“Right.”
“And if you married her, I would have been the best man.”
“You know it.”
“So don’t you find it bizarre that I never met her?” he asked.
“When you put it that way . . .” I frowned. “Wait, are you trying to make a point here?”
“No,” he said quietly. “It’s just odd is all.”
“Odd how?”
He said nothing.
“Odd like I-made-her-up odd? Is that what you mean?”
“No. I’m just saying.”
“Saying what?”
“That summer. You needed something to hold on to.”
“And I found it. And lost it.”
“Okay, fine, drop it.”
But, no, that would not do. Not right now. Not with my anger and the drink talking. “And speaking of which,” I said, “how come I never met the love of your life?”
“What are you talking about?”
Oh man, I was drunk. “The picture in your wallet. How come I never met her?”
It looked as though I’d slapped him across the face. “Leave it alone, Jake.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Leave. It. Alone.”
I opened my mouth, closed it. The ladies reappeared. Benedict gave his head a shake and suddenly the smile was back on it.
“Which one do you want?” Benedict asked me.
I looked at him. “For real?”
“Yes.”
“Windy,” I said.
“Which one is that?”
“Seriously?”
“I’m not good with names,” Benedict said.
“Windy is the one I’ve been talking to all night.”
“In other words,” Benedict said, “you want the hotter one. Fine, whatever.”
I went back to Windy’s place. We took it slow until we took it fast. It wasn’t full-on bliss, but it was awfully sweet. It was around 3:00
A.M.
when Windy walked me to the door.
Not sure what to say, I stupidly went with “Uh, thank you.”
“Uh, you’re welcome?”
We kissed lightly on the lips. It wasn’t something that would last, we both knew that, but it was a small, quick delight, and sometimes in this world, there was nothing wrong with that.
I stumbled back across campus. There were students still out. I tried to stay in the shadows, but Barry, the student who visits my office weekly, spotted me and cried out, “Taking the walk of shame, Teach?”
Caught.
I gave him a good-hearted wave and continued serpentine-style to my humble abode.
A sudden head rush hit me as I entered. I stayed still, waiting for my legs to come back to me. When the dizziness receded, I headed into the kitchen and grabbed a glass of ice water. I drank it in big gulps and poured another. I would be hurting tomorrow, no question about it.
Exhaustion weighed down my bones. I stepped into my bedroom and flicked on the light. There, sitting on the edge of my bed, was the man with the maroon baseball cap. I jumped back, startled.
The man gave me a friendly wave. “Hey, Jake. Sheesh, look at you. Have you been out carousing?”
For a second, no more, I just stood there. The man smiled at me as though this were the most natural encounter in the history of the world. He even touched the front of his cap at me, as though he were a professional golfer acknowledging the gallery.
“Who the hell are you?” I asked.
“That’s not really relevant, Jake.”
“Like hell it isn’t. Who are you?”
The man sighed, let down, it seemed, by my seemingly irrational insistence on knowing his identity. “Let’s just say I’m a friend.”
“You were in the café. In Vermont.”
“Guilty.”
“And you followed me back here. You were in that van.”
“Guilty again. Man, you smell like cheap booze and cheaper sex. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
I tried to keep from swaying. “What do you want?”
“I want us to take a ride.”
“Where?”
“Where?” He arched an eyebrow. “Let’s not play games here, Jake. You know where.”
“I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” I said. “How did you get in here anyway?”
The man almost rolled his eyes at that one. “Oh, right, Jake, that’s what we want to waste time discussing—how I managed to get past that piece-of-crap excuse for a lock on your back door. You’d be better off sealing it closed with Scotch tape.”
I opened my mouth, closed it, tried again. “Who the hell are you?”
“Bob. Okay, Jake? Since you don’t seem to be able to get past this name issue, my name is Bob. You’re Jake, I’m Bob. Now can we get moving, please?”
The man stood. I braced myself, ready to relive my bouncer days. There was no way I was letting this guy out of here without an explanation. If the man was intimidated, he was doing a pretty good job of hiding it.
“Are we ready to go now,” he asked me, “or do you want to waste more time?”
“Go where?”
Bob frowned as though I were putting him on. “Come on, Jake. Where do you think?” He gestured toward the door behind me. “To see Natalie, of course. We better hurry.”
