by Meany, John
SAVE ME
A
NOVEL
BY
JOHN MEANY
©Copyright 2014 by John Meany.
All rights reserved.
Amazon Kindle Edition.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
PART ONE
BLINDSIDED
CHAPTER 1
October 17, 2003
Crown Jewel Shopping Center
Wichita, N.J.
9:26 P.M.
Did they plan to murder her?
That was the critical question.
Trying not to cry, twenty-three-year-old Ashley Ferguson lay helplessly on the large grass field, praying that she would survive this terrifying ordeal. The night was breezy, cold and from her point of view, the lampposts at the distant shopping center resembled silver raindrops. Overhead, the thick cloud cover masked the moon and stars.
“My baby!” Ashley pleaded, unable to move because her hands and legs were pinned to the ground. “Please. This will be my first child. If something were to happen-” Though barely noticeable, she was pregnant.
“Are you deaf?” one of the men that had abducted Ashley snapped. “We told you we don’t want to hear about your kid. If you’re looking for sympathy, you’re not gonna get it. So hush!”
“I doubt she’s pregnant anyway,” the other guy said, while shaking his head. “If you ask me I think she’s making it up hoping that we‘ll let her go.”
“You might be right.”
“I can almost guarantee I am. Though I will give her points for being original.”
“Yeah. Me too. I definitely didn‘t expect to hear her say that.”
Drifting in out of shock, Ashley struggled to remain calm. With the moon camouflaged by the overcast sky, she could not see her assailant’s faces. The two perpetrators hovered over her like evil shadow people.
Fifteen miles west of Atlantic City, the suburb Wichita, New Jersey was where Ashley had lived her entire life. Up until now, she had never considered this town dangerous.
Twenty minutes before, after she had left her part-time job at the BVX pharmacy, these lunatics, who reeked of beer and cigarettes, had ambushed Ashley as she prepared to get in her car.
Her white Mustang had been parked on the side of the brick building, where the lot had been practically empty. One of the men had seized her designer handbag, tearing it from her shoulder. The other slapped Ashley hard across the temple, rendering her unconscious.
She did not remember being taken hostage.
Once she revived, Ashley estimated that she had been carried about one hundred yards away from the strip mall. From this vantage point, all Ashley could distinguish, other than the lights in the parking lot and an occasional vehicle, were the red neon signs that marked the Exit doors to the Crown Jewel Supermarket, Blockbuster Video, Footlocker, Radio Shack, Tony‘s Pizza, and BVX. She could also see the outline of the green dumpsters.
Now the guy who warned Ashley not to complain kissed her on the forehead. “Ummmmmmn! Didn’t that feel nice? And that time I was a gentle just like a gentleman ought to be.”
“Please!” she begged again. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Chickadee, did anyone ever tell you that you nag like an underappreciated housewife? It’s so annoying. That attitude has to go.”
Dressed in a yellow blouse, slacks, and low high-heels, Ashley, with her blonde tresses, had an unmistakable Marilyn Monroe quality. Presently her shirt was torn open, exposing her bra. The grass beneath her was damp and muddy. “Forgive me,” she apologized. “I’m not trying to cause problems.”
“You’re not?”
“No. I swear.”
“Then stop being so difficult,” the man with the beard advised. Ashley knew this perpetrator had facial hair, because when he had nuzzled her neck she had felt the bristly whiskers. This individual also had a chillingly deep voice, like an insane Barry White.
In terms of injuries, aside from a black eye, something was wrong with Ashley’s leg. It felt either sprained or broken. What she did not realize, initially, when she’d been accosted, her knee and ankle had had a head-on collision with the car door.
In the movies or on TV, a woman in Ashley’s predicament might try to do something heroic, like employ a self-defense tactic. However, not only did she not know any karate moves, she decided that if she fought it would likely make matters worse. For all she knew her attackers may have had a gun or a knife. Ashley had made up her mind that she would simply lay there, hoping that if she did sooner or later these people might let her go.
Ashley tried to think back to when she’d been working, to remember if there had been any suspicious characters hanging around the drugstore. She had arrived at BVX at three o’clock and throughout her busy shift, had chatted periodically with her coworker Peggy Stein, but didn’t recall seeing any devious patrons that had caused her to do a double take.
Later, before punching out, Ashley had helped Madeline Tate, a regular customer, pick out a birthday card for her granddaughter Tabitha. Eventually they found a Hallmark that had been both funny and heartfelt with an adorable cartoon of a kitten on the front.
Customers loved that about Ashley, how she frequently went out of her way to be polite. Always said hello with a smile. Or how she kept a tiny cup of pennies and nickels near the register in case someone didn’t want to break an extra dollar.
