Taken

by Chris Jordan

  Weaving through the confusion I’ve created, I cut into the intersection, get my lane and remember to use the turn signal for our street, good old Linden Terrace, coming up quickly on the left. Actually a cul-de-sac with a turnaround at the end, which cuts down on the through traffic and probably adds ten grand to the evaluation of all the homes there. Well worth it, we all agree. Not that I care about property taxes right now. Not with Tommy filling my head.

  Almost there. Almost home. Third from the end. The big, cedar-shingled Cape-style beauty behind the two massive maples that have taken over the front lawn. One full acre, with commonly held woodlands behind. There’s a separate three-car garage, also shingled, which came in handy when I was starting up the catering business. It was the big garage that first sold Ted on the place. You never know when it might come in handy, he’d said. He was thinking “boat,” but for a while it held stacks of folding tables and chairs, crates of crockery. Totally against the local zoning laws, of course—no business activity allowed, not even storage—but my neighbors took pity on the young widow and looked the other way until I could afford to rent a proper warehouse. Much appreciated, that quiet act of kindness. Sometimes looking the other way is just what the doctor ordered. Better than casseroles left on the step or offers to babysit. Give her time, they must have urged each other, and now the garage was just a garage again and Tommy is eleven years old and giving his mother fits.

  Leaving the van in the driveway, I bound up the breezeway steps, kick the screen door open and approach the inner door with key in hand. Because we always lock up and activate the alarm. Nice neighborhood, but still. Bridgeport is a mere three miles down the road, and in Bridgeport they have gangs and drugs and crime that sometimes manages to seep into suburban Fairfax. So we lock.

  But the door is unlocked and the alarm isn’t sounding. And that can mean only one thing. I’m already heaving a sigh of relief as I enter the kitchen area.

  “Tommy?” I call out. “Tommy! I was worried sick! What were you thinking?”

  No response. Pretending he can’t hear me. Pretending he didn’t do anything wrong. Ready with a facile fib about how he did so tell me he was getting a ride home and it must have slipped my mind. Early-’zeimers, Mom. You’re losing it.

  “Tommy?”

  The TV is on in the family room. Low but audible. A Sony PlayStation game. It will be Tenchu: Wrath of Heaven, his current favorite, or maybe the new Tomb Raider. But game or not, the little scamp can hear me fine. And now he’s starting to piss me off. He should be here in the kitchen, ready with an apology, however lame.

  “Tommy! Turn off the TV!”

  I march into the family room, expecting to see my son perched in front of the big-screen TV, manipulating the controls of his precious PlayStation.

  But Tommy isn’t there.

  “Hello, Mrs. Bickford. Take a seat, would you, please?”

  There’s a man in my brown leather chair. He has Tommy’s video-game control box on his knee, working the joystick with his left hand. His face is obscured by a black ski mask.

  In his right hand is a pistol, and he’s aiming it at me.

  3

  olly-olly-entry

  There are only five rooms in the house, not counting the basement, and Lyla searches all of them. Each room, and the basement, too, looking for Jesse. The boy must be playing hide-and-seek. A game he loved when he was five, only a little less so now that he’s reached the advanced age of eleven, when boys are usually past wanting to play with their mothers.

  Her Jesse is an exception. He’s an athletic kid, fit and lean and tall for his age, but in some respects he’s still Momma’s little boy. Any moment now he’ll leap out of a closet, or out from under the stairwell, with a gleeful boo! and her hands will fly to her heart.

  You scared me, dear!

  He’ll kill himself laughing, holding his tummy, bent over from the sheer joy of it.

  Oh, Mom, you’re such a wuss!

  That she is; from the first day that she held his tiny body, all she’s ever done is worry. Worry, worry, worry, morning, noon and night, until it makes her dizzy with anxiety. Worry that he’ll wander into the swimming pool and drown—not that they have a pool, thank God. Worry that he’ll tumble down the stairs where he likes to play mountain climber. Worry that he’ll fall from his bicycle, or worse, that he’ll be stolen by a child snatcher who looks, in her waking nightmares, like Freddy Krueger.

