Authors: Jeff Gunhus
Doreen couldn’t breathe. She pressed her tongue between her lips and pushed against the gag over her mouth. Nothing. She couldn’t move it. Mucous blocked her nasal passages and they wouldn’t clear no matter how hard she tried.
Tears flowed down her face and she whimpered from the effort. Her lungs burned from lack of oxygen. On reflex, she bit down and her mouth filled with blood. Then, with a violent snort, the blockage in her nostrils partially cleared and she was able to inhale.
A few breaths and her head cleared enough to allow a different kind of panic to take hold. Her hands were bound behind her back; her legs bent back at an awkward angle in the confined space. Her first thought was that she was in a coffin. Just like in the horror movies she watched. Buried alive. Then she noticed the smells around her. The air reeked of oil and dirt.
Where am I? Oh God, what’s happening to me?
Her head ached. Thoughts churned too fast for her to hold on to anything coherent. She closed her eyes and tried to focus but the world spun around her. She opened her eyes wide, swallowing hard to fight down the urge to vomit. Even in her confusion, she understood the danger. If she threw up while the gag was over her mouth, she would die.
Then the earthquake hit. Everything shook and her body slammed into the metal walls surrounding her. Something dug into her back sending a sharp pain through her body. She tried to twist to the side but it was too tight to move. She was closed in on all sides by the walls, the ceiling only inches from her face. She flexed her arms and legs but the more she strained the more the bindings cut into her skin. Finally the pain was too much to bear and she stopped struggling. The world wasn’t shaking any more.
Maybe it wasn’t an earthquake after all.
She lay there in the dark trying to slow her breathing, trying to understand what had happened to her.
Then she felt it.
Tha-thump…tha-thump…tha-thump.
She recognized the rhythm from a different time. A better time. Laying in the back seat, wrapped up in a blanket, listening to soft country music on the radio as her momma drove home.
Tha-thump…tha-thump…tha--thump.
Tires going down the highway.
Then it all crashed over her. The blond haired man at the hardware store. Being grabbed from behind. Strong hands pressed against her mouth. A bad smell. Like chlorine. Then everything went black.
The seconds it took for the scene to replay in her mind was long enough for her to organize her thoughts. Everything fit together. The sound beneath her. The sudden, jolting movement. The cramped space. The smell. She understood what had happened.
Kidnapped--I’m in the trunk of a car.
Panic followed close behind realization. She screamed through the duct tape covering her mouth. She kicked and thrashed her body against the walls of the trunk but accomplished nothing except to inflict more pain on herself. Finally, her body went limp again from exhaustion and frustration, the only movement coming from the sobs that shook her small frame.
Doreen Johnston hadn’t whispered a prayer since she was a little girl in Sunday school, but she closed her eyes and had no problem recalling how it was done.
Sweet, merciful Jesus, please let me get out of this alive.
Over and over, she recited the same words, trying to find strength in them, trying to find hope. But she knew she was in real trouble. The kind of trouble where no amount of praying was going to help her. Tremors shook her limbs and she squeezed her eyes tight as if it could block out what was happening to her.
Sweet, merciful Jesus, please let me get out of this alive.
Ice cream was a hit. The girls settled easily on a flavor, pink bubble gum. Sarah waited until Becky made up her mind and then copied her. Jack was happy that the girls enjoyed being around each other. Becky and Sarah fought every now and then but they generally got along. He just hoped it lasted. The thought of having two teenage girls in the house at each other’s throats over boys and clothes made him cringe.
After ice cream and the ritual cleaning of faces and hands, he herded the girls back into the car and headed to the Dahl’s house. Kristi and Max Dahl had two girls the same age as Becky and Sarah and they took turns having play dates. The girls were confused the first time they arrived for a visit. “This is just a regular house. I thought we were going to a doll’s house,” Becky had complained. It was one of those moments that was now firmly fixed in Tremont family lore, trotted out and retold at family functions.
Kristi Dahl must have seen them drive down the tree-lined driveway that led up to their property because she was already waiting for them at the base of the stairs as Jack rolled the car to a stop. As he threw the Jeep into park, Kristi walked to the passenger door, her arms hugged across her chest. Jack rolled down the power window as the girls unbuckled themselves from their car seats and climbed out.
“Hi girls. Julie and Jesse are waiting for you.” Kristi Dahl pointed to the side of the house. “Go on back.”
