20. Pushing the Word Out Like That Segment on Sesame Street
PUSHING THE WORD OUT LIKE THAT SEGMENT ON SESAME STREET
WILLA
I pass the address I was given like a tourist who took too many wrong turns. No sane tourist would be here in a rundown commercial warehouse district not far from the airport.
No sane person would be here for that matter. That includes me.
I pass again, window cracked, to see if I can hear anything only to be startled by the “You have arrived” coming from my navigation app. It makes me jump and sets my heart racing again.
I’m not stupid. I won’t park out front and knock on the door. I have five minutes to spare, though, so I drive to the adjacent neighborhood hoping to see something—anything—that helps me understand where Jackie could be.
I pull over and grab my phone, turning off airplane mode and am flooded with messages and call alerts.
I open my thread with Jackie and send her a quick message.
Me: Hey. How are you?
Jackie: What game are you playing?
Me: No games. How’s the Big Apple?
Jackie: You know better, Willa. I have a gun to my head and you’re texting?
Me: Where are you?
Jackie: Seriously? I gave you the address.
As long as I’ve known Jackie, she’s hated texting. She’ll video chat, video message, or talk-to-text. She never uses punctuation. Hell, she rarely uses complete sentences. They run together and I have to decipher them. This isn’t my best friend on the other end.
Me: I want proof of life. Let me see her face.
Jackie: Duh. I’m texting you.
Me: Try again.
Jackie: …
An image appears of Jackie bound to a chair, her head lolling as if she’s unconscious. She’s in the same clothes as she was wearing on Thursday when we left the shop. But they’re rumpled and dirty and don’t look like Jackie’s style at all.
I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand. I don’t know whether this is proof of life or not. But it’s worse than I understood this morning when I left the ranch.
If I do nothing, she’ll die.
And if I do something, I might too.
I flip to my phone app and dial Exton, because I need to know what to do and how to do it. I’m close, and I can get to Jackie if I need to by the time they figure out I’ve asked for help.
A tap at my window, metal on glass, draws my attention, and I drop my phone. It’s the barrel of a pistol and the person holding it wears a wild, eerie smile.
Paul.
I wake tied to a chair next to Jackie and look up into the annoyed face of Paul Chapman.
We’re not in a warehouse but in a home. No, we’re in a house. Home is the wrong word. This house was abandoned by the looks of it and the cloyingly sweet smell says they’re cooking in the back. The fumes are noxious.
Jackie is too still. Way too still. Her chest rises and falls with fast, shallow breaths.
“She’ll be fine. I don’t think she had too much. She has a high tolerance.”
I whip my head to Paul and the pain that radiates down my scalp and neck causes me to flinch.
“What did you—”
He slaps me hard, connecting with my temple, causing my face to whip back to where it was. The shot is debilitating, and I see stars after the blackness recedes.
“I ask the questions. You shut the fuck up. Understood?”
I nod once, the pain drilling into my head.
“Where’s your mom?”
“What?” He raises his hand as if he might strike me again. I cower. Head trauma after head trauma cannot be good. Besides, the pain is too great to focus over as it is. I need to keep my wits about me.
He looks over my head just as I notice arms on me and smell alcohol. It’s cold as the pad swipes my skin, and, before I can scream or flinch, the needle breaches my flesh. I try to escape, but it’s useless.
I hold his maniacal eyes until I forget why I was doing so.
As time slows, I fall into a dream-like trance where I see and hear through water, and I don’t know why that should bother me.
“Where’s your mother?”
“Not sure,” I say, and fight to keep my eyes open. “I can’t remember.”
“How much did you give her?” Paul screams at the person floating behind me.
“Fifty milligrams.”
“You’re a fucking idiot. That’s enough to sedate her for surgery, not loosen her up to talk!”
He fires off a round that slides past my arm and I say, “Whoa,” though I’m not sure if the word leaves my lips. I don’t know what it hits. Just know it doesn’t hit me, which I’m happy about, when I hear the guy behind me scream and curse.
“Areweinanaquarium?” I ask, fighting to push the words past my lips. This is so weird.
“What?” Paul says, and I think I can see the word coming out of his mouth.
“Underwater…” I try to enunciate, pushing the word out like that segment on Sesame Street so many years ago.
He walks forward, the waves of air lapping lazily around him and crashing into me. When he gets to me, he leans over and fires another shot behind me.
I don’t flinch.
Jackie doesn’t move.
This time there are no noises after the bang, just a vacuum as he walks away to stand in front of me again.
He levels the gun at me. “Last time I’ll ask, Willa. Where’s your mother?”
I stare at the hole in the barrel in fascination. It’s a dark void that I want to see inside. I turn my head, as if I’ll gain superhuman sight with the tilt. I hear a crack, and the chair tumbles. I fall under a weight at my chest as my head explodes.
And my world is black.