  She reminds herself that there are no Freddy Kruegers in the real world, certainly not in boring old New London, Connecticut. And that Jesse has fallen on the stairs more than once and received nothing more dangerous than a bruise or two. Took a wild spill from his bike, for that matter, and wore the scabs on his knees like badges of honor, no tears and no complaints. He’s a sturdy boy, her Jesse, heals quickly. Healthy as a horse, unlike his doting mom, who suffers from a variety of infirmities, not the least of which is a background hum of fear that never leaves her, not even when she’s sleeping.

  Fear of the world, her husband, Stephen, calls it, but it’s more like fear of all the bad things waiting to ruin the lives of good people. Sensible fears, if you read the papers or listen to the news. Toilets falling from airplanes, crushing the innocent. Drive-by shootings. Mysterious diseases. Planes full of madmen crashing into skyscrapers. Fear is the reasonable reaction, is it not?

  “Jesse? Hide-and-seek is over, honey. Olly-olly-entry!”

  Silence in all the five rooms of her home. Silence from the basement, too.

  Where is that boy? Must be in his room, hiding under the bed with all that dangerous dust and mold. Bad for his respiratory system, so they say, and Lyla believes it, as she believes every warning of impending disaster. Inhale too much dust and your child will develop asthma. Eat too much peanut butter, he’ll develop allergies. She tries to warn him about such things, but he’s just a boy and believes he’ll live forever.

  “Jesse? Come out, dear. Supper’s almost ready. Your favorite, hamburger casserole.”

  Her son’s bed is neatly made. Did she do that? Must have, he’d never fit the sheets like that, or smooth the blanket and pillow. Lyla gets down on her hands and knees, lifts the skirt of the bed. There he is, in the far corner!

  No, no, only a shadow. A shadow shaped like a boy.

  Closet! Yes, of course, why didn’t she think of that first? He must be in the closet, watching her through the vents in the door. Naughty boy.

  Lyla opens the closet door, sweeps back the clothes hangers. She has the distinct impression that Jesse was in the closet very recently. She can smell the scent of his skin, his hair. Must have slipped out while she was looking under the bed.

  What Lyla wants to do is lie down in the closet and sleep with the smell of him on her hands, her hair. Dreaming that her son is close by, just out of sight, and that soon all will be well, and Jesse will be safe again. But she can’t sleep, not until she’s found him.

  Lyla searches all five rooms again, and then ventures into the basement. Down the sturdy steps, clutching the handrail. Pulls the string on the bare lightbulb. A basket of laundry perches on the washing machine. More of his clothes, including his grass-stained uniform. The Mystic Pirates. Not for the first time, Lyla carefully takes the soiled uniform from the basket and holds it up, as if looking for clues to her son’s whereabouts. The grass stains, of course, and the usual dirt on the knees, but is that splotch under the letters a bloodstain?

  Anxiety thrums through her body like a jolt of electricity. Heart fluttering, she races up the basement steps with Jesse’s uniform top in her hands. Wanting to show her husband this new evidence that something is wrong, terribly wrong. Something has happened to Jesse, something that made him bleed on his Little League uniform.

  At the top of the stairs Lyla trips and falls to her knees, sliding on the slick linoleum.

  “Steve!” she cries out. “Steve, come look! Blood!”

  But the house is empty. In the oppressive silence, Lyla gets shakily to
her feet. Clutching the stained uniform, she heads into the living room.

  “Oh, God,” she whispers. “Bring him home. Make him safe.”

  There on the mantel above the fireplace is a framed photograph that brings her a little peace, in the brief interval before she must begin searching again. In the photograph, Jesse’s Little League uniform is clean. No grass stains, no bloodstains. He’s just made fun of her for ironing the uniform—They’re supposed to be wrinkled, Mom, don’t you get it?—but he’s obviously pleased by all the attention. Look at the grin on his face as he poses with a bat, taking the stance, eyes bright and fearless. Her perfect, flawless son.

