Mark Gimenez - The Abduction

“I always liked that about you.”

“Paper says they arrested Jennings last night.”

“Good. The truck’s fixed, let’s hit the road.”

Now they’re back in the POS SUV and Gracie’s lying across the back seat and her eyes droop until…

… She opens her eyes to a greasy face pressed against the window and grinning in at her with several teeth missing.

“She’s a cutie,” he says.

“Get the shit loaded, Dirt,” the blond man says.

When the man called Dirt moves away, his face leaves a big smudge mark on the window glass. The rear hatch and tailgate open and the men push in green metal boxes with long shiny metal containers inside and letters on the side-USAF-and a word she had never seen before-NAPALM-then cover them with a heavy tarp.

“And the brass wonders why their inventory never comes out right,” the man with the missing teeth says.

They all laugh like he’s Jay Leno or something…

… And now she’s lying on a small bed in a small room in a small house. The sheets stink of foul body odor. She’ll have to bathe for a week to get this smell off. They think she’s asleep. She tiptoes to the door and peeks out. The two men are in the big room with another man with red hair who’s holding a long black rifle with a telescope on it and caressing it like a girlfriend. They’re drinking beer and smoking and laughing.

The big man says, “That red hair, ain’t no one gonna believe you’re some Muslim raghead.”

“Don’t matter none,” the man with red hair says. “FBI ain’t never gonna find me. Hell, they can’t find their butts with both hands.”

The big man points a thumb at her room and says, “What does the girl say, Junior? ‘Like, duh.’ ”

They all laugh again; then they get real quiet and the big man says, “Easter Sunday, Red. Don’t fuck it up.”

Gracie goes back to the bed and lies down and thinks, Isn’t Easter Sunday this Sunday?…

… She sees a sign that says Cheyenne, Wyoming.

She’s lying on the back seat of the car again; the two men up front seem happy.

The big man says, “You believe that sumbitch give himself a necktie? Goddamn, we are home free, podna.”

“So can we go through Yellowstone?” the blond man asks. “That’d be real neat for Patty to see.”

“Why sure, Junior. And after that we’ll take her down to Disneyland.” The big man looks at the blond man he calls Junior like he’s nuts; he exhales smoke and says, “This ain’t no fucking family vacation!”

Family? Did this Junior guy take her to be his…

… Gracie is cold. Her body is shivering uncontrollably. She is all alone. And so terribly afraid. She starts crying. She can’t hold it back any longer. But just when she’s about to lose it big time, she sees him, high up in the sky, floating under a white parachute. And he sees her. Coming closer now, the green beret, the uniform, the medals glistening in the bright sunlight, just like the picture on her desk.

Save me, Ben.

He is coming.

And for the first time since she was taken, she is no longer afraid…

When Gracie woke, she was shivering. She had kicked the scratchy green blanket off. She sat up, reached down, and pulled the blanket up to her neck. They were on the highway again, but the car wasn’t making funny noises anymore. The blond man was driving; the big man was smoking and reading a newspaper. Outside, the ground was covered with snow. Distant mountains taller than those in Taos rose high into the sky. Her head finally felt clear.

“Where are we?” she asked. “What day is it?”

“Well, good morning to you, sleepyhead,” the blond man named Junior said. “We’re in Montana, Patty. It’s Thursday.”

“Okay, just so you know? That Patty thing is really starting to annoy me.”

In the rearview mirror, she saw a thin smile cross Junior’s lips. She coughed. The car was filled with cigarette smoke. (Does the big man ever stop smoking?) She tried to lower her window, but it was stuck. She waved her hand to clear the air around her so she could breathe. She said to the big man, “Those things are cancer sticks. They can kill you.”

Without looking back, the big man said, “So can a nagging woman. Shut up!”

She stared at the back of his big head. “Nice attitude.” She noticed another smile from Junior in the rearview. They rode in silence until she said, “He’s coming.”

The big man tossed his newspaper back to her. “Ain’t no one coming for you, girlie. Your case is closed.”

Gracie picked up the paper and spread it out on her lap like at home when she read the sports pages after school. Her picture was on the front page; next to her was the picture of a blond man. He looked sad.

“I know him. He works for my dad.”

“Not no more he don’t.”

She read about her abduction, the search for her, and Mom’s reward offer. “You two Einsteins are passing up twenty-five million dollars to keep me? That seems way dumb.”

“Way dumb is right,” the big man said, and Junior gave him a quick look.

Gracie continued reading about her case, the investigation- hey, Dad’s IPO went through! — the arrest of the abductor, the abductor’s suicide, and her soccer shorts.

“You left my shorts in the woods? So everyone thinks I’m running around in my Under Armour? That is like, so totally disgusting.”

“Everyone thinks you’re dead,” the big man said.

Gracie read more. “They found my jersey in this guy’s truck? And my blood?”

“From your elbows,” Junior said. “Pretty smart, huh? I thought of that myself.”

“Oh, yeah, real smart. This guy killed himself.”

“That was just lucky. We set him up pretty good, but we was only hoping for a couple days’ head start. Didn’t figure on him hanging hisself. Now we’re home free.”

The story said this Jennings guy had hung himself in his jail cell, and the police had closed her case. Gracie Ann Brice was presumed dead. Her body would probably never be found now that the abductor had killed himself. Gracie didn’t understand: Why didn’t Jennings just tell the police that he didn’t take her? Why would he kill himself? It didn’t make much sense to her, but it didn’t change what she knew.

“No, you’re not. He’s still coming.”

Junior was shaking his head. “That wimp ain’t coming to save you just like he didn’t save you from that fucking asshole yelling ‘panty check’ at the game. Was me, I’d’ve shot the son of a bitch. I about did.”

Ms. Fist made an appearance. Gracie wanted to pummel Junior just like she had the snot. “First of all, numb-nut”-she wasn’t sure what that word meant, but she had heard a boy call another boy that at school and he didn’t like it-“don’t call my dad a wimp. He may be a doofus, God bless him, but he’s a genius, smarter than you two meatbots put together.”

Junior: “The hell’s a meatbot?”

“And second of all, he didn’t even hear the big creep. He was multitasking. And third of all, do you really think that’s appropriate language to use in front of a child?”

“Aw shit, I’m sorry, honey,” Junior said like he really meant it. “I won’t say them words no more.”

The big man turned in his seat to face Gracie. He wasn’t smiling. “I will. Listen up, sweet cheeks. If that boy calls himself your daddy’s smart enough to figure out Jennings didn’t take you and stupid enough to come looking for you, I’m gonna take my Bowie”-he held up what looked like an oversized steak knife-“and gut his scrawny ass from his dick to his neck and use his innards for bear bait, you understand? So sit back, enjoy the trip, and shut the fuck up!”