“Drive,” he commanded. “And put your seat belt on; we don’t need any unfortunate stops.”
She always wore her seat belt and would have put it on regardless, but hoped he wouldn’t. To her dismay, the man strapped himself in, killing any idea of launching him through the windshield with a crash.
“Where to?” she asked.
“Just drive. I’ll tell you where to go when you need to know.”
He grabbed her purse as she pulled away from the curb, rummaging through it and pulling out her cell phone. After playing with the buttons, he tossed the phone onto the backseat. Next, he yanked out her wallet and tore the license from it.
“Karen, Karen Lakemire,” he said. “Pretty name, Karen. Are we married, Karen Lakemire of 214 Clearview Drive?”
She was glad she hadn’t gotten around to changing her license yet. She had moved from the address on her I.D. four months ago, but her job at Gimble, Mercowitz and Steiner had kept her too busy for a trip to the Department of Motor Vehicles. There was no way for him to find out where she lived now and that was enough to make her feel slightly better.
“Well?” he asked.
“No,” she answered.
“Sounds like a married name, too bad you’ll have to lose it. Unless you’re one of those bitches who want to keep her name, or worse,
hyphenate
it.”
Not knowing if it was a real question or just babbling, she decided not to answer. She came to a red traffic light and stopped the car.
“How’s a woman like you not married yet? Wait let me guess.” He paused as the light turned green. “Too busy to settle down; wants to be a career woman. Have kids when you’re forty-five, fifty even. I can’t blame you, Karen. Turn left at the next light. There’s an ATM at the end of the block. Stop when you get there.”
She made the left, drove down the street, and parked in front of Mark’s Deli, the only open store on the block at this early hour. A cardboard sign with the words ‘ATM Inside’ written in black marker hung in the store’s dingy window. The street was void of any activity. Graffiti laced the building’s exterior. The sidewalks were cracked and broken, pieces of concrete jutting out like giant spear heads.
Karen and her captor sat in the car with the engine running for over five minutes. The man didn’t say a single word the entire time, just stared out the window at the street. By then, he’d finished fishing through her purse, had taken all her cash and credit cards, even her gift card from B & N. Why the hell wouldn’t he just leave?
“Give me your keys,” the man said suddenly, shattering the silence. “I’m going to step out, but I won’t be gone for long.”
Karen handed him the keys and he got out.
She watched him walk across the road, lean against a street sign. Another long five minutes passed with no change in the man’s position. Karen wanted to jump out of the car and sprint up the block, but terror kept her paralyzed to the spot. The street was deserted and she wouldn’t make it far before the big guy ran her down. The speed and agility he demonstrated in the bank clearly indicated that the guy wasn’t malnourished.
She felt a warm spot of optimism grow in her stomach. The ATM at the bank must have had a camera. Didn’t all banks? The whole episode had to have been caught on tape, unless the ‘Out of Order’ sign applied to the camera as well. It was something, enough of a reason to keep it together. She was going to use everything and anything as fuel for her mind. She needed to keep her wits so she could stop this guy, or at least get away. She’d never had a mission before, a real true-to-life responsibility, and that’s exactly how she had to look at her situation. She had to stop this maniac before he hurt anyone else.
Looking out the windshield, Karen noticed a man dressed in a suit had appeared a ways down the block. He was walking toward her, but on the opposite side of the street; the same side as her kidnapper. She could break the window and yell to him for help—
The homeless guy sprang to life as the businessman approached. Karen’s captor reached out and grabbed the man’s face, brought him down, and slammed his head into one of the jagged impalements of cement. The back of the man’s skull caved in. Blood poured and the man’s limbs flailed wildly. The homeless man whirled around the body, leaning on the wiggling dead man’s legs, and started unbuttoning his shirt.
Karen watched in disbelief and horror. It wasn’t real, it couldn’t be. She was still in her bed, cozy and asleep, while her mind endured this terrible nightmare. She turned away, not wanting to watch, pleading with herself to wake up. Raking her nails across her arm, the pain sharp and arousing, Karen realized she wasn’t dreaming. Looking up, she saw the son-of-a-bitch flip the man over like he was weightless. The guy was strong, powerful. He had the dead man’s jacket off in seconds, tossing it to the side along with the corpse’s tie.