The girls slammed their doors shut and took off running without saying goodbye. Jack, still in the car, hung out of the window and called out to them, “I’ll pick you up in a couple of hours.” Becky waved a hand but didn’t turn back.
Kristi smiled. “So independent.”
“Yeah, they’re growing up fast.” Jack turned his attention to Kristi. Usually the type of woman who wore make-up and designer clothes for even a trip to the grocery store, Kristi’s appearance took Jack by surprise. Her hair was pulled back tightly, revealing a pale, splotchy complexion, her cheeks burning red as if from a fever or from walking outside on a brisk day. The skin beneath her eyes tinted an inky purple; the edges of her eyelids looked raw, like they’d been scrubbed with a wire brush. Wore out from crying, he guessed. Her arms were back across her chest, hands clutching her sides for added security. Jack wanted to ask how she was doing, but it felt too awkward, too much like an intrusion. And, in truth, he was afraid he already knew the answer.
“Is Max around?” he asked.
“Are you kidding? You know where he’s at.”
“Piper’s?”
“Where else would he be? I swear to God they’re going to hang a picture on the wall to honor his perfect attendance record.”
Kristi looked down and an uncomfortable silence hung in the air between them. Finally Jack decided he had to ask, should ask, the question. “How’re you doing, Kristi? You hanging in there?”
Kristi nodded and forced a brave smile. Her eyes welled with tears. “It’s hard but…” she shrugged and looked away. “No, I’m good. Really, I am. Think everything’s going to be all right, you know?”
Jack pretended not to notice her wipe a tear away with an angry flick of her finger. He and Max had become close friends in the short time they had known each other, but the tragedy the Dahl’s were living through was nothing friendship of any length could prepare someone to handle. “Lauren told me to say hi. Told me that if you need anything to call her. No matter what time it is.”
“Yeah, she called earlier today. It helped to talk.”
“Hey, what do you say I hang out and watch the kids? Give you some time to yourself, you know?”
Kristi smiled, a hand patting her hair as if checking the position of a stylish curl. “I look that bad, huh?”
“No, it’s not that…”
Kristi cleared her throat and rapped her knuckles on the side of the car. “Go on. Get out of here. I appreciate the offer, but I’m fine. It’ll do Max good to see you.”
Jack hesitated but finally nodded.
Kristi smiled, fingering her necklace and pulling together the sides of her blouse. “It’s supposed to storm tonight,” she said looking up at the sky.
Jack was about to answer but he realized she wasn’t really talking to him. Her mind was far away, drifting among the dark clouds gathered above the tree line, lost to her own thoughts, her own problems. He waited a few beats, not sure what to say. “Right, then. I’ll be back soon.”
Kristi snapped her head toward him as if he’d snuck up on her. The flash of anger in her eyes was quickly replaced by a self-conscious smile. “Sorry, I guess I was drifting.”
“You sure you’re all right?”
“Yeah, don’t worry. I’m looking forward to seeing the girls have some fun. I’ll see you soon.”
Jack shifted the car into drive, mumbled a quick goodbye, and headed back toward the main road. When he glanced in the rear view mirror he saw Kristi standing in the same spot, her arms across her chest, staring up into the sky. Jack wondered if he ought to turn around and stay with her, maybe watch the kids and force her to take some time to herself. He hesitated at the end of the Dahl’s long driveway and watched as Kristi turned and walked around the side of the house to where the girls were playing.
He didn’t like seeing her that way, but what did he expect? He wondered if he would be able to hold it together if the roles were reversed. Kristi was actually holding up well considering the circumstances. Besides, Jack thought, the kids were old enough now not to be much of a bother.
And he thought of Max, likely well into his bar tab by now. He would need someone to talk to, maybe someone to drive him home. Mind made up, Jack accelerated down the driveway, took a right turn on the main road and headed toward Piper’s.
Prescott City sat in a shallow valley surrounded by two mountain ranges: to the south and east, the rolling hills of the Allegheny Mountains, to the north and west, the Appalachian range, ancient mountains that stuck out of the earth like worn down nubs of once sharp teeth. The mountains created a false sunset a full half hour before the sun reached the true horizon. The long twilights that resulted gave evenings a stretched feeling, as if night were something to be put off, as if Nature herself feared the dark and held on to the day as long as she could.
