by Strand, Jeff
"Fine." She picked up two of the twelve-packs. "I'll put them back."
"Don't worry about it, I'll take care of it."
"No, no, I wouldn't want you to have to get up."
She considered making a run for it, but that would be a terrible idea.
Would Stephen and Alan really know if she didn't get the beer?
She slid open the cooler, replaced the Budweiser, and almost cried out with joy as she saw the solution to her problems.
Non-alcoholic beer.
O'Douls was technically beer, wasn't it? And the shopping list hadn't specified which brand to purchase. This wouldn't be a violation of the rules, or at least not one where she couldn't argue her case.
She picked up two twelve-packs and brought them up to the front. Before the cashier could respond, she grabbed the other two twelve-packs of Budweiser, brought them back to the cooler, and exchanged them as well.
"You know," said the cashier as she returned, "really I'm not even supposed to...never mind, you look twenty-one."
"Thank you," she said as he rung up the purchase. Then she remembered something. "Also one hot dog."
They looked more like beef jerky tubes than hot dogs by this point, but eating something gross was the least of her problems. The cashier placed it in a bun and handed it to her.
She thanked him and walked to where the condiments were kept. She added squirt after squirt of mustard to the hot dog until, as per the instructions, nothing was visible but a yellow pond.
"Mind if I eat it here?"
"Do whatever you want, lady."
* * *
Rebecca set the two grocery bags on the passenger seat, opened the glove compartment, and removed the second envelope.
It was a good thing she liked mustard, but if she'd had this much trouble with a simple shopping list, she was horrified to think what the next step might involve.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The second envelope contained a map, or at least a torn piece of one. There was a red circle around the town of Bleser. Aside from that, the envelope was empty.
So Gary had made it that far, at least.
That is, Gary had made it that far if she could trust that Stephen and Alan were playing the game fairly. If they weren't, Gary could be in pieces in the trunk right now.
God, Rebecca, why do you do things like that to yourself? He's not in the trunk! He's alive and waiting for you to get over your pity-me attitude and rescue him!
She got out of the car and checked the trunk.
Of course, he wasn't in there, but she knew that if she hadn't looked, the thought of Gary chopped-up back there never would have left her mind.
It probably still wouldn't.
She got back in the car and began her road trip.
* * *
After about five miles, she turned on the radio. Being alone with her thoughts was infinitely more distracting than listening to some music. She quickly flipped through the stations until she found some mellow, relaxing music.
She wondered if she and Gary were being mentioned on any of the radio stations, and if anybody was searching for them. After all, they hadn't shown up for work, nor had Scott and Doug returned home to their families. She had to make sure she didn't speed or break any other traffic laws, and hope that there wasn't an APB out for Gary's car.
What if she was better off having a cop pull her over? Maybe by playing their game and following their rules, she was guaranteeing that Gary would end up dead. Maybe the best way to get out of this would be to floor the gas pedal, weave from lane to lane, and balance an open can of beer on her nose.
No, she'd already been over that. She needed to obey the kidnappers' instructions. She'd get to talk to Gary shortly--receive proof that he was alive, anyway--and then decide where to go from there.
* * *
Try as she might, Rebecca couldn't keep an endless stream of grotesque images from tearing through her brain as she drove. Gary being chopped to bits. Gary drowning in blood. Gary being fed his own...she needed to stop thinking about this, or she'd go catatonic.
* * *
Rebecca yawned as she passed the sign that informed her there were only seven miles left to Bleser. She really needed caffeine and she also needed a nice, clean restroom, but she didn't want to deviate from the schedule.
She wasn't exactly sure when she was allowed to open the third envelope, so she waited until she passed the faded "Welcome to Bleser!" sign and pulled into the parking lot of a McDonald's.
She took the envelope out of the glove compartment and tore it open. The first piece of paper inside read:
You've come a long way, this I know.
But try to be strong, you've a long way to go.
You'll find a small bar on the outskirts of town.
Drive over there now, and try not to frown.
Before I explain what to do, my comely young lass.
Know that writing in rhyme is a pain in the ass.
So enough of that bullshit. Find the bar. Have a drink if you want. All you have to do is start a fight with one of the patrons over a football game. A fistfight. One that you'll lose. It doesn't have to be a long, extended combat, but at least one punch needs to knock you to the floor. When you're done, check the trunk for further instructions. Good luck.
She couldn't believe this. A fistfight? Her? She'd never been in a fight in her entire life. And the most she knew about football was that all the best commercials played during the Super Bowl.
