by Merry Jones
I dangled, rump up over Derek’s shoulder, completely passive, trying to come up with an escape plan, sensing that in-action was my best choice. That, for the moment, lifelessness was my best chance at staying alive.
Joel didn’t knock Derek out and shove him into the back of the van. The person Joel shoved there was me, and he did it roughly. But lying there by myself, I was finally able to open my eyes. A red eye blinked at me. Another. Two of them, surrounded by white fur. A bunny? Yes, huddling beside me in a cage. Nibbling a carrot.
I moved my head slightly. Pain rumbled in my neck and skull, but I was able to look around. A blue blanket wound tightly around me, wrapping me like a mummy. I was wedged between the rabbit cage and magic equipment. A trunk. Boards and slats. Posters. A long, silver-and-black box, coffinlike, divided in half for sawing a body in two.
I turned my head, looked around for the saw. There had to be a saw. Or maybe a hammer, a screwdriver. Nothing.
And nothing cushioned me from bumps or ruts in the road. I bounced against the van’s hard floor, banging my already sore head. In between bumps, I tried to unwrap myself and free my arms. Squirmed. Wiggled. Realized that I’d have to sit up to unwrap the blanket. Which would mean rolling over. I swayed from side to side, rocking to build momentum. But there was nowhere, no room to roll. I kept knocking into the bunny cage and gave up.
But I couldn’t give up. Couldn’t just let them kill me. I envisioned breaking out of the van, leaping onto the street, running home. Getting ready for my dinner date as if none of this had happened.
But it had happened. And my date with Joel wasn’t going to. Thumping and bumping in the back of the van, it hit me that my life was over. Nothing I’d hoped for or planned would occur. I was going to be dead, like Charlie. Becky and Susan and Jen would pick out my coffin. I pictured them, my best friends, shopping for flowers. Selecting the clothes I’d wear at the funeral. Writing my obituary. Arguing over how to word the cause of death. “We can’t say ‘suicide,’” Jen would insist.
“Just leave it out,” Becky would sniffle. “It’s no one’s business.”
“‘Suddenly,’” Susan would suggest. “We’ll just say she died, ‘suddenly.’ That’s enough.”
And then they’d plant me in the plot of dirt beside Charlie in the cemetery, under fresh sod. I would never see another sunrise, never teach another class. Never love another man. Or even have another date. Or another dinner out. No more soft candlelight or smoky red wine. No flirtation. No seduction. I pictured Joel across the table, fire dancing in his eyes. Damn. I might have—no, definitely would have slept with him this time. Pictured his shoulders. His lips. God—what was wrong with me, fantasizing sex with a man who was about to murder me? I was an idiot, a fool. And soon, if I didn’t come up with a plan, I would be a dead idiot fool.
But on the bright side, if I were dead, I wouldn’t have to turn myself in to the police. I could see Susan, waiting at the bank, sputtering and furious that I hadn’t shown up to withdraw my bail. She’d think I’d gone on the lam. Odd expression. On the lam. On the lamb. Why did the same sound that expressed purity and innocence also describe a criminal running from the law?
And why was I delving into the oddities of the English language and dating and sex and everything except what was important? Two men were driving me somewhere to kill me.
I needed to stop dissociating.
To focus.
Okay. I lay back and closed my eyes, determined to make a plan. But when I closed my eyes, I saw Ted in the study with Charlie. Standing beside Charlie’s desk. I saw details. The chain around Ted’s neck with the big silver cross. The Chinese letters tattooed on the inside of his arm. The chip on his front tooth. The check in his hand.
“You expect me to say, ‘thank you’?” He waved the check in the air. “Okay: Thank you.” It was sarcastic.
“Get lost, Ted.” Charlie stood, walked to the bar. “And stay there.”
When had that conversation happened? I had no idea, couldn’t remember. And didn’t know why was it coming back to me now when I needed to be making an escape plan. Maybe it was the pills. Maybe they were finally working, helping me remember things. Or maybe it was the knock on the head.