The white button-down shirt came off next. The murderer then took off his own raggedy coat, revealing a muscled torso with tattoos running up and down his arms. She couldn’t see his back, but guessed it was covered in ink as well. He put on the dead guy’s shirt, the fit snug, outlining the man’s tightly honed body. He buttoned it, covering his chiseled six-pack. The muscle man, no longer looking homeless, went back to work and removed the pants, socks, and shoes off the dead man. He took his time, not seeming to care if cars drove by or if people were watching from their windows.
Fully dressed in new clothes, the man crossed the street. He passed in front of the car and held his index finger in front of his lips, indicating for Karen to be quiet. He was still wearing the cap and she guessed he must have forgotten it was on his head. As he passed by, Karen noticed a blood stain on the collar of the jacket. A shiver raced down her back. The man went inside the store, leaving her in the car alone.
She sat there staring at the dead man dressed only in his underwear. Blood pooled around the body, dripping off the curb like spilled strawberry syrup. She started to cry. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Hold yourself together, girl. Don’t let this asshole see you like this,” she told herself aloud in a voice she didn’t recognize.
Hearing it was frightening but also sobering. She’d never sounded so commanding and strong before. The tears stemmed. Karen looked at her reflection in the rearview mirror and wiped her cheeks. She didn’t want the man to see that she had been crying.
He must have known she wouldn’t run—couldn’t run. Glancing at her purse, Karen remembered her cell phone, but the bastard had tossed it on the backseat. Keeping an eye on the deli’s door, she reached back with her right arm and canvassed the rear seat area. Her slender fingers raced along the leather, but found no phone. She turned her head around and saw that the phone was against the crease, on the right. Desperate, Karen turned back around and looked at the deli’s front entrance.
The glass door was dirty and littered with tobacco ads. Sensing the seconds were running out, Karen unbuckled her belt and reached back, stretching her whole body. Her fingers touched the phone, but she had no grip. Reaching farther, she managed to eke a few more inches out of her five-foot-seven frame, and pulled the cell phone closer. It was still on. She sat back down, keeping her right hand behind her.
She felt for the number 5 button. It had a plastic bump on it, allowing for easy navigation without having to look at the keypad—convenient for dialing numbers in dark places, like movie theaters.
With her thumb on 5, she worked over to the 6, then down to 9. She pressed once, expecting to hear a beep, but didn’t. She pressed again and again but no sound came from the phone. Then she remembered the guy had been playing with it. The look on his face before he had tossed it was one of satisfaction, like he’d accomplished something.
Staring at the deli door, Karen turned and brought the phone closer to her face. She pressed the 9 button again and realized the bastard had locked the keys. A dark silhouette grew in the door’s dirty glass. Sensing her time was up, she tossed the phone in the back and sat forward. The mini-mart’s door opened and the terrible man came striding out.
He walked around the front of the car and got in, carrying a paper bag. The rotten odor leaching out of his pores was gone, replaced by cinnamon and evergreen. Karen guessed that he’d sprayed himself with deodorant or air freshener. His hat was missing, revealing his naked, bald head.
“Ready to go, hon?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Karen replied.
She couldn’t help thinking of how different he looked in a suit. The video at the bank, if there was one, was surely useless. Everybody would be on the lookout for a homeless man, not a couple dressed in suits, traveling in a Mercedes. Karen felt more alone than ever.
The man told her to drive and then barked directions. He was leading her out of the city. They stopped at another bank, one on a considerably less crowded street. The guy definitely had a plan, Karen knew. He wasn’t just winging it.
Before getting out of the car, he pulled a baseball cap from the paper bag and pulled it low over his forehead. They passed a few people hurrying by on their way to work, every one of them with tunnel vision and minding their own business. That was how people in the city were. Karen doubted she’d be able to catch anyone’s attention even if she tried. Nobody wanted to be bothered.
“Now don’t even think about getting out of this car, or doing anything that might get you killed.” He opened his coat, showing Karen the knife. “I’ll be right out.” He winked and left the car, locking the doors with the remote.
