Chapter 22
Owen
They keep him gagged while Joe is driving and Carlos is hissing the most chilling threats in Owen’s ears.
He shuts his eyes and tries not to listen, but he can’t. His body rocks on the floor of the smelly van, his heart beating so fast it’s making him dizzy. This feels like a nightmare, but his nightmares never felt as real as this.
They park at Joe and Carlos’s house and pull Owen out, dragging him toward the entrance. He tries to struggle and shove the cloth from his mouth, but Carlos hits his ribs. Inside, they turn on the lights and throw him on the couch. Joe avoids Owen’s eyes and zip-ties his hands behind his back.
“You fucking trust too easily,” Carlos says to his brother.
“You trusted him too!”
“Because you told me he was cool!”
They continue to argue in Spanish, acting as though Owen isn’t shaking on the couch, terrified and in pain. His mouth is dry as every drop of spit is soaking into the dirty cloth. Less than an hour ago, he was walking toward his aunt’s house, eagerly waiting for dinner with her and Will.
He wonders if anyone is looking for him, and if they are, would they even know where to look?
“We need to be quick,” Carlos says. Both brothers watch Owen, looking very tall since he’s the only one sitting.
“How are we… shit.” Joe rubs his face. “I hate this. I didn’t sign up for killing people.”
Owen’s heart freezes. He expected a beating as punishment, not to die in this house.
“You know that the order came from up high. Overdose.”
Joe grunts. “That can’t take hours!”
“Nah, I have something that will save us time.” Carlos meets Owen’s eyes. “Got a new supply of smack.”
Heroin. Owen tries to speak through his gag, but Carlos raises his fist, making him shut up.
Even at the lowest points of his life, he never stooped to trying heroin. He wanted nothing that such a drug could provide. During rehab, he met heroin addicts, and the stories they told were horrifying.
Carlos leaves the living room, and Owen tries to catch Joe’s eyes, but the man looks away and mumbles, “Don’t look at me, narc. Fuck you and your smoke tricks. What kind of undercover pig does cocaine?”
Owen tries to push the gag out with his tongue, and finally, he succeeds. He coughs and says, “I’m not a cop! I just did them a favor.”
“Yeah, a favor that was gonna put me in prison.”
“It wasn’t about getting you in prison. We wanted to find out who is flooding the streets with drugs.”
Joe chews on his lower lip, doubt in his eyes.
“Are you a murderer?” Owen asks him, not sure if he can handle the answer.
Before Joe can reply, Carlos returns, holding a small pouch. “Why’d you let him speak?”
“He pushed the gag out. Listen, he says it wasn’t about taking us down.”
Carlos rolls his eyes. His bald head is damp and shining under the ceiling light. “You’re gonna believe a narc now? Estúpido.”
Joe sits on a chair, running a hand through his hair. “This is bad.”
Carlos sits next to Owen. “Go smoke. Relax.”
“I can’t relax now.”
“Then shut up.”
Carlos meets Owen’s eyes. “You’ll feel good in a few minutes.”
“Please don’t. I just wanted to help people.” He doesn’t want to beg, but what other option does he have? In any movie he ever saw with someone being kidnapped, the best you could hope for is either reasoning with your captors or gaining more time so you could be rescued.
Maybe Carlos has seen those movies too, since he tells Owen, “Shut up. We’ll finish this quickly.”
He pulls out a syringe from the pouch and a small nylon bag with brown powder. “Bring me a lighter and a spoon,” he tells Joe.
Owen stares at the syringe like it’s a loaded gun. “They’ll know you killed me. My aunt is a cop. The sheriff is her best friend.”
Carlos narrows his eyes. “Bullshit.”
“It’s not. I came to Van Buren because I got into trouble back home, and my parents thought I’d be better off staying with my aunt, who’s a cop. I’m supposed to be at dinner with her right now. She’s looking for me, Carlos, and maybe other cops are as well.”
Carlos glances at his brother, who’s standing close by with a lighter and a spoon. “They won’t know to look for you here.”
“Won’t they? I think they will.” I hope they will.
Joe says something angry in Spanish to his brother, who shakes his head. “We’ll be in more trouble if we fuck this up.” He reaches for the cloth that Owen spat out. “Be quiet now.”
Owen tries to get up from the couch, hoping to break something or scream loud enough to make the neighbors notice, but Carlos pulls him back down, bringing the syringe close to his face. “Calm down, or I’m shoving this into your pretty eye.”
He doesn’t resist when Carlos shoves the cloth deep into his mouth.
He knows he should look away, but he can’t stop himself from watching Carlos tapping the powder onto the spoon.