  Lyla collapses onto the couch, clutching the framed photograph and the soiled uniform. She will allow herself to weep, but only for a few minutes. She has much work to do, and weeping exhausts her. First she must search the house again. Five rooms and the basement. And then if Jesse still isn’t there, she’s going to do a thing that has been forbidden to her. She’s going to use the cell phone and make the call and demand to know where her son is, and when he will be returned.

  Never call, she has been told in no uncertain terms.

  But no one can stop a mother from trying to contact her own son, can they?

  The decision to use the forbidden number gives her strength. She gets up from the couch, still holding the photo and uniform to her breast, and begins the endless circuit. Room to room, searching for her missing child.

  4

  the man in the mask

  “Sit down, Mrs. Bickford. May I call you Kate?”

  I’m frozen. Can’t seem to move. The gun terrifies me but I can’t stop looking at it. Easier staring at the dark and shiny gun, rather than into the glittering eyes of the man in the black ski mask.

  “Obviously you’re frightened.” The voice coming out of the mask is low and smooth, with a tone of preening confidence that makes me hate him. How dare he break into our house? “It’s okay to be scared,” he continues amiably. “But if you don’t sit down in that chair I’m going to have to shoot you in the kneecap or something, and that will make things complicated. So sit down. NOW.”

  I find myself in the chair, unable to breathe, unable to stop staring at the gun, which seems to be pointing right into my eyes, or beyond my eyes, into my brain.

  “Better,” says the man in the mask.

  “Who are you?” I manage to say. “What do you want?”

  “Better and better. Take a few more deep breaths, would you, Kate? Feel better? Good. Put your hands on the arms of the chair, where I can see them. Excellent. Now, stop looking at the gun and look at me.”

  I force myself to look at the mask. I’ve seen pictures of guys dressed like this, snipers or SWAT guys or whatever. Never expected to see one of them in my own house, a living nightmare perched on my favorite chair. The mask has a big hole for the mouth, so he’s speaking clearly, unmuffled. Very white teeth. Capped or bleached, hard to say. The mouth is neither old nor young. My age, more or less.

  “Good. Better. Just try to relax and we’ll get on with business.”

  “Where’s my son?” It bursts out of me, much higher-pitched than my normal voice. As if some other, younger me is crying out.

  “Tomas? Not to worry, Mom. Tomas is in a safe place.” A sneer on the lips. Very pleased with himself. But the gun never wavers. Very steady hands. Hands that scare me almost as much as the gun. Hands that must have touched my son.

  “Where?” I demand. “Where is he?”

  “That’s enough,” he says. “No more questions.”

  “If you hurt him…! If he’s been harmed in any way…!”

  The man in the mask leans forward, bringing the gun closer. “Shut up, Kate. You want to be a good mommy? You want the kid back in one piece? Then shut up and listen.”

  I start to reply, then stop. Part of me, the small, unpanicked part, understands that I must do what he says.

  “Fine,” he says. “Very good. Must be a terrible shock, huh? Coming in and finding a stranger in your house. Hate to tell you this, but your security system sucks.” He takes a deep, satisfied breath and settles back into my chair. “Okay, you want to know what this is about? Go on, ask away.”

  “Yes. I want to know.”

  “Excellent. And you haven’t panicked yet. Which is good for both of us. Shooting you would make things ugly. Trust me, you don’t want that. What this is about, Kate, is very simple. It’s about money. Your money. Which is soon to be my money.”

  “How much?”

  “Good question,” he says, smiling with approval. “Here’s my answer. All of it. Every penny. You okay with that, Kate? Is the kid worth wiping out your bank accounts?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good answer, and I like the way you didn’t hesitate. We’re going to get along just fine, you and me. For the period of our brief acquaintance. And if we don’t get along, if you don’t cooperate, you know what I’m going to do?”

  He waits. My mouth is so dry it’s hard to form a word.

  “What?” I finally ask.

  “I’ll cut out Tommy’s heart,” he says. “I’ll cut out his heart and give it to you in a plastic bag.”

  The man in the mask puts aside my son’s PlayStation controls and pulls a knife out of the sheath on his ankle. Gun in one hand, never wavering, and now, glittering, a knife in the other.

