The Stolen

22

I woke up groggy, with pain in my head and my leg. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the faint crack of light coming from a doorway on the far side of the room that was otherwise pitch-black. I was standing up. I was shirtless, my bare torso cold against a metal pole behind me. My head pounded, and when I tried to move I realized my hands were bound above me, my legs bound below.

My arms were bound and tied to what felt like a metal pipe. I groped around, felt that the pipe went straight back into the brick wall behind me. My feet were bound behind the same pipe. I wriggled but it did no good.

Suddenly my eyes flew open. Amanda. Oh, God, where was she?

I struggled against the bonds, but I couldn't see anything, couldn't reach the rope that bound my hands.

Then a voice spoke out from the darkness, and I stopped moving.

"Don't worry, she's fine. I'm sorry my associate had to restrain you, but I promise it's for your own good." The voice was gruff, older, slightly raspy. A smoker's voice.

"Who are you?" I said. "Come over here so I can see you, asshole."

"Listen to you, talking as though you're holding all the cards. When your hand was folded before you even woke up."

I heard a spark, like a match striking flint, and then a small orange flame lit up the darkness. The flame rose until

I heard a sucking sound. The flame lit the end of a cigarette, and with a puff was blown out.

I could see the cigarette about ten feet from me, and with each inhalation I caught the outline of a man's face.

I couldn't see much detail, but he looked to be in his late fifties. Harsh light to go with the harsh line. He just sat there, sucked his cigarette and said nothing.

"Come on!" I shouted. "What do you want?"

"What do I want," the man said. He flicked away the cigarette and stood up. He must have turned on a light switch, because suddenly an overhead lamp cast a soft glow over the room. I made out what I could. I was in what looked to be some sort of basement. Bare cement walls and a tiled floor. There were no windows I could see. The room wasn't dingy, though, and in fact I was surprised that it appeared to be rather well maintained. A plush leather sofa rested in front of a television set, and a long-forgotten treadmill sat adorned with boxes and discarded clothes.

If this was a prison or interrogation room, it wasn't the most intimidating one. The man approached me, took another cigarette from his pocket, lit it and took a deep drag.

Then he approached me, plucked the cigarette from his lips and held it out.

"Want a puff?"

"Yeah, nothing satisfies me more than sucking on a butt that was just in some strange asshole's mouth."

"You sure? It's a Chesterfield."

"Gee, now, that makes a difference. Go screw yourself."

The man shrugged, took another puff.

"I haven't smoked another brand in over thirty years.

You know, you can enjoy the pleasures of so many things in life without knowing where it came from. Who made it. Thirty years ago, I would have taken a beating before I smoked. Now I can't get enough of 'em. Ironic, 'swhat it is. That delicious burn inside your lungs, just makes me want to close my eyes, savor the feeling. My ex-wife always asked why I spent so much time reading about crap like that and never listened to her. I'd say, baby, because one's interesting, and one ain't."

I stayed silent. The longer he talked, the longer I stayed alive.

"Chesterfields started to become popular back in the day when Arthur Godfrey ended his radio program by saying, 'This is Arthur buy-'em-by-the-carton Godfrey!'

Since the program was sponsored by Chesterfield, pretty soon that's all anyone wanted to smoke. The nonfiltered

Chesterfields were popular during Vietnam, allegedly the strongest nonnarcotic stimulant in the country. The government dropped Chesterfields into the jungle by the thousands. And the common man, he figured whatever was good enough for the fighting men and women of this country was good enough for him."

The man stepped into the light, and I finally got a better look at him.

His graying hair was full, skin worn and weatherbeaten.

The crow's-feet at his eyes actually made him look handsome, like one of those blue-jeaned cowboys who spent their days on oil rigs, the kind that actually needed a Chevy flatbed. He was lean, about five foot eleven, wearing a dark green T-shirt and jeans. There was a thin scar about an inch long that ran down his right cheek. It was a faint line, slightly jagged, as though it hadn't been stitched up right. He took another pull, let the ash hang on the end for a long while smoldering before tapping it onto the floor.

My heart hammered in my chest. My wrists ached, and the pins and needles in my feet let me know they wouldn't be much help.

"Where is she?" I said.

"You need to be more trusting," the man said. "I told you she's fine. So you should believe that she is fine. I'm not gonna lie to you, Henry. You do me the same courtesy, and things are gonna work out just splendid for Ms.

Davies. But let's just focus on the here and now. You and me. Got it?"

"Who are you?" I said.

"Who I am isn't as important as what I have to offer," he said.