He uses the lighter to heat up the metal, turning the powder into brown liquid in seconds.
He’s about to pour it into the syringe when Owen sharply moves and hits him with his shoulder, making Carlos spill the liquid.
He curses in Spanish and smashes the back of his hand against Owen’s head.
He sees stars, but at least he bought a bit more time. Joe hurries over and sits on Owen, squeezing him against the couch.
“We need to get him out of here,” Joe says. “If the police are coming over—”
“I’ll give him two shots of this, then we’ll leave him in the woods.”
“Two will be enough?”
“With how much I’m putting—fuck yeah.”
“Hurry up, then. I’m fucking scared.”
“Just hold him down. Grab his arm.”
Owen tries to scream through his gag, but he can barely make a sound with the weight on top of him. Joe raises Owen’s bound hands, holding them firmly until the needle slides into his flesh. It burns badly, but it only lasts a few seconds.
Joe moves to stand, leaving Owen panting on the couch, his clothes stuck to his sweaty skin.
He should try to sit, but his body feels heavy.
His pain, though, is less severe now. His heart is beating slower, no longer sprinting in his chest. With his cheek on the couch, he watches the white wall in front of him turning from white to pale yellow.
Carlos taps the back of Owen’s head, telling him to enjoy the ride. But how can he enjoy it if underneath the sensation lies the dark realization that he’ll be dead soon, left to OD alone in the woods?
“Estúpido,” Joe says. He’s sitting on the table, watching Owen as he lies quietly. “Don’t ever be a hero. Life ain’t no fucking movie.” He asks his brother, “When’s the second shot?”
“In a minute.”
Owen’s brain urges him to fight and scream, but it’s clearly overestimating what his body is capable of. His muscles feel like liquid, his bones like rags.
“Hold his arm,” Carlos says, his voice far away.
Joe leans closer and raises Owen’s bound arms. The needle slides into his flesh again, not hurting like before.
His restless brain chants, Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The brothers speak about dragging him back into the van, debating where would be the best place to leave him. Before they can decide, they stop mid-sentence, or maybe it’s Owen’s ears that have stopped working. He doesn’t trust any part of his body anymore.
Carlos speaks—yells—at Joe, and they move around the house as if searching for something. Owen watches through narrow eyes. His skin begins to burn as if it’s catching fire. It reaches his lungs, making it harder to breathe.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, goes his brain. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“We can’t let them inside!” Joe shouts. “I told you it was a mistake!”
Seconds later, Carlos shouts as well, “They’re coming from the garage!”
It all sounds exciting, but Owen is a flame, burning on the couch. He shakes and growls, the zip tie cutting through his flesh. His veins are melting. He tries to crawl away and ends up crashing to the floor, though he barely notices the impact.
Got to stop the burning.
His heart is a bomb, exploding again and again. His throat is a narrow straw that can’t provide enough air. There’s a tornado raging in his head, and the only thought that comes through is—this is death.
Thunder cracks. Owen would have jolted if he wasn’t convulsing on the floor. Another crack of thunder, and then another. People are yelling.
He uses the last traces of clarity he has to pray for all of this to stop. If death is the only way out, then let it claim him.
Let it claim him right fucking now.
*
The music is too loud at this party, but he likes it. Young men dance all around him, hugging and kissing. Most are shirtless, with a few in their underwear. It’s an underground party, which makes it easier to buy and sell drugs.
Unfortunately, Owen is broke. He’s been sleeping on couches at people’s houses, but he has overstayed his welcome.
Earlier, he got a pill from someone whose name he didn’t catch.
They danced and kissed before drifting apart like strangers.
This club is packed with faces he recognizes, but all are strangers.
He doesn’t need them to feel good; he just needs another pill to keep his spirit up and stop the nagging voices from resurfacing.
The voices call him a loser, taunting him for throwing his life away. One more pill is all he needs to silence the voices, then he can find someone to spend the night with. And he’s hungry. The pills make it easy to forget, but he hasn’t eaten for many hours.
Hands on his hips. Someone is grinding against his ass. It’s rude yet acceptable in this sort of party. Owen turns around, his heart skipping a beat at the sight of Lee.
“Hey, Big O!” He hugs Owen, his pointy hair scratching Owen’s cheek. “You look good, man. Why are you dancing all alone?”
“I…” He owes this guy money. Not a lot, but he knows he should pay him back before the sum increases. “I don’t have money,” he blurts, trying to be heard above the pulsing music.
Lee waves his hand. “It’s all good, man. I know your parents can give you some if you ask.”
But they won’t.
“You want something to make the rest of the night more fun?”