But damn, if not for the pills, I could have just floated away. Escaped mentally by pulling an Elle. Instead, I tried again to shimmy out of the blanket, couldn’t. Didn’t have wiggle room. The engine was loud, hoarse. Another bump. Another hit on my head. Oh God. How could this be happening? It couldn’t be. I had to be dreaming. Derek and Joel couldn’t seriously intend to kill me.
The van lurched—hit a pothole? I flew. Landed with a harsh thud. Closed my eyes in case they turned to check on me. Wondered if the rabbit was okay. With the engine, I couldn’t hear them talking. Could barely hear Willie Nelson singing about getting on the road again.
Suddenly, after maybe ten minutes, the van stopped. The engine went off. Willie was silent.
Derek groaned. “Jesus, Joel. There are bulls that give a smoother ride than this heap of scrap. I need a chiropractor.”
“Sorry, princess. Forgot you were so delicate.”
“You said you made keys? Let me have them.”
Keys jangled. Van doors opened and closed. I heard footsteps. And Derek calling, “Okay. Bring her in.”
Even with my eyes closed, I saw light splash over me when the rear doors opened. “Let’s go, Elf.” Joel grabbed my ankles and yanked.
I didn’t make a sound or open my eyes, but Joel handled me like a side of beef. He dragged me across the floor of his van. His touch had changed, was callous and indifferent as he hefted me up onto his shoulder, the same shoulder I’d envisioned bare in my bedroom. His cologne smelled too sweet, made me sick. I inhaled, worried that my lunch might erupt all over him.
“Hey, there, sweet girl,” he cooed, almost a whisper. “Sorry about that bumpy ride.”
Thank God. Now that Derek was gone, Joel was going to help me. I opened my eyes, started to say his name. “Jo—”
But he didn’t hear me, was still talking. “Well, you must be okay. You ate your whole carrot.”
The rabbit? He had me slung over his shoulder like a sack of fertilizer and was sweet-talking the damned rabbit? He slammed the door, shifted me around on his shoulder where I bounced and swayed with his every step. His scent had overcome the cologne, become raw. Like sweat, like blood. And to think I’d been going to sleep with him.
“I didn’t think you packed much punch, Derek. But you sure KOed her. She’s still out.” Joel dumped me onto a cold, hardwood floor. I struggled not to break the fall, made no sound when I landed hard. And didn’t let on that I recognized the wood, that floor. Hell, as soon as we crossed the threshold, I recognized the air. Didn’t have to open my eyes to know I was home.
“Come on, Prince Charming, give her a kiss. Wake her up.”
“Wake her? What for?”
“So she can write a note.”
No way. I wouldn’t do it.
“You’re kidding.” Joel laughed out loud. No. It was more of a scoff. “You think we can just wake her up, like poof? She’s probably in a damned coma.”
“Nevertheless, give it a shot, will you, Joel?” Derek sounded impatient. “Just for goddamned fucking once, can you not question everything I say and simply do as I ask?” Derek’s voice rose in pitch, sounded over the edge. I imagined he was running his hand through his oiled hair. Blinking rapidly. Clenching his jaw to regain self-control. Finally, cleared his throat, spoke with forced calm. “Look. It’s better for us if there’s a note. A note makes the suicide more credible.”
Joel snorted. “Derek, think for a second. Let’s assume that I can actually wake her up—which I probably can’t. Why would she cooperate and write a suicide note? So we can get away with killing her? Forget it. She’ll tell us to fuck ourselves.”
He was right. Only I’d be less polite.
“Fine.” Derek clucked, perturbed. “All right, then. Never mind the note.
We don’t need it. Let’s just get on with it.”
Oh God. Now? They were going to kill me now?
“So where’s the forty-five?”
Forty-five?
“I don’t know. It’s around here somewhere.”
Joel cursed. “Jesus, Derek. When you said Charlie had a gun—”
Wait. Charlie had a gun?
“—I thought you knew where it was.”
A gun? In my house? Not possible—I’d never have allowed it. But then, I’d never have allowed a lot of what Charlie did. For all I knew, we had Uzis and grenades. For all I knew, we had an arsenal.
If only.
“We were in the study when I saw it—I assume it’s in there. In his desk.”
