Chapter 9 Sarah
SARAH
Honey, please meet me for brunch. I’m at the Denny’s near the bus station. I have to see you.
There’s a second message, seconds later:
It’s okay. He’s gone. I promise.
The part of me that has always done what Ma asks wins out.
I shower, dress, and try to leave a note for Michael, but the pen keeps skipping and nothing I write sounds right. Before the best words can come, there's a knock at the door.
"Housekeeping," says a voice from the other side. Since I'm on my way out, I might as well let them in.
I open the door to a smell I recognize instantly; motor oil, cigarettes, cheap cologne. Someone pushes me into the room where I put up a fight before a wet cloth slams over my nose and mouth. My last thought before everything goes dark is that I hope Michael comes back before I'm taken out of here.
When I come to, it’s dark and as hot as a fever.
My first move is to sit up, but my head smacks something metal, and I bite my tongue so hard I taste blood.
For a second, I think I’m dead, but my brain sorts out the clues.
The smell of exhaust, the way my knees are jammed up under my chin, the faint vibration under my back.
Trunk, I think. Car trunk.
Panic crashes over me like a tidal wave.
I try to scream, but the sound is a ragged squeak, barely enough air to feed it.
I pound with my fists, once, twice, until the pain in my knuckles tells me it’s not going to budge.
There’s no light, not even a pinprick. I try to reach for the emergency latch, but my wrists are duct-taped together in front of me.
I try to twist onto my stomach, to kick, but there’s so little room I can only manage a frantic scrabbling.
I gasp, and the air tastes like rust and old carpet. My shirt is stuck to my back with sweat. The car's motion is relentless … turn, brake, speed up, slow down, and every curve jolts my body into the metal. My whole world is six feet by three, lined with stains that reek of wet rubber.
If you scream long enough, someone might hear.
So I do.
Somewhere up front, a man’s voice shouts, “She’s awake.”
There’s a laugh, high and manic. A second voice, lower, says, “She’s got spirit, I’ll give her that.”
We slow, then speed up again. I strain to listen, ears wide, tuning out my own ragged breath.
“That little bitch has made Eileen think she can leave me,” says the first voice. It’s Dade. Of course it is. “Only way to keep Eileen in line is to keep her daughter close, but not at home.”
The words are so casual, so practiced, it almost doesn’t register.
“What are you gonna do?” says the second voice.
A long pause. Then Dade's voice comes through loud and clear, “Got a guy, runs the girls at that biker bar by the off-ramp. He’ll keep her for a while. Give her something to mellow her out. But I want her close. If Eileen tries anything, I’ll let her see the girl, just enough to remind her what happens when people cross me. ”
“Boss move, man,” says the other, like he’s commenting on a sports play.
I can’t breathe. The sweat runs down my face in rivers. My mouth tastes like chemicals, and the urge to vomit is so strong I have to choke it back.
I focus on the details, try to memorize them, because if I live through this, I want to be able to burn them down with a single phone call.
The car smells like a mechanic’s garage, something floral underneath, like cheap air freshener or maybe spilled booze.
My legs are cramping; there’s a sharp edge digging into my left thigh.
If I twist my hips, I can get my fingers around it. It's a tire iron, slick with oil.
I wedge it between my hands and try to lever at the seam of the trunk. I get nowhere, but it gives me something to do besides cry. And feel sorry for myself.
The men keep talking, their voices growing louder, less careful.
“I thought she’d be harder to grab,” says the second man. “Heard she took down a guy with a skillet.”
Dade snorts. “She’s a runner, not a fighter. She barely fought me in the hotel room. They ain't even notice how we rolled her out of there in that laundry cart.”
They’re laughing now, congratulating each other. I hate them so much that I think I could bite through steel.
I close my eyes and picture Michael, what he must be doing right now. I hope he’s calling the cops. I hope he’s burning down the world to find me.
I brace myself for what comes next, heart in my throat, panic rolling over me in greasy waves. I must nod off, or maybe black out. The next thing I know, the car is slowing. It's a jerky, forced deceleration.
I hear shouting.
Then sirens; sharp, urgent, so close they rattle the metal under my cheek.
“Oh, fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck!” That’s the second guy, his voice cracked. “What do we do?”
“Shut up,” snaps Dade, but he’s scared, too. The car skids to a stop and idles. There’s a thud of doors, the sudden hush of held breath, then another volley of shouts. This time, not from inside the car.
It’s the cops.
