there. The external jugular, the superficial cervical artery. The needle punctured his flesh as his hand flashed up to grab my wrists.

  I pressed the plunger in as his hand reached mine.

  The effect was instantaneous. Victor’s eyes rolled up in his head as his hand fell away. He tried to say something but failed. His weight shifted sideways and he slumped onto the bed like a crumbling statue. I didn’t waste time watching. My hands were already in his back pants pocket where his knife had gone. I got the knife open and squeezed the handle between my knees. The position was unsteady but the blade was sharp.

  The tape fell away and my hands were free.

  I stood and breathed deeply, fighting to control the adrenaline pumping through me. Forcing myself to not think about what I had just barely avoided. There would be time for that later. I flexed my hands, getting the blood running through the fingers. The tape had been tight. I’d need steady hands for what was about to happen.

  I looked from Victor to the closed door and back.

  They’d had their chance.

  Now it was my turn.

  Joseph’s voice called through the door. “Come on, Victor. Not all night. Finish up with her already. We have to go.”

  I had to move quickly. Victor’s face was serene, blissful. The dose in the syringe had been powerful. Victor was far heavier than my brother, but he didn’t have my brother’s tolerance. He was gone. In another world. I leaned over his body and got his holster open. His gun was an HK45, Heckler & Koch. That would work fine. BMW, Siemens, H&K—trust the Germans to do cars or finely calibrated scientific equipment or guns better than anyone. Those Teutonic standards of perfection.

  I paused by the closet light, pulled back the slide, and checked the chamber.

  The brassy end of a .45 caliber cartridge peeked out.

  I checked the clip. Full.

  I flicked the safety off.

  I stared at the closet bulb for a few seconds. Not letting myself blink. The living room would be bright. When I opened the door, I didn’t want my eyes taking time to adjust.

  I took a breath.

  Blew it out.

  My turn.

  I opened the door.

  In the first second, I had the advantage. Both due to surprise, and because the living room was brightly lit while the darkness of the bedroom left me obscured. Across the room, someone sat in one of the armchairs behind a raised newspaper. I could make out the ornate lettering centered at the top of the front page that faced me. The San Francisco Chronicle. I couldn’t tell who was behind the paper. Just a hand holding each outside edge.

  It didn’t matter.

  I fired a single time directly through the O in Francisco. Dead center between the hands. The inside of the newspaper flecked red and the hands released their grip. The pages fluttered down. The tanned guy in the charcoal suit leaned sideways, blank open mouth showing his white teeth as if in a wide yawn. A hole where the upper bridge of his nose used to be.

  I stepped into the living room as I heard a curse and saw Joseph throw himself to the side. I sent two shots his way, cognizant of Brandon’s supine form. Both missed. Joseph rolled behind an armchair. I fired twice more into the armchair, aiming about where his head would be. Figuring maybe the big .45 rounds could get through a bit of stuffing and cheap fabric.

  I got my answer almost immediately. I lunged into the kitchen and down to the floor as a fusillade of bullets tore through the plaster wall above me. I was already crawling fast. Not wanting to stick around in the same place.

  Two more shots ripped into the floor where I’d just been.

  Lying prone, I saw a trace of arm sticking out from around the chair. I aimed carefully, letting the darkness of the arm blur into the background, the gun sight sharp in the foreground. I squeezed the trigger smoothly and was rewarded with a scream.

  I rolled away as three more bullets tore through the wall. One angled up and went through the kitchen’s overhead light. I threw my arms over my head as shattered glass rained down. I heard rushed footsteps. Gun up, I stood and peered into the living room. The front door was open. I checked behind the armchair, wary of a trick. No Joseph. There was blood on the floor. A spotted red trail led to the door. He was gone.

  I used Victor’s knife to cut the duct tape off Brandon. He was in bad shape. Three empty syringes next to him. His breaths came laboriously and his lips were blue. Spittle had dried across his mouth and his face was pale. I pulled up an eyelid. His eyes were glassy and unseeing. I pressed my fingers against his neck and felt a weak, uncertain pulse.

  A textbook overdose.

  With a prayer, I pulled open the drawer of the coffee table. The two white naloxone tubes I had brought were still there. I put one carefully up his right nostril. For the second time in five minutes I pressed a plunger.

  Brandon lurched upward, cursing, arms flailing.