"I don't want anything from you," I spat. "People know

I'm here. That door's gonna get busted in any second and

I'm gonna laugh as they haul your ass away."

"Really…they're coming for you, huh? Who, the CIA?

FBI? Batman? Guess you wouldn't mind then if I leave your girl alone for a few weeks. She won't need food or water since, you know, they're coming for her."

"You're making a mistake," I said. "She doesn't belong here."

"Well, she's here. No changing that now. Anyway, back to what I was saying. I have something to offer you, Henry, and if you're as smart as I think you are you'll take this offer."

"What is it?" I said.

"It's simple, really," the man said, taking another puff.

"I need you to tell me everything the good doctor told you and everything you know about the kids. Spare no detail.

It's very important you lay all your cards on the table. And if you do just that, and I believe you, behind door number one will be your girlfriend's life. You spill, she lives. You don't spill, her blood does. Simple as that."

"I'll take the offer," I said, "because we don't know anything. Petrovsky didn't say a word to us. Now, let us go."

"Oh, come on, Henry, you think it's that easy? You think that's it? Nah, we can get some more out of you."

He took the cigarette from his mouth. Looked at the filtered end.

"Chesterfields," he said. "Just about heaven. Can't find the unfiltered bastards anywhere nowadays, but smoke enough of these and they do the trick."

"Hope that lung cancer acts mighty quick," I said.

"If it gets me, it gets me," he said. "But I'll go out with a smile."

A spark fell off the end of the butt. I watched it flutter to the ground. I moved my wrists around, tried to feel the pipe where my hands were tied, sliding my fingers back and forth out of view until my thumb caught on something.

A piece of metal. Something jutting out from the pipe.

The man reached into his pocket, brought out his wallet.

He pulled out a one-dollar bill. Held it up in front of me.

Then he took the lit cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. Slowly he brought the cigarette to the bill. There was a crackling sound as the lit end burned a perfect circle through the paper.

When the cigarette had passed through, he held up the bill, looked at me through the hole, smiled. "Peekaboo, I see you."

He walked toward me, still holding the lit cigarette. As he got closer, the light illuminated the man more. I began to shiver, my bare torso shaking. Then I noticed something that nearly made me gag. Covering the man's arms were a road map of small, white marks. Scars. Perfectly round.

They were cigarette burns. And there were dozens of them.

"So what did Petrovsky tell you?" he said, his voice frighteningly calm.

"I told you, nothing. Leave us alone."

He scratched his chin, looked at me. "Hmm…no."

He took another step forward, leaned down and pressed the lit end of the cigarette against my chest.

I screamed as I heard the sound of burning, waves of pain shooting through me as I bucked and tried to kick to no avail. The pain was horrific. I hoped I would pass out.

Finally the man removed the cigarette from my skin.

Then he leaned over and blew gently on the spot where he'd just burned me.

"That's gonna leave a mark," he said.

I was panting. I could felt sweat pouring down my body, getting into my eyes. I felt around where my hands were bound, found that piece of metal I'd felt before. I rubbed it with my thumb. It was a screw attached to a bolt.

The end of the screw jutted out from the metal about half an inch. Just maybe…

I slowly moved my wrists until the half-inch screw was fitted snugly inside one of the loops of knot that bound my wrists. I moved it slowly up and down, back and forth, trying to loosen the knot, to create some slack.

The man tossed his cigarette onto the floor, stubbed it out with his shoe. "I hate to waste one, but I don't think you taste quite as good on the end of a butt as tobacco does."

My breath was ragged, but I tried to focus. I gently tugged down on my wrist bonds, felt the reassuring pull that the screw was fastened inside the knot. I began to work it more, continuously pressing my wrists against the metal to wedge it in even farther. I nearly gasped when I realized the screw was in as far as it would go. I'd created a hole in the knot. Now all I had to do was make it bigger.

"Do you smoke?" the man asked.

"Fuck you," I said.

"That's a brand I'm unfamiliar with. But since you seem to be full of answers now, I'll ask again. What did

Petrovsky tell you?"

"He told me your mother's a whore and your father liked to dress up like Raggedy Ann for Christmas."

The man sighed deeply. I didn't care. The longer we played this game the more time I had. I felt the knot begin to loosen, and soon I was able to slip my index finger inside the knot hole. I pulled down on the screw, worked the loop with my finger, felt it began to slip more. I couldn't let him notice, so I did it slowly. Methodically.

My chest hurt like hell, but I blocked it out. Amanda was somewhere in this house, and even if I did talk, there was no way I trusted this guy to let her live. Rule number one, when a sociopath makes a promise, believe the opposite.