Chapter 14
T
he van was parked in the faculty lot
behind Moore dormitory.
The campus was still now. The music had ceased, replaced by the incessant chirping of crickets. I could see the silhouettes of a few students in the distance, but for the most part, 3:00
A.M.
seemed to be the witching hour.
Bob and I walked side by side, two buddies out for a night stroll. The drink was still canoodling with certain brain synapses, but the combination of night air and surprise visitor was sobering me up pretty rapidly. As we neared the now-familiar Chevy van, the back door slid open. A man stepped out.
I didn’t like this.
The man was tall and thin with cheekbones that could dice tomatoes and perfectly coiffed hair. He looked like a male model, right down to that vaguely knowing scowl. During my years as a bouncer, I developed something of a sixth sense for trouble. It just happens after you work a job like that long enough. A man walks by you and the danger comes off in hot waves, like those squiggly lines in a cartoon. This guy gave off hot danger-waves like an exploding supernova.
I pulled up. “Who’s this?”
“Again with the names?” Bob said. Then, with a dramatic sigh, he added, “Otto. Jake, meet my friend Otto.”
“Otto and Bob,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Two palindromes.”
“You college professors and your fancy words.” We had reached the van. Otto stepped to the side to let me in, but I didn’t move. “Get in,” Bob said.
I shook my head. “My mommy told me not to get in cars with strangers.”
“Yo, Teach!”
My eyes flew open as I turned toward the voice. Barry was semi-running toward us. He had clearly imbibed, and so the steps made him look like a marionette with twisted strings. “Yo, Teach, a quick question if I—?”
Barry never finished his sentence. Without warning or hesitation, Otto stepped forward, reared back, and punched Barry square in the face. I stood there for a moment, shocked by the suddenness of it. Barry went horizontal in the air. He landed on the asphalt with a hard thud, his head lolling back. His eyes were closed. Blood streamed from his nose.
I dropped to one knee. “Barry?”
He didn’t move.
Otto took out a gun.
I positioned my body to the left a bit, so I could shield Barry from Otto’s gun.
“Otto won’t shoot you,” Bob said in the same calm voice. “He’ll just start shooting students until you get in the van.”
I cradled Barry’s head. I could see that he was breathing. I was about to check his pulse when I heard a voice cry out.
“Barry?” It was another student. “Where are you, bro?”
Fear seized me as Otto raised his gun. I debated making a move, but as though reading my mind, Otto took a step farther away from me.
Another student yelled, “I think he’s over there—by that van. Barry?”
Otto aimed the gun toward the voice. Bob looked at me and gave a half shrug.
“Okay!” I whisper-shouted. “I’m going! Don’t shoot anyone.”
I quickly rolled into the back of the van. The seats had all been cleared out. There was a bench against one side—that was it for seating. Otto lowered the gun and slid in next to me. Bob took the driver’s seat. Barry was still out cold. The students were getting closer as we pulled away. I heard one cry out, “What the . . . oh my God! Barry?”
If Bob and Otto were worried about someone spotting the license plate, they didn’t show it. Bob drove the van at an aggravatingly slow speed. I didn’t want that. I wanted Bob to hit the gas. I wanted him to hurry. I wanted to get Otto and Bob as far away from the students as possible.
I turned to Otto. “Why the hell did you hit him like that?”
Otto looked back at me with eyes that sent a chill straight through my heart. They were lifeless eyes, not the slightest hint of light behind them. It was as though I were looking into the eyes of an inanimate object—the eyes of an end table, maybe, or a cardboard box.
From the front seat, Bob said, “Toss your wallet and phone into the front passenger seat, please.”
I did as he asked. I took a quick inventory of the back of the van and didn’t like what I saw. The carpeting had been ripped out, revealing a bare metal floor. There was a rusty toolbox by Otto’s feet. I had no idea what was in it. There was a bar welded into the van wall across from me. I swallowed hard when I saw the handcuffs. One loop of the handcuff was fastened to the bar. The other handcuff loop was open, waiting perhaps for a wrist.
Otto kept the gun on me.
When we hit the highway, Bob began to steer casually with his palms, like my father used to when we’d head to the hardware store for a weekend home project. “Jake?” Bob called to me.