Jack arrived at Piper’s just as the rain started. He glanced up at the sky as he headed toward the front door. The ambient light that filled the sky was a peculiar yellow hue, like tornado weather he’d been in once during a trip through the Midwest. He could make out the storm front coming in, low wall of dark clouds tumbling down the mountains toward them.
A wick’d blow cummin’ on
would have been his grandmother’s proclamation. The old lady never had use for weather stations but relied on her internal barometer which never seemed to be wrong. Until her dying day, neighbors checked with her first before they made plans. Jack preferred science to Grandma’s old country intuition and wished he had watched the weather report that morning to see what was in store for the area.
There was a body propped against the crumbling concrete slab next to the bar’s front door. Albert James was the man’s name. Jack had seen him around before, usually passed out at a booth in Piper’s, or sometimes in the park downtown, shouting at the trees, or sitting on a bench, rocking in place and mumbling to himself. Guys like that were everywhere in L.A. but Albert James had the stage to himself in Prescott City.
He had on his usual costume, dirty camouflage overalls, a black t-shirt, and work boots caked with mud. He had thin hair through which his scalp, all spots and flakes of dry skin, was clearly visible. Albert’s hair had grown to his shoulders and it hung heavy with oil and dirt. He managed to somehow shave often enough that he never grew a full beard but patches of grey whiskers stuck out at odd angles. The whiskers did little to hide burst blood vessels that spread out across his cheeks like spider webs. Albert James never made any attempt to clean himself up. He was the town drunk and it was a position he held with an improbable pride.
“Hey Albert,” Jack said. In L.A. you didn’t talk to folks like Albert James, you just walked and ignored them the way you ignored an unsightly crack in the sidewalk. Around here, people recognized that as screwed up as he was, he was still a man. “How’re you doing today?”
“Dying,” Albert said, his voice a distracted murmur.
“Yeah, I guess we all are.” Jack went to open the door to Piper’s.
“Some soonah that others.”
Jack paused. Something in Albert’s voice had changed, as if he were suddenly more alert. He looked down at the man but Albert’s head still hung limp against his chest. “Yeah, you take care now. Stay out of the rain.”
“Like lil’ Saaarrraahhh.” Albert breathed out the words as if his lungs were deflating.
Jack stepped back and looked down at the man. “What’d you say?”
Albert turned away, like he was going to be hit. He buried his head in his chest, moaning.
Jack crouched down, shaking his head. Must have been his imagination, but he could have sworn--
Albert’s body convulsed violently, his legs spasmed out in front of him, head banging back against the brick wall. He twisted in place as if jerked forward on invisible ropes tied to his joints, his contorted face pushed even with Jack’s own. “Yor lil’ gurl, Saaarrraahhh. She’s in troubl’. She’ll be dyin’ sooner than you think, I reckon.”
Jack’s stomach tightened and the ground seemed to sway beneath his feet. He blinked hard. He reached out and toward him but Albert turned away and covered the sides of his head with his arms.
“How do you know my daughter’s name? Why did you say that, Albert?” The man flinched like a dog used to being kicked just for being around. Jack knew he was scaring him but he didn’t care. He raised his voice, “You tell me. Why would you say something like that?”
Jack reached out and seized Albert by the shoulder meaning to pull him to his feet. But as soon as Jack made contact, Albert snarled and lunged at him. He grabbed Jack’s hand and yanked hard and brought him to the ground. Arm cranked behind his back, his face flat to the concrete parking lot, Albert forced him down.
Hot, boozy breath huffed in Jack’s ear.
“You listen good now, Jack. There’s bad weather comin’ see? I mean real bad. You get your family outta here. They’re gonna get lil’ Sarah, I know it. I jus’ know it. They’ll kill her, see? And you caint stop ‘em, Jack. You caint stop the devil himself.”
Jack froze with the words. His logic disappeared and animal instinct took over. A chill passed through his body and every hair stood on end. There was something in the voice. Deep and resonant. Jack didn’t hear the words, he felt them.
“
You hear me, Jack? You caint stop the devil himself. So don’t you try.”
Then soft, no more than a whisper, a child’s voice,
“Run while you can. Take her away from here before it can happen. RUN!”
Jack pushed violently off the ground and Albert fell off him. He crawled away, unable to breath. He knew that voice, but it was impossible. She was dead. If there was any truth he knew, it was that the girl was dead. Jack had killed her himself.
“What the hell is going on?” Jack whispered.