Their voices trailed off. I waited a beat, listening. Had they really left me there, unguarded and alone? I opened an eye. Another. Yes. I was alone on the wooden floor of my foyer. Wrapped in a flannel blanket.
Quickly, before they’d realized their mistake, I rolled, unraveling the fabric. Shoving it off me. Climbing onto my knees, wobbling to my feet. Aware of dizziness and pain and the need to hurry. The room was swaying, but I had to move. Heard them sniping at each other.
“Okay, genius. There’s no gun here. So where is it?”
“I swear. It was right here. In the desk—”
“But he moved out. Didn’t it occur to you that he might have taken it with him?”
Using the walls to steady myself, I started for the front door. It was just across the foyer but seemed miles away. I took a labored step on legs of oatmeal, then another. The door seemed no closer. The voices faded. I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Until suddenly, Joel came into the hallway.
“Gotta piss like a racehorse. Where is it?”
Before Derek could answer him, I was out of sight.
As Joel hunted for a toilet, I lunged for the coat closet, closed the door gently behind me, pushed through the wall of coats, cleaning bags, and jackets, tiptoed over and around the jumble of storage, and slipped into the cramped cobwebbed triangle of space at the far end, under the steps. Huddling there, I realized that I’d been spending a lot of time in closets. Too much time. This one wasn’t as comfortable as Charlie’s had been; it lacked carpeting and air. And this time, I didn’t have even a hanger to make a weapon with. Damn. Why hadn’t I grabbed one from the coat rack? Or a nine iron from the storage compartment? Or even an umbrella? I had nothing to defend myself with. Didn’t dare go back to scrounge, couldn’t risk making noise.
Crouching, panting, I waited and listened. Out in the hallway, Derek and Joel discovered my absence. They shouted at each other, panicking, searching for me. Scolding each other, casting blame.
“Damn you, Joel.” Derek was sputtering. “You said she was unconscious.”
“Don’t put this on me, Derek—you told me to look for the gun.”
“But obviously, you were supposed to secure her first. Can’t you think of anything by yourself?”
“No. Not a thing. This whole fucking thing was your—”
“Never mind culpability, Joel. Please try to stay on point. We need to take care of business. Let’s assess. She’s wounded, so she can’t have gone far. Unless—Did she manage to get outside?”
“I checked the kitchen door. Everything’s bolted from inside.”
“So she’s still in the house, somewhere. Start looking.”
“Hold on. Quiet. Let me try something.” I heard footsteps.
“What the fuck are you—”
“Derek, will you just shut up?” More footsteps on the hardwood. Then, “Elle?” It was Joel, calling out, sounding urgent and concerned. “Elle, honey. Where are you?”
Honey?
“I know you’re confused and scared. But, Derek’s gone. I think I broke his neck. So you don’t have to be afraid. It’s just me now, so come on out. You’re hurt. You need a doctor.”
The son of a bitch was trying to coax me out of hiding. Silence, as he waited for me to emerge. I huddled, listening to pathetic, transparent lies. Did he think I was stupid enough to believe him?
“Okay. I get it. You don’t trust me. But honestly, I was just playing along with Derek. Waiting for a chance to take him down. You know I could never hurt you.”
Joel walked as he called to me. The floorboards creaked under his weight. “Derek lost it. He got way over his head in some real bad business. But he’s not going to hurt you now. No one is. We need to get you to a hospital. And we—you and I—need to talk.”
His footsteps came closer. Stopped outside the closet door.
“So why don’t you come out and talk, Elf?”
Oh God. Had he figured out where I was? The closet door opened. The lightbulb came on. My chest did a drumroll. Pounded like hooves of stampeding horses. I was sure they’d hear it, feel it shaking the walls. I curled into a ball, grabbed my knees, pressed my head against them, positioned for a plane crash. Held my breath. Armloads of coats got pulled from the racks. Boxes and suitcases got yanked from the storage compartment. Joel grunted and cursed, called my name again and again, repeating that he’d never hurt me. That we still had a dinner date at La Buca.