  “This is what I’ll use,” he says very softly. “My trusty K-Bar. And it won’t be the first heart I’ve ever cut out.” He pauses, studying me. His lips twitching slightly. “Do you believe me, Kate?”

  “Yes,” I manage to say.

  And I do.

  The mind, I discover, is a funny thing. Much more capable than I had imagined. For although part of me, a sizable, shivering part of me, remains terrified, a cold place in my brain seems to be processing information, making decisions. Guiding me, even as I quiver in fear. The fear not so much that I will die, but that my son will die if I don’t do the right thing. If I don’t think and behave rationally.

  Don’t give him a reason, that part of my mind tells me. Meaning no sudden moves, no hysteria—that state of supposedly female panic that has always repulsed me in others—no fountains of tears. The man with the gun may be a psychotic killer—he wants you to believe he is—but he’s been in your life for less than five minutes and he’s already told you exactly what he wants. You might call that progress.

  He wants money. And if money is what he wants, then money is what he’ll get. At the same time, access to the money is my only leverage. How best to use that leverage? Not to defy him—he’s not a man I’d care to defy, under any circumstances—but to make sure that Tommy is okay. To make sure that he’ll be returned to his home, and to his mother, in one piece. Undamaged.

  “How do I know—” I begin. Then stop to work some moisture into my parched mouth. “How do I know my son is…okay?”

  He puts the knife back in the sheath at his ankle. A move so delicate and smooth and practiced that it makes my breath catch in my throat. Something about the way he does it makes me believe he could slip the knife into flesh just as adroitly. And with as much physical pleasure.

  He smiles and clicks his white, white teeth together. “Bad Kate,” he says. “She didn’t ask permission to ask a question.”

  “Please tell me my son is okay.”

  “No begging, Kate. Here’s the deal. You want to ask me a question? Pose it this way—‘Permission to ask a question, sir.’ Got it?”

  For him this is a kind of game, obviously. And humiliating me, or toying with me, is part of that game. I have no choice but to play along.

  “Permission to ask a question, sir.”

  The mouth in the mask grins. “Permission denied. For the time being. Sometime in the next few hours you will be allowed to speak to Tommy on the cell. He’ll be a little woozy because he’s been drugged—”

  “You drugged my son!”

  He moves so fast I don’t even have time to react. One moment
he’s seated in the chair—my chair—and the next the gun is pressing against my forehead like a cold steel finger, pushing me back into the cushions.

  Can’t help it, tears spill from my eyes and run down my cheeks. He’s inches from me, his breath coming in snorts. I can hear his teeth grinding. I can smell him, the sharp scent of his maleness, his anger. It’s all I can do to keep from peeing my pants, that’s how much he frightens me. The last time I was this scared was as a five-year-old, imagining a monster under my bed, waiting to reach up through the mattress and grab me. I’d been too terrified to scream then. This fear is even more visceral.

  “Never, never,” he says, whispering his hot breath into the side of my face. “Never, ever defy me. Never raise your voice. Is that understood? Nod if you can’t speak.”

  I nod, feeling the barrel of the pistol pressing hard into my forehead. Terrified that a bullet will explode me into the darkness, leaving Tommy without a mother.

  Slowly, he stops panting and his breathing becomes regular. I haven’t been this close to a man since Ted died, and it gives me a sick feeling. Makes my skin crawl with revulsion.

  At last he backs up a step, and the pressure on my forehead lessens. His hand cups my chin, holding my face. He squeezes until I whimper in pain.

  “Kate, Kate. What are we going to do about you, huh? I thought you wanted to cooperate. Play the game. Get your kid back.”

  “You’re hurting me.”

  He responds by squeezing harder, then suddenly his hand is gone and my face is burning with shame.

  “Where were we?” he says, his voice weirdly amiable again. “Oh right. You want me to prove your son is still alive. Understandable. Of course we drugged him, Kate. Had to. Did you want me to coldcock him with this gun? No? Drugging the target is the safe way, Kate. You’ll just have to trust me on this. We have a method. The method works.”

  We, of course. There has to be more than one person involved. Are they all monsters like the man in the mask? Or is he the designated heavy, selected because he knows how to instill fear?