“Yes.”
“Where to?”
“Huh?” I said.
“It’s simple, Jake,” Bob said. “You’re going to tell us where Natalie is.”
“Me?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t have the slightest idea where she is. I thought you said—”
That was when Otto sucker punched me deep in the gut. The air rushed from my lungs. I folded at the waist like a suitcase. My knees dropped hard to the metal floor of the van. If you have ever had the wind knocked out of you, you know how it completely paralyzes you. You feel as though you’re going to suffocate. All you can do is curl up in a ball and pray for oxygen to return.
Bob’s voice: “Where is she?”
I couldn’t give an answer, even if I had one. My breath was gone. I tried to ride it out, tried to remember that if I didn’t struggle, the air would return, but it was as though someone was holding my head underwater and I was supposed to trust that he would eventually let me go.
Bob’s voice again: “Jake?”
Otto kicked me hard in the side of the head. I rolled onto my back and saw stars. My chest started hitching, my breaths finally coming in small, grateful sips. Otto kicked my head again. Blackness seeped into my edges. My eyes rolled back. My stomach roiled. I thought that I might be sick and, because the mind works weirdly, I actually thought that it was a good thing that they had pulled out the carpet so the mess would be easier to clean.
“Where is she?” Bob asked again.
Scuttle-crawling to the far side of the van, I managed to spit out, “I don’t know, I swear!”
I pressed my back against the van wall. That bar with the handcuff was above my left shoulder. Otto kept the gun on me. I didn’t move. I was trying to buy time, catch my breath, recover, think straight. The booze was still there, still making everything a bit of a haze, but pain was an efficient way to bring clarity and focus back into your life.
I pulled my knees in to my chest. As I did, I felt something small and jagged against my leg. A small shard of glass, I figured, or maybe a rough pebble. I looked down at the ground, and with mounting dread, I saw that it was neither.
It was a tooth.
My breath caught in my throat. I looked across and saw a hint of a smile on Otto’s model face. He opened the box, revealing a set of rusted tools. I saw a set of pliers, a hacksaw, a box cutter—and then I stopped looking.
Bob: “Where is she?”
“I already told you. I don’t know.”
“That answer,” Bob said. I could see the back of his head shaking. “It’s very disappointing.”
Otto remained impassive. He kept the gun aimed at me, but his gaze kept sneaking a loving look at his tools. The dead eyes would light up when they landed on the pliers, the hacksaw, the box cutter.
Bob again: “Jake?”
“What?”
“Otto is going to cuff you now. You won’t do anything stupid. He has a gun, and hey, we can always drive back to campus and use your students for target practice. You understand me?”
I swallowed again, my mind whirling. “I don’t know anything.”
Bob gave an overdramatic sigh. “I didn’t ask you if you knew anything, Jake. Well, I mean, yes, I asked you that before, but right now, I’m asking if you understand what I said—about the handcuffs and the student target practice. Did you understand all that, Jake?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, so stay still.” Bob used his blinker and slid into the left lane. We were still on the highway. “Go ahead, Otto.”
I didn’t have much time. I knew that. Seconds maybe. Once the handcuff was in place—once I was fastened to the van wall—I was finished. I looked down at the tooth.
A good reminder of what was about to come.
Otto came at me from near the back door. He still held the gun. I could rush him, I guess, but he’d be expecting that. I considered trying to open the side door and roll out, take my chances with this van moving more than sixty miles per hour on a highway. But the door locks were down. I’d never get one open in time.
Otto finally spoke: “Grab the bar next to the cuff with your left hand. Use all your fingers to hold on.”
I got why. I’d have one hand occupied. Only one to watch. Not that it would matter. It would take him a mere second to snap the cuff into place, and then, well, game over. I gripped the bar—and an idea came to me.
It was a long shot, maybe even an impossibility, but once the cuff snapped down and I was locked into place and Otto went to work on me with his little toolbox . . .
I had no choice.
Otto was prepared for me to rush at him. What he wasn’t prepared for was my going in the other direction.
I tried to relax. Timing was everything here. I was tall. Without that, I didn’t have a chance. I was also counting on the fact that Otto wouldn’t want to shoot me, that they truly did want me—as Bob had implied with his threat about shooting students instead of me—alive.