"First time I got burned by one of these," the man said,

"I was serving time up in Attica. The guards, hoo, man, the guards. They sure liked to have their fun with us. One of the prisoners got out of line, talked back, caused a ruckus at the mess hall, they'd take a lit butt to the guy's armpit. Maybe the bottom of his feet. Something sweet like that. Something that wouldn't go away so fast. At least it would smell sweet after they got done with you. I guess you can see they did a little number on my arms here. Fifty-two, if I counted right, and I won't even get into the rest of my body. 'Course, one time they burnt my arches so bad I couldn't walk for a week. So first thing I did when we got a hold of that place? When us boys took over that prison back in '71? I took a cig, lit the mother up, and stuck it in that same man's eye until it started smoking."

I heard the strike of another match, and he lit another cigarette. Another Chesterfield.

"Did you know," he said, taking a long drag, "that the human hand alone has more than nine thousand nerve endings and six hundred pain sensors? And most of that is concentrated in the fingertips?"

"Yeah, I learned that back in health class."

"What do you think it would feel like to experience mind-numbing pain in the most sensitive area of your body? Do you think you'd enjoy that? Better yet, do you think Ms. Davies would enjoy that?"

I couldn't help but think about the scars already on my hand, from when a madman played butcher shop with it a while back. I certainly wasn't aching for more.

I tugged harder, felt my finger slip through one of the rope's cords. Soon I was able to fit two, then three fingers inside, and I slowly unraveled the rope. I grabbed the end gently before it could fall, but my hands were free. My feet, though, were another matter, and there was no way I could get to them without Chesterfield man noticing.

Unless…

"See, if you don't answer my question, we're going to find out just how loud you and your friend can scream.

And trust me, nobody will be able to hear you."

"It can't be any louder than you scream when your 'associate' sticks his finger up your ass."

The man frowned, again sucked down the cig, leaving a long ash dangling from the tip.

"Come on, dickhead," I said. "Let's see what you got."

The man looked at me, pissed off and confused. "Let's see if you're this much fun in a minute."

He placed the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, then reached up with his free hand to steady mine before he burned off my fingertips. As he raised the cigarette, I took a deep breath and blew the long piece of ash directly into his face.

It erupted in a cloud of gray smoke, and the man hacked and coughed and clawed at his eyes.

Before he could take a step back, I pulled off the bonds around my wrists, wound up and backhanded him across the face. He went sprawling across the floor. The cigarette skittered away and went out.

Frantically I bent over and began undoing the bonds at my feet. They were tight, but soon I was able to loosen them. Just then the man stood up, blood leaking from a cut across his cheek. He had fire in his eyes as he ran straight toward me. At that moment I pulled the bonds away from my feet, sidestepped the man and shoved his head against the metal pipe. There was a sickening thud as he bounced off it, then crumpled to the floor in a heap.

I was wobbly standing up. I heard a grunt, saw the man begin to push himself up. There was hatred in his eyes. I didn't hesitate.

I ran forward and kicked him in the head as hard as I could. The breath left him as he lay there, motionless.

As I tried to get the blood flowing back to my feet, I noticed the glint of metal coming from a key ring in his pocket. There were three keys on it. I picked it up, ran for the door. Unsurprisingly, it was locked. I took turns inserting each key inside, and on the third one it clicked home.

I twisted the knob, opened the door and prayed Amanda was all right. I glanced back, saw the man unmoving but still breathing steadily. Then I braced myself for whatever horrors awaited in the rest of this house.

But when I ran up the stairs to the main floor, I was shocked to see that I wasn't being held in some dungeon.

Instead, I was standing in the middle of what looked like the foyer of a typical suburban house.

"What the hell…?" I whispered.

The hardwood floors had been recently sanded and polished, and the carpeting on the stairs was white and clean. Several framed paintings hung from the walls. A crystal chandelier hung above me, and a family room with a large-screen television branched off to the left.

There was a doll with braided hair lying on the floor, next to what looked like a scattered set of a child's building blocks. Everything was clean. I didn't know what to make of it.

"Amanda!" I yelled. There was no response.

I sprinted to the other end of the hall, then took the stairs two at a time to the upper floor.

I ran down a narrow hall. There were three doors, both closed. I opened the first one. It was a bathroom. Hand soaps. Clean towels. No window. No Amanda.

I approached the other door. Pushed it. It opened into what looked like a master bedroom. A king-size bed sat in the center, with a floral comforter cleanly tucked in.

Oddly there were no photos anywhere, as though the place had been disinfected of humanity.

I looked around. Didn't see anything.

Then I went to the other door. Stopped in front of it.

