Castle Danger--The Mental States

by Anthony Neil Smith

  He was coasting on fumes by the time he made it back to the cottage, of course finding my car there, exactly where he’d last seen it parked. He tried the front door knob. Locked. I’d forgotten to give him a key. He had one for the townhouse, but it never occurred to me that he would need one for the cottage. He circled to the back deck, tried the door there, but that was also locked. He looked through the windows, saw nothing out of the ordinary, which was kinda out of the ordinary. He had expected to see me in some form, hopefully alive.

  So around back again. Slammed into the door with his shoulder three, four, five times until it gave and he stumbled inside, out of breath and strength, and fell onto the floor. Beast Mode indeed.

  The idea of hidden cameras never once crossed his mind.

  Tennyson and Marquette now knew exactly where he was, and probably how much he knew.

  He searched the cottage up and down, realizing pretty quickly that something was wrong. He couldn’t quite put it together that I’d been kidnapped, but he wasn’t far off figuring it out. After all, I hadn’t shown up when and where I was supposed to. I’d left the car. And there were no clues in the cottage as to where I might’ve gone.

  Shit.

  He sat on the edge of my coffee table and gave it a good think.

  I’m sorry to say it, but that hadn’t helped us a great deal in the past, and if Joel was one thing it was consistent.

  After a few more clueless moments, he sighed, shook his head, and started looking for the keys to the rental.

  No chance of finding them either, though. One of the goons who’d manhandled me into the car had then put them in his jeans pocket, those bad boys were now as far beyond him as Plan Beast Mode. So much for just going at the gate like a bull.

  Time for more thinky. Joel bit his lip, trying to decide if he should make a call.

  Robin was out, too far away. She’d been staying with him in the Cities during the campaign, driving back and forth, four-hour round trip each time. More importantly, though, he was beginning to see a future for the two of them, and after getting her tazed the last time he’d asked for her help, Joel didn’t want her anywhere near this hot potato.

  That left … Obie.

  His younger brother might as well have lived on a different planet. They barely spoke the same language. Obie was one of those teenagers with a permanent crick in the neck, so as to better accommodate the smart phone viewing wherever he went, if he went anywhere other than to some other screen, which seemed to be illuminating him in a neon glow 24/7. Kind of like Borg, these kids. Shrugs, murmurs, monosyllabic answers. If Joel thought his generation of tough guys was the silent but determined type, this next wave was flat out mute. Mute and distracted.

  But at least they shared a mutual disdain for their father, and Joel had just bought the kid a truck, so surely he was due a little favor. Little. Ha!

  He dialed Obie’s number.

  A couple rings. Another couple.

  He wondered if the boy had lost his voice entirely. Maybe he should have texted.

  Then someone picked up. “Hello?”

  Not Obie.

  Dad.

  For fuck’s sake.

  “Obie there?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Want to talk to Obie.”

  Sigh. “Obie’s being punished right now. No phone privileges.”

  Joel thought, but of course you had to answer it for him, probably right in front of him, probably giving him a stern look as we speak, probably with a secret hard-on, you pathetic little proto-fascist with your hunting trophies and your flash cars and your hands down the pants of every goddamned Trump voter you’ve ever …

  “Is this Joel?”

  He hadn’t talked to his dad in a long time. Hardly at all since he’d been tossed from the force and ruined the family name even further by escaping attempted murder charges with what everyone assumed was a brazen lie. After the Chief had killed himself — or so Joel had claimed — his dad had demanded to know his role in all of this. But Joel hadn’t answered the man’s calls. Not once. To this day.

  “Yeah. Let me talk to him.”

  Suddenly his dad’s voice sounded like he was auditioning for the part of small-town judge in a John Steinbeck novel. “Punishment is punishment. Not even his brother.”

  “Jesus, what is it with you? Been reading the Old Testament again, father Abraham?”

  “You want to talk to him? Come see him. He’s grounded. He’s not going anywhere.”