Karen thought about opening the door and fleeing, but the man was only just inside the bank’s entrance, using her ATM card. His back was to her. If she opened the door, the alarm would sound and alert the bastard. He might get spooked and take off, but that was wishful thinking. No, he’d follow through on his promise and kill her. Her shoulders slumped as she gave up on the idea. The car alarm might get people’s attention, but car alarms, like rats, were all too common in the big city. No one would so much as glance in her direction.
Her only hope was that a police car would drive by or a beat cop would come strolling along. If either of those things happened, she’d definitely take a chance on fleeing. Tapping her foot, she waited, silently praying to see the men in blue. But none appeared, and before she knew it, the man had returned to the car.
“Time to leave,” he said, and clicked his seatbelt before sliding the key into the ignition slot.
Karen turned the key and started the car. Before pulling away from the curb, her phone began ringing.
“Ignore it for now,” the man said, and Karen drove. A long minute later, the phone rang again. The man turned around and grabbed it, stretching the seatbelt to its limit. He retrieved the phone, holding it until it ceased ringing.
“If it rings again, pull over,” he told her.
They continued driving, stopping only at red lights. The man gave Karen directions, but never more than the next road she was to take. The man’s anger appeared to have lessened. His fingers no longer clenched the door handle and his cheek muscles stopped bulging.
They drove down Delancey Street and across the Williamsburg Bridge before getting onto the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway toward Long Island.
Karen’s anxiety increased, her heart rate speeding as they drove along the Long Island Expressway. The farther they traveled the less populated the area became, until they reached what Karen thought of as farmland and forest. She’d seen enough movies and news reports to know what happens when a deranged psychopath takes a female into deserted country. Once alone, he could have his way with her then dump her in the woods, leaving her for some hiker to find. She needed to take a chance, to do something.
“You never told me your name.” she said.
The man didn’t answer and remained staring out into the world; not seeming to look at anything.
Not knowing what to make of his state, she spoke again. “What’s your name?”
The man turned upon Karen with shocking speed, as if his face simply appeared in the back of his head. She jumped, swerving the car a little.
“Last time I remembered,” he said, through clenched teeth, as if his jaw was wired shut, “my hearing was just fine.” He turned away from her to look out the window again.
Startled but not deterred, Karen said, “Sorry, I just thought you didn’t hear me.”
Silence followed her question and she decided not to test the man any further, at least for the moment.
“My name is Josh,” he eventually said.
“Oh,” Karen said, her heart skipping a beat at the sudden response. He had spoken like a man defeated in battle. “Are you all right, Josh?”
“How can I be all right if I killed that man back there?” he asked, then: “How can I be all right if I kidnapped a woman?”
Karen wasn’t sure whether he was speaking to her or to himself. She thought that maybe he was on some kind of drug, a hallucinogenic, and it was now wearing off. That would explain the strange behavior, including wearing a homeless man’s clothes.
“Turn on the radio,” he told her as he stared out the window.
“Why?” Karen asked.
“You were going to ask who I am, weren’t you? Just like all the other questions you have been asking yourself.”
“I don’t understand,” she explained. “What are you talking about?”
“I know it all. I know you planned on locking me out when I first went to your car with you. I know you wanted to scream to the guy I wasted. I know you wanted to run down the street, but thought I’d catch up to you.” He paused, chuckled. “You’re slowing down. Under forty-five miles per hour and we’ll get pulled over. It’s the law on highways in New York State. Keep the car at sixty; five miles an hour over the posted limit will be fine.”
Without realizing it, Karen had slowed the car down. She’d been too caught up in listening to the guy talk, unable to concentrate on anything else. She pressed the gas pedal, raising the speed up to sixty.
Anyone with half a brain could’ve come up with the stuff the guy, Josh, was telling her. He was just a con-artist.
The man turned, and set his gaze on her. “You think I’m making all this up, Karen?” He stared at her, unleashing pins and needles across her flesh, then turned forward again. “I know you were wondering about my clothes earlier. I know you live on 40
th
and Second, and that your doorman’s name is Ron.”