This one was different. It was painted white like the others, but the paint seemed duller. I touched the surface, immediately recoiled. The other doors were wooden. This one was metal. And I knew right away that one of the keys on my chain would open the dead bolt.

I thrust the key inside, got it on the first twist, but then froze when I heard someone coming up the stairs.

The lock unlatched and I pushed the door open.

And then I was standing in what looked like the dream room of any young girl. There were toys everywhere.

Coloring books. A large dollhouse filled with tiny furniture. Tapes and CDs and games were stacked high in a corner. Pink wallpaper, and every book a child could ever want to read. And there, sitting on a made bed, her face a mess of fright and relief, was Amanda.

She jumped up and threw her arms around my chest. I winced as she pressed on the cigarette burn, then took her arm and said, "We need to go. Right now."

Then I noticed something. On the floor. A small scrap of paper. I picked it up, unfolded it. It was a receipt. It was from a store called Toyz 4 Fun. I clenched my jaw. At that moment I knew where we were. I knew what this house was.

Panic welled inside me as I shoved the receipt into my pocket, grabbed Amanda's hand as we went for the door, still slightly ajar. I heard someone running down the hall, shouting, "Ray, where the hell are you, buddy?"

I waited until the footsteps were right outside, then I slammed the heavy metal door closed as hard as I could.

There was an audible oomph as whoever was on the other side was knocked flat off his feet.

I flung open the door and ran past, my heart hammering when I saw that the man I'd just knocked down had a gun in his right hand.

We sprinted downstairs and toward the front door.

Turned the knob. It was locked. One more key left.

I inserted the last key in the lock, let out a breath when it caught, then turned the handle and opened the door to the outside.

As soon as we stepped onto the front porch, Amanda let out a bloodcurdling scream. There was a body in the driveway. It was lying in a pool of blood. The beard gave it away. It was Dmitri Petrovsky, and he was very dead.

"Run!" I shouted.

We ran down the driveway, and I recognized that we were in the exact same place that we'd cornered Petrovsky. The high brick walls and trees obscured the view beyond the house. There was nobody to hear us scream.

We sprinted around the bend, wind whistling past us, and saw the metal gates up ahead.

They were closed. And I had no keys left.

When we reached the brick wall, I knelt down, cupped my hands and said, "Climb on."

Amanda stepped onto my hands.

"One, two, three. "

I heaved up as she jumped. Her hands caught the rim of the wall. I pushed from below as Amanda pulled herself up, managing to straddle her legs across the wall.

"Come on!" she shouted.

Just as I got ready to jump, I heard a loud bang and a chunk of brick exploded right beside me.

"Come on, Henry, they're shooting at us!"

I jumped up, managed to get hold of the wall. Amanda gripped my wrists and began to pull. I got a small foothold in the chunk of wall that'd been blown out, then pushed off and hoisted myself up. Another shot rang out, and brick flew apart right where my foot had been.

We toppled over the wall, landed on the other side in a tangled mess. I leaped to my feet, helped Amanda up.

Then we ran as fast as we could, until the woods swallowed us.

We arrived panting at the road we'd turned off of when we followed Petrovsky. Huntley Terrace. It was dark out.

I had no idea where we were or what day it was.

"Come on," I said, taking Amanda's hand again. I thought back to the last time this happened, the last time we were both running for our lives. Back then Amanda was fleeing with a man she didn't know. This time, for better or worse, she knew what she'd gotten into.

We jogged down the dark road, continually looking over our shoulders to see if we were being followed. I heard nothing, saw nothing. My body felt numb. I was still shirtless, and my side ached. Amanda suddenly stopped, put her hand on my chest.

"Is that a burn mark?" she said.

"We don't have time," I panted.

Then out of the darkness a pair of headlights appeared. My eyes widened, and I ran forward waving my hands like a crazy person. I was in the middle of the road, and I only prayed the driver could see well enough not to run me over.

It was a gray Cadillac. It pulled to a stop a yard in front of me. I ran to the driver's-side window, gasping for air.

The driver was a woman of about forty, a DVD from

Blockbuster on her front dashboard.

"Don't…don't hurt me," she said. Her eyes were frightened. I could only imagine the sight in front of her.

"Please," I said, "my friend and I were attacked. If you could just take us away from here and call the police…

Please, they're trying to kill us."

She reached for the shift, prepared to drive away, then saw Amanda huddled next to me, shivering in the lights of her car.

A minute later we were in the backseat of the Cadillac, heading away from one nightmare.

Then I felt the receipt in my pocket, and knew that another nightmare had just begun.