  Neither am I. “I’m not going to argue with you. But give the kid his phone and stop acting like Father of The Year, because you’re not in the running.”

  Whatever the man really wanted to say, Joel could tell he was keeping it gated. Instead, “Son, we need to talk.”

  “Let me talk to Obie.”

  “Did you not hear me? We can’t let it go on like this.”

  Joel closed his eyes. He didn’t have time for any amateur theatrics. “I need a ride.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I need a ride. I’m in Castle Danger and I need a ride back to the Cities. Tell Obie to come pick me up.”

  “Why do you need a—”

  “Please? Can you just tell him to come get me? I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

  “Son—”

  “Tell him.” He rattled off the address and hung up. But of course his phone immediately rang again. Of course.

  Joel let it ring. He sat still, a little hunched over with his elbows on his knees, hands steepled in front of his mouth. In Iraq, stillness was a virtue. Finally, a transferrable skill to this minefield of a civilian life.

  The drive from Duluth to Castle Danger takes about forty minutes, give or take a few for traffic and weather. Joel waited through it all, hoping his dad would let Opie come. Failing that, he would need to call a taxi and use his campaign card.

  Not that this occurred to him at the time, but he would have been lucky had the damned thing still worked, considering the campaign had him dead to rights in my cabin.

  Or would they let him keep using it? Let him walk into their trap instead of letting him know that they knew?

  Didn’t matter, because forty-eight minutes after Joel made the call, his ride arrived.

  Not Opie. Instead, his father, Abraham Skovgaard, looked out at him from behind the steering wheel of his latest leased luxury vehicle — this time, an Infiniti.

  It was almost enough to make Joel call for that taxi. But no, not now. The man was here, doing his fatherly duty when he didn’t have to, and Joel needed the ride. If an awkward conversation was the price, he’d just have to pay it. Still a better bargain than walking.

  He climbed into the car, the full-blast heat instantly drying the sweat and mist from his body. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “What is this place?”

  Joel pointed ahead. “That’s Manny’s cabin. Manny’s not here.” Then he pointed a short distance to the left. “That’s Neudecker’s cabin. That’s where he shot himself.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I watched him do it.”

  “I’m … I’m sorry, son.”

  “I’m running short on time. Can we go?”

  It was quiet at first. An easy ride down Highway 61, past Two Harbors to the bypass, speeding at seventy all the way.

  Then Dad couldn’t help himself, and Joel couldn’t blame him.

  “Opie, his grades, his attitude, and he wants to quit the team. You know, something had to give. I had to get his attention.”

  “He doesn’t want to play anymore.”

  “Sometimes we have to do what we don’t want in order to get where we want to be in life.”

  “He hates basketball. You made him play, forced him to practice. He hates it. He hates you for it.”

  “That’s a stretch.”

  “Not one bit.”

  “I don’t care what war you’ve been to, what you got tangled up in with the Chief, you still don’t get to tell me how to be a father. I d
on’t want him to end up like you.”

  “We can pull over right here.” Joel reached for the door handle.

  “Stop that!”

  “Seriously, I’ll do it without you slowing down.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m sorry, okay? Please.”

  Joel rested his hands on his lap. “I’m not a captive audience. You don’t get to lecture me anymore.”

  Abe gripped the wheel tighter. White knuckles. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I still don’t know. I just wanted to raise my boys to be real men.”

  “Real men? Or men like you? So, tell me? Grandpa treat you like a regiment man the way you treated us?”

  “Worse.” A pause. A swallow. Low and quiet, “He beat me.”

  Joel nodded and stared out the window. What could he say? Was that supposed to excuse it all? True, Abe had never beaten or spanked his children. But it was also true that he had made them wish he had done, rather than spend their formative years pushing them to become what he wanted them to, instead of listening, encouraging, helping. A spanking now and then, as far as Joel was concerned, that was nothing compared to being reminded on a daily basis that Abe’s way was the only way, and that all of Joel’s dreams, hobbies, even the type of women he liked, were all wrong wrong wrong.

  “A real man doesn’t take shit.”