It didn't make sense. Gary wasn't the type to get involved in bar fights. He was rowdier around his friends, sure, but even at his most obnoxious he was never violent. And he liked football as much as any guy, but didn't take it nearly seriously enough to pick a fight over it.
The kidnappers were cheating. If Gary had been in a bar fight about a football game, he definitely hadn't started it. Either some drunken moron had put him in a situation where he was forced to fight, or she was also playing Scott or Doug's parts.
And Scott and Doug were dead, weren't they?
She didn't know that. And to keep herself as sane as possible, she'd go with the "drunken moron" theory for now.
* * *
The second item in the envelope was another small map, which led her all the way through Bleser to a road way out in the boondocks. When she finally reached the bar, she figured it had been at least five miles since she passed the last human-made structure.
She pulled into the parking lot next to three other cars. The bar didn't even have a name, at least not one that was displayed, though the numerous neon beer logos in the windows clarified the purpose of this establishment. The place looked like the last touch-up had been done shortly after the Gold Rush.
It was barely after nine on a Monday morning. What were any cars doing here?
She shut off the engine and walked inside. The bartender looked up as she entered, as did the two other patrons, who sat at separate tables, watching ESPN on a television mounted over a door. One of them was a big guy with a beard that severely needed trimming and a huge gut, the other was an older man, maybe in his sixties, wearing a red ball cap and smoking a cigarette.
Which one of the three was involved in the kidnapping?
Were any of them? Maybe she wouldn't have to start a fight. Maybe she could just punch herself in the face and walk back outside.
And maybe she should just leave Gary for dead while she was at it.
"What can I get you?" the bartender asked.
"For right now, just a bathroom."
The bartender nodded toward the door right under the television. Wonderful. Nothing like knowing that a couple of creepy-looking guys were staring in her direction while she was using the bathroom. At least it couldn't be as bad as the outhouse.
She emerged a couple minutes later, longing for the good old days of the outhouse. But restroom facilities were a pretty small problem compared to her task at hand.
She sat down at a vacant table, trying to figure out how to
approach the situation. Who should she confront? The old guy looked like his punch would hurt less, but that wasn't really an issue, since to save Gary she'd gladly take a blow from George Foreman, with his fat-reducing grill, if he wanted. The question was, which of the two men was more likely to punch out a woman over a football argument?
Probably the big guy.
She felt almost disconnected from her body, but she forced herself to get up and sit down at his table. He looked a bit surprised, clearly unaccustomed to having women take any sort of interest in him.
"Catch the game last night?" she asked.
"Which game?"
"Football."
"Nah, I missed it. Who was playing?"
"You tell me, you fat fuck." She stumbled over the words, but forced herself to retain eye contact.
The man blinked. "What?"
"I said, you tell me, you fat fuck. What's the matter? Scared to discuss football with a girl?"
The man glanced over at the bartender for help. "I think you've got the wrong person."
Rebecca's face was burning, and she knew it had to be bright red, not that anybody would be able to tell in the bar's poor lighting. "You're the only person I'm talking to," she said.
The man pushed back his chair and stood up. "Sorry, I've gotta head off. Got stuff to do."
Rebecca stood up as well, grabbing his arm. "We were in the middle of a conversation."
"Lady, you're mentally ill." The man yanked his arm free, and gestured to the bartender. "Jesus, Frank, what kind of people do you let in this place?"
Rebecca made a second grab for the man's arm, but missed. What should she do now? Give it up and harass the old guy? The bartender?
The man started to walk around the table, but she moved to the right, blocking his path. "I'll bet you fifty bucks you can't beat me in a fight," she said.
"Lady, go back to the asylum. You need medicine, and that, that shocker-thing they use on crazy people."
"Ma'am, I'll have to ask you to leave," said the bartender. "Don't make me call the police."
Rebecca clenched her fists and looked the bearded man in the eye. "A hundred bucks."
"I'm not gonna fight you, lady!"
"Chickenshit."
"You're right. I'm chickenshit. So why don't you go someplace else, okay?"
Obviously he wasn't going to take the first punch, not that she'd really expected him to. So she stepped forward and swung at his jaw. The man easily deflected her blow, slapping her fist away. She took another swing, and this time he caught her fist in his hand.
"Frank, will you do something?" he demanded.
Rebecca tried to tug her hand free, but the man wouldn't let go. With her free hand, Rebecca grabbed the man's wrist. Then she yanked his hand forward as hard as she could, smashing his fist into her cheek. There was an explosion of pain, and she let out a cry and fell to the ground.