I try to scream, but my throat is still sandpaper. I start pounding with my heels, as hard as I can, praying the sound travels. Something smashes outside, a shout, a bang, and then I hear glass shattering.
The trunk pops open, and a world of blinding light. I smell grass and burnt brakes. I can’t see clearly at first; just the outline of three, maybe four men, guns drawn, voices in unison, “Hands where I can see them! Don’t fucking move!”
I raise my hands. The tape digs into my wrists, but I try anyway. My eyes adjust, and then I see him.
Michael.
He’s not in his collar, but he looks more like himself than I’ve ever seen him. He has a jacket thrown over a t-shirt, jaw set, eyes wild. He shoves past the first cop, yanks me out of the trunk with both arms, and pulls me against him so hard my feet dangle.
“It’s okay,” he says, over and over, his hand cradling my head. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
I want to say something, to tell him I’m fine, that I knew he’d come, but I’m shaking too hard. My knees give out, and he half-carries me to the grass, crouches next to me, still holding on.
All around us is chaos. Two cops have Dade face-down on the pavement, one knee in his back, wrenching his arms behind him.
He’s screaming, red-faced, spitting the same phrase on repeat, “This is a setup! That bitch is framing me! Let me go, you fuckers, you don’t know who I am!”
The second man is already in cuffs, hunched against a patrol car, one cheek split open and bleeding. An ambulance appears from nowhere. There are hands on me, voices gentle but insistent.
“Can you hear me? Are you injured? Are you allergic to any medications?” I shake my head no, and every movement is like rolling a boulder up a hill.
Michael never lets go of me.
Even when the cop asks, “You’re the one who reported her missing?” he keeps his hand on my back.
“Yes,” he says. “I called Detective Cooper. He said he’d take care of it.”
“That’s right,” says the officer, badge gleaming. “Cooper loves you guys who do the lord's work.”
I want to ask how Michael knew, how he found me, but the words tangle in my throat.
Dade is still screaming, even as they stuff him in the back of the cruiser. “She’s lying! She’s the one who started it! You think you can just run? You think you can fucking run? NO ONE LEAVES ME UNTIL I LET THEM GO.”
The officer slams the door on him. The sound is so satisfying, I almost laugh.
Michael crouches next to me on the grass, his face streaked with sweat, his hands shaking. He brushes the hair from my eyes, then holds my chin, like he’s double-checking I’m real.
“You’re okay,” he says. “You’re okay. I’m so sorry, Sarah. I should have stayed with you."
I grab his wrist. “No,” I croak. “You did it. You found me.”
He kisses my forehead, holds me until my adrenaline drains out, and I go limp.
A paramedic offers me water. I take a sip, then almost drop the cup.
“Do you want to go to the hospital?” she asks.
“No,” I say, then louder, “No. Just somewhere safe.”
Michael wraps the blanket tighter, and then his coat around that.
“Let me take her,” he says to the police. “She just needs rest.”
We finally make it back to the hotel, escorted by two squad cars. Michael walks me inside, not caring what the desk clerk or the other guests think. In the room, I collapse on the bed, shivering, and he sits next to me, silent, just holding my hand.
After an hour, there’s a knock on the door. It’s Detective Cooper. He's older than I pictured, but sharp-eyed, every inch a cop. He sits at the foot of the bed and asks if I’m ready to talk.
I tell him everything I remember.
He listens, scribbling notes, then closes the book and looks at me.
“You know the second guy was an undercover,” he says.
“Biker gang task force. When Dade pulled him into the job, he told him he'd gotten your location by paying off a local deputy to trace Father Michael's car. But, for lawful compliance, undercovers can’t do anything until the perpetrator acts, and so, in this case, drugged, bound, and placed you in the trunk. He played along to make sure you weren't hurt any further. It’s an ethical minefield, so he couldn’t participate; he could only gather evidence. He used a code on his phone to alert us the first chance he got to tip us. And we tracked his phone. You got lucky.”
When Cooper leaves, Michael pulls me into his lap, rocks me until I stop shaking.
He whispers, “I’m not letting you out of my sight again. Period.”
When I walk into the courtroom, a few weeks later, Dade sits at the defense table in an orange jumpsuit, shackled at the ankles, staring at me with a look that’s part hate and something worse. Something that says I still owe him.
The trial takes two days. At the end, the judge reads the verdict, "Guilty on every charge." Dade gets twenty years, with no chance of parole before half.