I would have a second. Less. Tenths of a second maybe.
Otto reached toward the cuff. When his fingers found it, I made my move.
Using the hand gripping the bar for leverage, I swung my legs up—but not to kick Otto. That would be pointless and expected. Instead, I pushed off, making my long body horizontal. I wasn’t exactly flying across the van like some veteran martial artist, but with my height and all those damn core exercises I’d been doing, I was able to snap my leg around like a whip.
I aimed the heel of my shoe for the side of Bob’s head.
Otto reacted fast. At the exact moment my heel hit pay dirt, Otto tackled me in midair, dropping me hard to the ground. He grabbed me around the neck and started to squeeze.
But he was too late.
My kick had landed on Bob’s skull with force, jerking his head to the side. Bob’s hands instinctively leapt off the steering wheel. The car veered sharply, sending Otto and me—and the gun—into a rolling heap.
It was on.
Otto still had his arm around my neck, but without the gun, it was just man against man. He was a good, experienced fighter. I was a good, experienced fighter. He was probably six feet tall and 180 pounds. I’m nearly six-six and weigh 230.
Advantage: Me.
I smashed him hard against the back of the van. His grip on my neck loosened. I smashed him again. He let go. My eyes searched the van floor for the gun.
I couldn’t see it.
The van was still veering right, then left, as Bob tried to regain control.
I stumbled forward, landing on my knees. I heard a skittering noise, and there, in the corner in front of me, I saw the gun. I crawled toward it, but Otto grabbed me by the leg and pulled me back. We had a brief tug-of-war, me trying to get closer to the gun, him pulling me back. I tried to stomp on his face, but I missed.
Then Otto lowered his head and bit hard into my leg.
I let out a howl of pain.
He held on to the meaty part of my calf by the teeth. Panicked, I kicked out harder. He held on. The pain was making my vision grow cloudy again. The van mercifully swerved again. Otto flew to the right. I rolled to the left. He landed near the tool chest. His fingers disappeared inside of it.
Where the hell was that gun?
I couldn’t find it.
From the front, Bob said, “Give up now and we won’t hurt more students.”
But I wasn’t listening to that crap. I looked left and right. No sign of the gun.
Otto pulled his hand back into view. He had the box cutter now. He hit the button with his thumb. The blade popped out.
Suddenly my size advantage was irrelevant.
He started toward me, leading with the sharp edge. I was cornered and trapped. No sign of the gun. No real chance of jumping him without getting sliced up good. That left me with only one option.
When in doubt, go with what has already worked.
I turned and punched Bob in the back of the head.
Once again the van swerved, sending both Otto and me airborne. When I landed, I saw an opening. I lowered my head and dived at him. Otto still had the box cutter. He lashed out at me, but I grabbed his wrist. Once again I tried to use my weight advantage.
Up front, Bob was having a tougher time controlling the car.
Otto and I started rolling. I kept one hand on his wrist. I wrapped my legs around his body. I jammed my free forearm into the crook of Otto’s neck, trying to get at his windpipe. He lowered his chin to block. Still I had my forearm against his neck. If I could just worm my arm in a little deeper . . .
That was when it happened.
Bob slammed on the brakes. The van stopped short. The momentum lifted Otto and me into the air and sent us crashing hard against the floor. The thing was, my forearm stayed pinned against his throat throughout. Think about it. My weight plus the velocity of the car and the sudden stop—it all turned my forearm into a pile driver.
I heard a horrible crinkling sound, like dozens of damp twigs snapping. Otto’s windpipe gave way like wet papier-mâché. My arm hit something hard—I could actually feel the floor of the van through the skin and cartilage of his neck. Otto’s entire body went slack. I looked down at the pretty-boy face. The eyes were open, and now they did not just appear lifeless—they genuinely were.
I almost hoped for a blink. There was none.
Otto was dead.
I rolled off him.
“Otto?”
It was Bob. From the driver’s seat, I saw him reach into his pocket. I wondered whether he was reaching for a gun, but I was not in the mood to hang around and find out. I grabbed the lock on the back door of the van and pulled it up. I pulled the handle and took one last look back as the back door opened.