  The fucking irony. All he had given Joel was shit.

  And once:

  “Don’t let a woman trap you. Don’t get her pregnant. There’s plenty of pussy out there. You keep your eyes on the prize, get yourself a high-quality bitch when the time is right.”

  Joel winced the first time he heard it. He was fifteen. It was part of ‘the talk’, and Joel realized two things: One, Dad was the one who had gotten trapped. And two, Dad actually thought Joel was already fucking his fifteen-year-old girlfriend, even though they’d only just gotten around to the kissing part.

  What a jackass.

  “Dad …” Joel tried to stop himself, but it was too late. “You deserved those beatings.”

  Even Joel knew it was uncalled for the moment he heard his own verdict.

  Dad shook his head. “Nice, son. Real nice. You really do hate me that much. I gave you kids everything I could. I sacrificed. I worked harder than I had to. But fine, whatever. So what if you lived off me all those years. So what if I helped you get on with the police. So what if you couldn’t have gotten where you are in politics without me. Fine.”

  “Dad—”

  “No, that’s fine. We both know the truth. They say perspective is truth, so I can’t argue with you. Looks like you grew up just the way I wanted. You don’t take shit from no one.” He smiled. “That’s a good boy.”

  Joel didn’t respond.

  “And Obie, well, he’s twice the man you are. And your sister is more man than the both of you. You know why? Because at least she acknowledges me … and what I’ve done for her. That’s called respect. Thought they would teach you that in the Marines. Did it ever come up? Respect?”

  Thankfully they were not that far from Duluth now. Joel grabbed the wheel with his left hand and yanked hard to the left, on to the shoulder, forcing his dad to slow down, come to a stop. He wasn’t even strong enough to wrest control back with two hands against Joel’s one. Once they were at a standstill, Joel opened the door.

  “Thanks for the ride.”

  He got out, slammed the door, and walked off into the woods.

  2

  The RV wouldn’t stay still. In between my … violations, I would collapse onto the couch or the floor, too weak and sore to move. But then I felt the engine rumble to life, felt the nauseating rocking of the soft suspension as we rolled out of the woods and back onto the road into the hills, as far as I could tell.

  What were the odds of anyone finding me now? A rolling torture chamber. A mobile Grand Guignol theater. I giggled at my own joke. I had to. What else could I do? Give up and die? Not if I could help it.

  And thank God for little mercies. The Mistress in charge of keeping me on track had taken a break after the last song — “Heaven’s on Fire” by KISS — and I hadn’t seen her for a good ten minutes.

  Of course, I started looking for a way out.

  I didn’t know how to pick the padlock around my neck, but I could probably loosen the plate on the floor linking to my chain. I mean, these RVs aren’t made of the sturdiest material … just flimsy fiberglass or particle board, right?

  Then again, surely they would’ve thought of that security risk. I scuttled over to the plate on the floor. It wasn’t held by simple screws or bolts. It almost looked as if it had been riveted into place. Probably held tight by another steel plate under the floor. Shit.

  SHIT!

  The scuttling hurt. Blinking hurt. Taking a few practice pulls on the chain to see if the plate would move, that really hurt. And it took my breath away. To the point where I almost passed out.

  The swaying of the RV didn’t help, just made my stomach lurch. I had to focus on my breathing or I would end up puking all over the place. The thought alone was enough to get sick in my mouth. Swallowed it. I didn’t want to find out what the punishment for that was.

  In a normal RV, I would’ve been able to see outside, see the driver, see from the back-bedroom door all the way down the road, but it had been walled off on all sides. If not for the camera and computer, both beyond my reach, it would’ve felt like a coffin.

  Sigh. Me and my gift for hyperbole.

  I meant a coffin large enough to stand in while being tortured by a sadistic transwoman in-between singing 80s new wave songs. In a bikini. I looked at my thighs. Bruised, cut, blood dried on the pale skin. A concentrated throbbing in my skimpy Lycra panties. My head throbbing just as hard. My feet, blistered from the high-heeled stripper shoes. Acid forcing its way into my esophagus. My throat scratchy from trying and failing to hit the high notes … along with the screaming when I failed, again.

