Jason Pinter - The Stolen

"Turned right onto Huntley Terrace."

Huntley Terrace was a narrow road. Once we'd driven a few miles, we passed by a few houses spaced sporadically apart, driveways hidden behind thick brush and wooden fences. There were no streetlights, no road signs. We were still twenty yards behind Petrovsky, but we were the only cars traveling this road. By this point, the gig was up.

"Henry," Amanda said. "What is that?"

I squinted my eyes, felt my stomach lurch as I saw that we were approaching a pair of metal double gates up ahead. The were bracketed by a brick wall that encircled the property within. The woods were thick on either side.

I couldn't see anything beyond them.

"Oh, fuck," I said. Petrovsky had slowed down as he approached.

"What now?" Amanda asked.

"I don't know."

"I'm scared," she said. She turned to me. In her eyes I could tell she knew what I was thinking. We had to keep going.

I slowed the car down, pulled to a stop and put the car in Park. I waited to see what Petrovsky would do next. His car stopped at the gates. It stayed there for close to a minute, then I heard the sound of metal screeching as the gates swung inward. They did not look like they enclosed a residential area. They were protecting a single home.

Was this where Petrovsky lived?

When the gates were open, the doctor pulled onto a gravel road and then disappeared out of sight. I waited, unsure of what to do.

And after a minute of waiting, I realized something strange.

The gates hadn't closed.

They were wide open.

Whoever was inside those gates was waiting for us.

"Too late to turn back," I said.

I put the car into Drive and slowly approached the gates.

I still couldn't see anything beyond them, but as I got closer I could make out a red hue around the bend. Definitely Petrovsky's brake lights.

I drove through the gates, half expecting a Sonny

Corleone sneak attack. But we passed through without anything out of the ordinary. I made the turn, then jumped as I heard the metal sounds again.

The gates were closing behind us.

"We shouldn't be here," Amanda said. "We should go."

"We can't now," I said. "Let's just see what's what."

As I continued down the path, Petrovsky's Nissan came into view. It was parked at the end of a driveway. The driveway was next to a house. It was shrouded in darkness, but there was just enough light from the moon to illuminate the seven-foot-high brick wall surrounding the entire property. It confused me. The wall wasn't high enough that an adult would have a problem climbing over it. I also noticed that every tree on the property was at least ten or twenty feet from the fence. There were no limbs that could reach the fence. It had been clearly built to keep someone smaller from getting out.

Down the driveway, I could see Petrovsky. He was standing next to his car. Hands in his pockets. He was waiting for us.

I pulled up close until I was directly behind the Nissan, then put the car into Park and shut the engine off.

"Stay here," I said to Amanda.

"The hell with that," she said, unbuckling her seat belt.

We both stepped out of the car. Petrovsky was standing in the middle of the driveway. He did not move as we approached. He did not seem surprised to see us.

As we got closer, I could see that the doctor was trembling slightly. His hands were in his pockets, his body too rigid. As I got closer, a wave of fear coursed through me.

I saw that Petrovsky was shaking. The man was afraid.

"Dr. Petrovsky," I said. "It's Henry Parker. I know you saw us following you. I'm sorry to approach you under these circumstances, but I have more questions."

"Yes, Mr. Parker," the doctor said, his voice low, remorseful. "I am very sorry, too."

I heard a faint rustle come from behind us, then there was a sharp pain in my leg. Before I could shout, the gravel of the driveway came hurtling up to meet me, and then everything swam away.

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."