I pressed back into the underside of the stairs. Heard the blood rushing in my head. Watched a hand—Joel’s fingers reach through shadows back into the dark space where I huddled, groping blindly, touching the floor beside my feet, tapping slowly across the space. Resting not an inch from my hip. Would he feel my body heat? My fear? Would he crawl deeper into the closet and see me?
I waited. Wondered if my chest would explode from not breathing. If I’d lose control and mess my Capris. I watched the hand as it traced the underside of the lowest step, then the second. As it followed the riser to the third, I knew it’d find me.
This time, though, I wouldn’t go down easy. This time, I’d hurt them back.
I would become my own weapon. My nails weren’t long, but they were long enough to dig. And my jaw was strong. I made fingers into claws, ready to grab Joel’s wrist, opened my mouth, prepared to clamp my teeth into his flesh.
His hand crept up the riser, felt its way across the bottom of the third step. Millimeters from my face. I ached to breathe but didn’t. Swimmers could hold their breath for minutes. Surely, I could last a few more seconds and take him by surprise. My nostrils flared, teeth ached, ready to chomp and draw blood. Ready to tear skin and rip away meat. I was no longer a helpless victim. I was a beast, a predator about to strike.
Maybe Joel sensed danger. Maybe he just gave up. Either way, he suddenly withdrew his hand and backed away. The closet door hung not quite closed, but, finally, I drew in air. Closed my mouth. Relaxed my talons. Felt like heaving. Didn’t dare. Didn’t even move.
I don’t know how long they kept looking for me—an hour? Two? But my back was cramped and legs numb from crouching. I heard them arguing, slamming doors. I felt the stairs shake over me as they stomped up stairs and down. Pictured them opening cabinets and closets, tearing apart the attic, the basement.
Several times, I heard my cell phone ringing just a few feet away in the foyer. Once, I heard the doorbell ring. Becky, probably. Maybe Susan or Jen.
I sat in the darkness until, hearing no sounds, I dared to straighten out my legs, gently, slowly, letting them lengthen into the cubby. I bumped some shoes and boxes, and knocked an umbrella, which fell against the wall. I froze, expecting the door to fly open and Derek or Joel to drag me out. But the door didn’t open. I waited, listened. Wondered if they were still in the house. If they’d heard the thump.
The numbness in my legs became pins and needles. Sharp, painful. I shifted my weight. Heard nothing.
My head ached. Whole body hurt. How long was I supposed to cower in the closet? How long would they wait in the house? Hours? All night? Into the morning?
My stomach growled. The doorbell rang again. And cobwebs tickled my neck. My skull throbbed. I closed my eyes, let go of a tear.
“No, don’t cry, Elf.”
Charlie? Really? He hadn’t talked to me since I’d told him to go away and be dead.
“Charlie.” Thank God. I wiped tears away with the back of my arm.
“I’ve been thinking, Elle. You had every reason to tell me to get lost. I’m sorry. This is all my fault.”
Yes. It was.
“At least I got him out of here.”
“You? How?”
“I told Joel that you weren’t back here. He thought it was his own thoughts. But it was me. I’m finding I can do all kinds of things. Like suggest ideas.”
Really? Had he suggested ideas to me?
“That’s how I bought you some time to hide. I wanted them to leave you alone, so I told Derek that the gun was in my desk.”
The gun? “What gun, Charlie?” He wasn’t making it easy for me to be grateful. “You had a gun? Here, in the house?”
“Elf. Can we please not fight? I just saved your life.”
I knew that he wasn’t actually there. That I was alone in the dark. Hallucinating. Nonetheless, I had to ask.
“Saved my life?” Was he claiming to be a hero? One minute apologizing, the next wanting credit. Would he never stop twisting the truth?
“Yes, of course I saved you. I love you, Elle.”
“You love me.”
“Always and forever.”
God, he was good. Convincing. I wanted to throttle him. “That’s nice, Charlie. You love me forever.” Sherry McBride came to mind. Not dead. Taunting me at the viewing. “Why would she do that, Charlie?”
“Oh, come on, Elle.” He sounded beaten. Persecuted. “We’ve been over that a hundred times.”
We had?
“I’ve told you—”