Albert, curled in a ball on the ground, looked up and Jack saw a flash of someone else behind the man’s eyes. Then, just as fast, it was gone.
Albert rocked back and forth, singing off-key,
Swing low.
Sweet chariots.
Comin’ f’ward tah carry me home.
Jack stood up and back away from the man, his hands shaking.
The door opened behind him and Jack jumped. Two men exited the bar, giving him a sidelong look as they noticed Albert cowering on the ground.
“Everything OK here?” asked the older of the two of the men.
Jack steadied himself. “Yeah, everything’s fine. This guy here might need a ride home, though.”
“Ol’ Albert?” the younger one jumped in. “Hell, I think he is home. This is the only place I’ve ever seen him.”
Albert clutched his legs to his chest. Rocking. Rocking.
“What’s wrong? Did you do something to him?” the first man asked, taking notice of the dirt on Jack’s clothes. They both looked at him suspiciously.
Jack brushed off his clothes. “He was all sprawled out and tripped on him. I feel awful.”
The two men seemed to accept the story. They bent down, grabbed Albert under the arms and stood him up.
“Albert, did you trip this guy?”
“Let’s just leave him alone,” Jack said.
The older man said, “Don’t worry. We’ll take care of him. Why don’t you go on in.”
Jack gave them a nod and, with one last look at Albert, ducked through the door and into the bar heading toward a much needed drink.
Piper’s was a dive. The ceiling was worn decorative metal tinted a coppery orange by decades of tobacco smoke. A battle scarred oak bar covered by a half-inch of lacquer extended along one wall, fitted with brass railings and draft beer pulls. Bottles of booze lined the counter behind the bartender but nothing fancy. The patrons at Piper’s weren’t picky about brands and if they were Jim Butcher, the big German who owned the place, had no problem jabbing the stump of his amputated right arm at the door and telling them to get the hell out.
Round tables and booths of dark wood surrounded the two pool tables near the wall opposite the bar. One pool table tilted to the left and the other to the right. The only fight in the bar in years happened when an out-of-towner insisted on trying to level the tables only to find out that the local crowd liked their pool just the way it was. Piper’s wasn’t for sad drunks trying to lose themselves, it was good people meeting friends and having a good time. People threw their peanut shells on the ground, cheap beer flowed until the owner decided it was time to close, and everyone knew pretty much everyone else. It was pure small town and that was just fine by the people who went there.
Jack spotted Max Dahl sitting at the end of the bar and headed over toward him. Jack knew most of the regulars in the place. When he’d first moved there people had raised a wary eye when he mentioned he was from California, as if that was all they had to know about him to know he was nothing more than a flake and a liberal weirdo. Jack hadn’t realized the disdain most people had for Californians before he’d moved. But it wasn’t long until he was one of the guys, thanks in a large part to his early friendship with Max who seemed to know everyone, and his assurances that while he was from California, he was born and raised in Iowa. His Midwestern credentials helped offset most of the skepticism about his character. Jack wasn’t quite a local yet, but he felt welcome and figured it would take a few more years until people stopped introducing him as the guy from California. He shook a few hands as he crossed the bar and finally made it over to Max.
“Maxi-million, what’s the score my friend?”
Max raised his beer and said, “Max Dahl three. Jack Tremont zero. Dahl wins.”
“No fair. You always win this game,” Jack said with a smile as he ordered a beer.
“I see it doesn’t keep you from playing. Besides,” Max eased back from the bar and rubbed his bulging stomach, “I have a weight handicap to make up for.”
Jack played along. He knew the serious talk would come later. For a while at least, Max wanted to pretend all was right with the world. Jack understood the need and was happy to oblige. “Drinking beer is where that thing came from. You should take better care of yourself. Can they bar you from practicing law in Maryland if you get too fat?” Jack said, nodding toward his friend’s gut.
Max called out to Jim Butcher who was standing at the cash register at the other end of the bar, “Dammit Jim, I thought I told you not to let my wife in here anymore.” Butcher looked up like he was ready to take a swing at whoever had the bad taste to yell at him in his own bar. Seeing that it was Max, he grunted and waved him off like he was swatting away a mosquito. “I think his sense of humor was in that arm he lost,” Max mumbled.
Jack held his hands up. “All right. All right. I’ll back off.”
“Good, let’s shoot some pool.”
“Which table? Left or right?”
Max dusted off his beer. “You pick. I’ll kick your ass either way.”