  At least the sick sex show was finally over.

  Although, a churning in the depth of my gut told me it probably wasn’t.

  Someone had to have been watching me, and even now that the monitor was blank, I imagined the camera was still feeding to that creepy someone … Strange people in strange rooms doing strange things to themselves, as I became a stranger even to myself. And yet still not much of a poet, clearly.

  There was nothing I could do.

  No escape.

  When the RV stopped, it would be back to the show. I would stand before the mike, singing badly, but hoping not to incur the wrath of Miss Maria Grace and whatever toy she’d modified into a weapon. Grip that dreaded mike stand for support and-

  -my mind skipped back in time. RUN-DMC and Aerosmith. MTV.

  I closed my eyes and thought it through. It could work. It could. But I’d only get one shot at it.

  I crawled back to the couch and lay across it, very still, trying to get my strength up.

  Miss Maria Grace slapped me awake. I had somehow managed to drift off despite the pain and fear. Ten minutes? Twenty?

  “One minute to get yourself in place, bitch.”

  I took a deep breath. Pushed myself off the couch and got hold of the mike stand, both hands clasped around the hard metal tube. The music started, the karaoke screen lit up, and “Love Plus One” from Haircut 100 was ready for mangling.

  I did my best. Took a deep breath. Flexed my fingers. Tested the weight of the mike stand. Heavy. Shit, could I even lift it in my current state?

  It was either that or risk more abuse, more rape, more suffering with every blown lyric or flat note.

  But this time I sang my own lyrics: “Miss Maria Grace, Fuck You!”

  She came at me with a sawed-off broom handle that looked stained with blood and … something else.

  This time, though, I didn’t cower, didn’t back off, didn’t even cover my head. Instead, I got hold of that mike stand like a young Steven Tyler, lifted the base and slammed it into Miss Maria Grace, knocking her down, sending the sti
ck rattling across the floor.

  Lifted the base high over my head and slammed it down on her fingers, as she tried to shield her face. And still she wouldn’t stay down. She was stronger than I anticipated, and it was costing me time. I took a sharp breath, gripped the metal harder and slammed until she curled her hands, screaming, and I landed a few shots to her face. She raised her forearms and I landed the mike stand on her chest. Leaned on it and pressed down hard.

  “The key!”

  “Fuck no!”

  Put all my weight on her chest, until I heard a rib crack.

  “Give me the goddamned key!”

  She coughed, sputtered, shook.

  But despite the ruckus, no one came to her rescue. Finally, a reason to enjoy that godawful music. Her team of torturers hadn’t heard that I’d turned the tables. For now. But as soon as the music died down, they’d come crashing through the door, pull me off her, and … and give me abuse the like of which even I had never … Jesus, I was running out of time, out of options, out of sympathy for this, this rapist.

  I did what I never imagined I would have the desperation or even strength to do …

  I slammed the mike stand on Miss Maria Grace’s head, slammed it down again and again and again, until her skull cracked like a bowling ball dropped on concrete. And then I slammed the metal base down one more time to make abso-fucking-lutely sure she was dead.

  The sight of her crushed head will haunt me, it sure will. It already does. More often than you can ever know.

  But this was life or death.

  My life, her death.

  Like in war.

  The fear of dying can push us to do the unthinkable.

  Despite gagging at what I’d done to her, the body in spasms as her spark went out, I dropped to my knees — hurry, hurry — and searched her for the key to my padlock.

  What if she doesn’t have it?

  What if the driver has it, just in case something like this were to happen?

  What …

  There. Right inside the lip of her left boot, tied with ribbon.

  A noise right outside the door. The music had come to a stop, and someone was scuttling around the RV. I could hear the shouting, the scraping. Someone was going to be coming through one of the doors soon, and Miss Maria Grace would be right. I’d be sorry. Very, very sorry.