  He wasn’t happy, but my brother was alive. Very much alive.

  It took me a few minutes to soothe him. When he finally quieted he looked around, taking in my blood-covered face, the bodies and the bloodstains, the bullet holes in the armchair and walls. He looked at me uncertainly. “Nik?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I think I might lose my security deposit.”

  I hugged him tightly. “You mean my security deposit, shithead.”

  35

  I used Brandon’s phone to dial a number from memory. “Jess.”

  Her voice was frightened. “Nikki, are you okay? Who were those people? What happened?”

  “I’m going to give you an address. You’ll see my brother outside. Take him to a hotel. My apartment isn’t safe. He’s going to be sick. You have to help him get through it.”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Leaving now.”

  “When you arrive, Jess, don’t come up. That’s important.”

  I gave her the address, hung up, turned to my brother. “Wait outside for her.”

  His voice was unsteady but he could stand. “What are you going to do here?”

  “You have to go, Brandon,” I said. “Now.”

  He heard my tone. He went.

  It took me a few minutes to tape up Victor. I was very thorough, cognizant of his abnormal strength. Even with bound hands and feet he would be a handful if awake. I wrapped him like a mummy, starting at his ankles, up to his trunk-like thighs, both arms cocooned down at his sides, and a nice wide strip across his mouth. I used just about the whole roll of tape. That was fine. I couldn’t think of anything else I’d need it for besides Victor.

  I burned plenty of calories dragging him from bedroom to bathroom. He was a big guy. There was a lot to drag and it was all dead weight. He didn’t even mutter as his head banged hard along the wood floor and tiles. I hauled his legs over the bathtub rim, then shoved his torso over. He flopped into the tub, his legs following, and lay there on his back, eyes staring blankly upward.

  I screwed the stopper into the drain and turned the faucet on.

  Water began to puddle against the bottom of the tub.

  I made another call. Another familiar number. Another familiar voice answered.

  “It’s Nikki. I need a favor. I’m going to give you an address. Come over, fast. And bring a car you really hate.” Even if gunshots were commonplace I didn’t want to draw things out any more than I had to. Not after what had happened. And not with what I was about to do. The sooner I was out of the apartment, the better.

  There was a brief pause and then the voice said, “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  “One more thing,” I added. “The car you bring. Make sure it has a big trunk.”

  I went into the bathroom and sat on the toilet seat, watching as the water line crept up. Thinking about Karen Li. The cabin. The water rose higher. Now it was above the back of Victor’s head, submerging his ears. Nearing his mouth and nostrils. His
eyes were still blank. He made no attempt to struggle. He looked like he was lying on silk pillows, being fanned by palm fronds. Blasted onto some other planet. Full of the weird, impenetrable bliss of heroin.

  He’d drown literally without knowing that he was underwater.

  I thought of Karen Li again. The cut on her hand. The broken pane of glass that was as close as she had gotten to escape. The bloodstained crowbar. Her shattered arm and broken face. Begging for mercy where there was none.

  I took another look at Victor. His face was serene.

  Somehow, it didn’t seem fair.

  I shut the water off.

  Went into the living room, came back, and grabbed Victor by the back of his long hair. I held his head up and shoved the second tube of naloxone up his nostril. Again, the effect was instantaneous. He thrashed around in the bathtub like some huge, hooked fish. His bound legs made loud thuds as they kicked against the tub. I was glad I had used extra tape. His desire to get out of the tub was extreme. And he was very strong.

  I made my way to the edge of the bathtub and looked down. He rolled his head around and glared up at me out of reddened, open eyes. Very much conscious. Full of the immediate sickness of withdrawal that the naloxone produced. He mumbled something around the tape. I couldn’t understand what he was saying but I got the general message. I didn’t suppose he was wishing me good things. As the exact nature of his location sunk in, the thrashing increased. His head jerked back and forth, banging hard against the sides of the bathtub. He didn’t seem to care. Water splashed onto the floor.

  “Victor,” I said.

  Somehow the mention of his name set him off again. More thrashing, more mumbling, more splashing.

  “Victor. Pay attention. Please. I’ll only talk for a moment. Then I’ll leave you alone.”

  He scowled up at me.

  “Who hired you guys, Victor?” I leaned down and ripped the tape off his mouth. Waited for him to temporarily run out of curse words.