Ashley had been employed at the pharmacy for two years, but had aspirations of one day making it as a serious artist. Painting was her true passion. Ashley derived tremendous pleasure in bringing, with acrylic or oil paints, canvases to life. For now, before that dream of becoming the next Picasso or Monet became a reality, she had to do whatever it took to make an honest living.
“Car key girl, where you from?” the other man asked, while calmly putting his belt back on. The metal buckle rattled a distinctive Chink! Chink!
Ashley did not respond. She did not understand why it mattered where she was from.
“My boy here asked you a question,” the offender with the beard grumbled, finally releasing the grip he had on Ashley‘s hands and legs. “So I suggest you answer.” He opened a can of Coors Light. The snapping sound echoed faintly in the nearby woods.
“I’m from . . . here.”
“From Wichita?”
“Yes,” Ashley croaked tentatively, pushing her limp bangs away from her face.
“What were you doing when we caught up with you?”
“I . . . ah. . .”
The shadowy figure with the deep voice put the tip of his boot on Ashley’s pocketbook; the pink bag lay on the turf near her arm. “Were you buying goodies for Halloween? Is that what you have in your purse?”
“Yo bro,” the other offender interrupted. “When
is Halloween anyway?”
“In two weeks.”
“That’s sooner than I thought.”
“It sure is, Stump. You’d better go out and buy a pair of vampire fangs so we can go trick or treating.”
“You’re right. Remind me to do that tomorrow when we stop at Wal-Mart.”
This assault, to Ashley seemed to be more about control and power, and wanting to humiliate her, than it had to do with sex. The more she listened to these people talk, the more she became convinced that had she been someone else walking to her car, these psychopaths still would have raped her.
Now the clean-shaven villain leaned down and grabbed a handful of Ashley’s flaxen hair, and then raised her head up. “Toots, we want to know what you were doing at the shopping center, you comprende English?”
In a sorrowful voice Ashley nervously replied, “I work there.”
“Oh yeah, where at, Blockbuster?”
“No. At the drugstore.”
“Well, well, well, so Oprah’s Homecoming Queen makes a living at BVX.”
“Apparently so.”
“What do you do at the five and ten, darling, stand there looking pretty?”
“I work at the . . . cash register.” Obviously, Ashley had not wanted to divulge that personal information. Yet, she was too frightened not to.
The guy standing up chuckled. “So she’s a change robot. I admire your honesty, Britney.”
“You think she looks like Britney Spears?”
“Kind of.”
“I don’t know. Let‘s see.” The perpetrator with the beard, who seemed to be the leader, flicked a Bic lighter near Ashley’s face. “Nah. I think she looks more like, Christina Aguilera.”
In the neighboring pine forest, the chilly breeze rustled a pile of autumn leaves. Some were crisply strewn across the field, which in either direction, stretched for several miles.
“Whatever dawg. With the long blonde hair, it’s basically the same thing.”
“Hey, don’t insult my girlfriend. Didn’t you hear her, we’re expecting? Show some respect.”
“Oh that’s right. Forgive my ignorance.”
As the nippy wind continued to push leaves around, Ashley whispered, “Please mister, can you let me button my blouse? I’m so cold!” And she was. She was shivering uncontrollably. Since it had been warmer earlier, Ashley had not bothered to bring a jacket.
“Did you hear that, Britney’s cold?”
“Too bad. My nose is too big for my face, but you don‘t hear me complaining.”
In the sky, floating over the treetops, they could see smoke. Ashley decided it must have been coming from a chimney. Now, the leader attempted to give her a sip of beer.
“I don’t want any!” Ashley protested, refusing to open her mouth. For the past few minutes, she’d been laying on her side. The offender who was down on his knees rolled her onto her back.
“Homie, if she doesn’t want any,” the other guy griped, “don’t force her to drink it. I told you before; we’re running low. If you don’t want that beer, I’ll take it.”
“And I told you, Stump, you’ve had enough.”
“No you didn’t. You said I had enough whiskey. And maybe I did. But since we don’t have anymore of that, I’m gonna need more suds. We only have four cans left and that’s cutting it close.”
Feeling the icy Coors Light pressed against her quivering lips, Ashley uttered, “Please sir, don’t force me drink this. I can’t have beer while I’m pregnant.”
The leader put the cold can down. Then he again sparked the lighter in front of Ashley‘s startled eyes. “Okay. Then you don’t have to drink it. So tell me, who’s the proud papa?”
Ashley flinched. “Why do you keep torturing me?” she demanded, pushing the hot flame away. “Now that you’ve got what you wanted, why don’t you just leave me be?”
“Oh, she’s a fighter all right,” the evildoer on his feet, scoffed. “If I was in her position, I don’t think I’d have the guts to say that.”
Although she was softly weeping, Ashley wished she could roll her shivering body up into a tight ball and cry the way a person sometimes needed to cry when a problematical situation grew to be overwhelming.