"I didn't hit her!" the bearded man insisted. "You all saw it! She pulled my hand into her face! I didn't do anything!"
"Don't worry, we all saw it," said the bartender, hurrying out from behind the counter.
Rebecca sat up, blinking back tears. She never imagined it would hurt so much, and she had done all the work. "I'm okay, I'm okay," she said. "I'm fine. I'm sorry."
"What the hell is the matter with you, lady?" asked the bearded man.
"Nothing, I'm just...I'm fine." She used a chair to brace herself and pulled herself to her feet. She rubbed the spot where she'd been hit. "I'm sorry."
"Do you need us to call somebody?" the bartender asked.
"No, no, I just need to go."
"Do you want a bag of ice?"
She nodded. The bartender went to retrieve it while the bearded man just stared at her.
"I'm sorry," she said again.
The bearded man didn't respond. He looked at his fist then sat back down at his table without a word.
Though she couldn't be certain, she thought she saw the old guy hide a smile. Was he simply amused by the ridiculous situation, or did he know exactly what she was there to accomplish?
CHAPTER NINE
Rebecca walked out to her car, holding the bag of ice to her face. She couldn't imagine how bad it would hurt if the man had wanted to punch her. She just wasn't cut out for violence.
Still, she'd made it through the first three tasks, and now she was going to get proof that Gary was still alive.
(Please!)
She opened the trunk. At first she thought there was nothing in there except for a few random pieces of Gary's collected junk, but after a quick search she discovered an envelope taped to the inside of the lid. She tore it open and read the message inside.
So either you're cheating or you're doing well. If you're cheating, we already know about it and have splattered your hubby all over the ground, making a horrible mess that some unfortunate soul is going to have to clean up, unless Gary just soaks into the ground. If you're doing well, then it's time for a brief intermission, and we have a present for you. Drive down this road the way you came. In two miles you'll see a small dirt road, marked by a cross. Turn there, keep to the left, and when you get to the end, sit and wait.
Rebecca got back in the Chevy and drove away from the bar. Her hands were shaking, but her mood was brighter than it had been all morning. That wasn't saying much, and she didn't believe that they'd actually let her see Gary in person, but to simply know that he was still alive would be an unbelievable relief.
About two miles later, she saw a small wooden cross, and turned onto a bumpy dirt road that forced her to drive carefully to avoid scraping both sides of the car on outstretched tree branches. It split off three different times, and she took the left fork each time, adding another three miles to the odometer before she reached the end of the road. There was forest on all sides of her, but it was thin enough to let plenty of sunlight through.
She shut off the engine and waited.
For about five minutes she sat patiently. Then she started to get worried.
Would somebody attack her?
The note had said this was an intermission. Surely Gary, Scott, and Doug would have had absolutely no reason to go down this path, so this couldn't be part of the test, right?
Right. She was safe, for now.
She fidgeted nervously for another five minutes.
The note hadn't said she couldn't get out of the car and wander around the area, but she didn't think that was a good idea. Better to be restless inside the vehicle than accidentally bump into somebody who wasn't expecting to find her outside.
Another ten minutes passed.
Was she in the right spot?
Yes, of course she was in the right spot. The directions weren't complicated. She just needed to wait.
Maybe they were dragging Gary through the forest at this very moment.
Not likely.
Maybe they were dragging Gary's bloody corpse through the forest at this very moment.
Or half of it.
Stop it!
She tried to distract herself by counting out loud, slowly. One...two...three...four...
...eighty-seven...eighty-eight...eighty-nine...
A knife plunging into Gary's chest, again and again...
...ninety...ninety-one...ninety-two...
And then Alan emerged from the woods, a colorfully wrapped present tucked under his arm. He smiled and waved at her, then motioned for her to roll down her window.
"Nice to see you again!" he said, walking over to the car. "You're looking good since we were together last. Have you lost weight?"
"Where's Gary?" Rebecca asked.
"I don't know. Somewhere, I guess. I brought you a present." He rattled it and grinned. "You're gonna like it."
Rebecca looked at the package. It was decorated with bright pink and purple wrapping paper, with a huge white bow on top. It was about the size of...
A bowling ball. It was about the size of a bowling ball.
"It's freezing out here," s
aid Alan. "Mind if I join you in the car?"
Rebecca shook her head and moved the grocery bags to the back seat. Alan opened the passenger-side door, got in, and slammed the door shut hard enough to rattle the automobile. He set the present on his lap then rubbed his hands together for warmth.