From the corner of her eye, she saw traffic exiting the shopping center. At this hour the only businesses open were the supermarket and the pizza place. There was a Seven-Eleven up the highway, so perhaps Ashley reflected; a police officer might be in the vicinity. Occasionally the cops did a sweep around the strip mall, to deter skateboarders or to try to catch adolescents partying.
Suddenly the perpetrator standing withdrew a roll of duct tape from the pocket of his grungy blue jeans. “Dawg. It’s time to tie her up.”
“Yeah. Sure. We’ll do that in a minute. First, I want Christina to tell us who the Daddy is.”
The baby’s daddy. Oh, wow! The thought triggered many fond memories in Ashley’s mind. If only the baby’s daddy was here now, he would chase these villains away. He would never let anything bad happen to Ashley. He loved her. The baby’s daddy loved Ashley more than anyone had ever loved her, other than maybe her mother and father.
PART TWO
STORY BACK HOME
CHAPTER 2
It was roughly three months ago, when Ashley had told her husband the exciting news about her being pregnant.
Peter Ferguson, a commercial window washer, had just returned home from work.
“Me a daddy?” In his hat and stained coveralls, Peter had gone over to the kitchen sink to get a glass of water. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I went to see Dr. Colbert this afternoon. It turns out the home pregnancy test is right.”
To pay tribute to the joyful event, Ashley had cooked her husband’s favorite meal, southern deep-fried chicken, steamed broccoli and cauliflower, with mashed potatoes and gravy. The delectable aroma of the hot dinner rivaled that of any esteemed restaurant.
“A baby. Do you realize how much this is going to change our lives?”
“I do. And hopefully for the better.”
“Come here you.”
They hugged and kissed.
The pregnancy wasn’t exactly planned. Although Ashley and Peter hadn’t been against the idea either. Deeply in love since high school, there didn’t seem to be a more logical way to strengthen their bond than by starting a family.
“I love you honey. I love you so much.”
“And I love you,” Peter uttered sweetly, with his arms wrapped around Ashley’s tiny hourglass waist.
She beamed, went in for another kiss. “So what are you hoping for a boy or a girl?”
“It doesn’t matter. Either would be fine.”
“That’s how I feel. Oh, Peter. I’m so happy.”
“Me too.”
“I can’t believe this is happening. I feel like I‘m dreaming. But can we afford a child? That’s the only thing that worries me.”
“Well, it won’t be easy,” he admitted, strolling over to the stove to have a look at dinner. With the aid of an oven mitt, Peter removed the stainless steel lid from the pot of steaming gravy. “We can manage though. I can ask Norm to give me some overtime. If I tell him that you‘re pregnant, I’m sure he’d give me the extra hours. Plus, if it became necessary, I could always sell my Chevy.”
“No dear! That car is a classic. I wouldn’t want you to have to do that.”
“Why, what difference would it make? Norm picks me up in morning. And every time we go somewhere, we usually use your car.”
From the cupboard, Ashley took out a couple of plates. They clinked and clanked.
“I still wouldn’t want you to have to get rid of it.”
With his short, copper-brown hair, and tall, broad-shouldered build, Peter was not only handsome; he was also responsible. Each paycheck he earned, he put toward their expenses. He never surrendered to temptation. Whenever a desire to spend his money on other things arose, he would pro
mptly head to the bank and deposit his income. Peter’s window washer job paid a decent salary, $15.00 an hour. The problem was he and Ashley had made a few bad financial investments and had gotten deep into credit card debt, which had been taking them seemingly forever to pay off.
“And before the baby is born,” he added, “we’re going to have to find another place to live. This one bedroom house won’t be big enough.”
They sat down at the table. Using a long wooden spoon, Ashley began to divvy out the potatoes.
“We could always move in with my mother,” she suggested, smiling. “At least for a while until we get ahead.” Claire Whittaker lived a half mile away at the same residence where Ashley grew up.
“No!” Peter objected, reaching for the boat of gravy. “I couldn’t handle that.”
“Why? My mom already said she’d love to have us.” At times, for Ashley, being raised without a father had been tough, especially when her peers would boast about how wonderful their dads were. When she was eight, she had lost her father Walter, a notorious hard drinker, to cirrhosis of the liver. However, Ashley, who did not have any siblings, had not been deprived. Her mother had done her best to give her a happy childhood.
Any pet Ashley had wanted like her Jack Russell terrier Brady; her many cats, parakeets, without arguing, her mother had always allowed her to have them. Throughout her youth, Ashley also had an abundance of art supplies, so that she could paint whenever she pleased. The strong emotional connection, a child requires from a caretaker had been there for her as well.
“Ash, I know you mean well,” Peter said, now biting into a crispy drumstick. “But the reason why I left home at eighteen was because I didn’t want to live by other people’s rules.”