Макс Коллинз - You Can’t Stop Me

No one did.

They had been on the road for just over an hour now. Jenny Blake was working on enhancing the crappy quality of the security video from the motel. Choi was next to her, at a computer station, checking convenience-store video, Laurene nearby going through bank cam footage. Anderson was at another computer researching Lebanon itself, and Pall was testing the blood from the motel room to make sure it really was Carmen’s. Having seen the security video, Choi already had no doubt.

Harrow was on the phone, and his half of the conversation with network president Dennis Byrnes served as a soundtrack for their labor.

“That’s right, Dennis,” Harrow said. “Abducted. Kidnapped, yes.”

A long pause was followed by the chipmunk sound of someone speaking quickly on the other end of a nearby cell.

Exasperated, Harrow said, “I don’t know what the network’s liability is to her family, Dennis. I’m sure it will be less, if you let us do our work, and get her back alive.”

Another pause.

“Ask the lawyers, Dennis... What? I haven’t really thought about it. Dennis, I have to get back to it.”

And Harrow clicked off and said, “Jesus.”

Choi asked, “What?”

“Byrnes wanted to know if I thought this would make ‘good TV.’”

Nobody said anything for a long time.

“You know what would be a good twist?” Choi asked. “The killer throwing Dennis Byrnes off the rooftop of UBC.”

“Bad taste, Billy,” Harrow said.

Laurene said, “But a good idea.”

“Oh shit ,” Jenny said, and they all turned her way.

“What?” Harrow asked.

“Got the license number.”

“And?”

“It’s registered to Herman A. Gibbons of Lebanon, Kansas.”

Choi swung a fist, saying, “We’ve got him!”

But Jenny’s face registered confusion, not jubilation.

“What?” Choi asked.

“When I got the name from the DMV,” Jenny said, “I Googled the guy.”

“And?” Harrow asked.

The little computer expert met her boss’s gaze. “Herman A. Gibbons? He’s the Smith County sheriff.”

Company was coming.

Wouldn’t be long now. They wouldn’t make it today, maybe not even tomorrow, but Friday for sure.

They could even do the show live from his house. That would be something — all those messages he had delivered would be worth it. And he had just the bait...

Leaned back in his frayed old lounge chair, the Messenger looked over at the couch where the TV girl lay on her back, duct tape over her mouth and binding her hands behind her back. She had awoken earlier, but homemade chloroform had put her back to sleep.

He took no pleasure in putting her through this. He hadn’t anticipated how uncomfortable this would make him, prolonged dealing with somebody up close and personal. Usually, delivering a message, it had been get in and get out. He’d mostly been able to avoid even viewing his targets as people at all, just dots on the big target he was making.

This was different. This was unsettling.

He expected her to be waking up soon. He’d had her for nearly sixteen hours now. Even in just the T-shirt and shorts, without makeup, she was still pretty.

In some ways, she reminded him of Cathy. Reminded him of what it was like to have a life, a wife, a family. The thing between his legs was twitching quite a bit now, and it felt good, but made him feel guilty. He was not about hurting people or humiliating them, not at all. He wasn’t that kind of person.

Suddenly he became aware of tears trailing down his cheeks. This was no time to give in to weakness. It was weakness, after all, his inability to protect his family from men who were stronger or more powerful than he was, that had put him in this situation. His weakness, not Cathy’s. Never Cathy’s.

The woman on the sofa awakened, slowly, looking around, not sure what had happened to her or where she was. He didn’t rush it. They had some time left — no need to be harsh.

He watched as she got used to her shabby new surroundings, took them in. When she finally looked over at him, he tried to smile, a sort of comforting, welcoming smile. But her face became a mask of fear and confusion and something else... hate? She didn’t need to hate him. He didn’t hate her.

Under the tape, her mouth tried to scream, but the sound was a muffled nothing, as she thrashed around on the sofa.

The thing twitched. Stop it , he told it.

Rising, smoothing his pants to keep that thing down and in its place, and moving to her side, he made cooing sounds, hoping to soothe her; but for no good reason, the closer he got, the more she thrashed and muffle-screamed.

Finally, as if to a naughty puppy, he said, “Now, honey, you have got to settle down.”

She glared at him. Big brown eyes, terrified and hateful and pretty.

“Look, tell you what — if you settle down, I’ll help you into the bathroom. You must need to you-know-what, by now.”

She continued to glare at him.

“Or...” He made a show of shrugging. “...you can go right where you are. Doesn’t matter to me one way or the other.” He turned away and folded his arms, and his chin went up, a disapproving parent.

She responded, as best she could, through the tape, not screaming, but a sort of pitiful plea now.

He turned back to her.

Her eyes were still wide, but something in them had softened.

“All right,” he said. “Bathroom it is.”

He unbound her feet, and, when she didn’t try to kick him or anything, he helped her up, then led her to the tiny bathroom. At the door, she implored him with her eyes.

“Sorry,” he said. “Can’t untie you. I promise not to look.”

She frowned.

“Sorry, honeybun, that’s as good as I can do. We can always take you back to the couch, and you can piddle yourself.”

The bathroom had faded green windowless walls, gray bubbled ceiling that was once white, rust stains in the sink, tub, and toilet. He wasn’t proud of it by any means.

“Ain’t much to look at,” he admitted when he saw the concern in her eyes. “But she’ll do the trick.”

He lined her up in front of the toilet, then — keeping his eyes on hers — he squatted a little and gently drew down her shorts. It twitched, and he told it, Stop that! When he got her situated on the stool he walked out and closed the door. Nothing in there for her to cause trouble with.

He listened at the door, heard tinkling, then no tinkling, and went back in, maintained eye contact as he pulled her up, then her shorts. He flushed the john. When they were back in the living room, he let her sit on the couch instead of recline.

“Thirsty?” he asked.

She swallowed. Then nodded.

He opened a cooler next to his chair, withdrew a can of Diet Coke for her, which he opened, then inserted a straw.

He crossed the room to her, and said, “This is your brand, isn’t it?”

She seemed momentarily surprised.

She shouldn’t have been, he thought — thanks to Facebook and MySpace, she’d supplied him a goodly portion of information about herself. Just because he lived in a crummy house didn’t mean he couldn’t use a computer.

He got his pocketknife out. “Hold still.”

Her eyes widened, but she froze. He made a tiny slit in the tape where her lips met. He was very careful when he did it, just as he was careful in every aspect of his life now. If he’d been careful back then, when he had a life with Cathy, maybe things would be different now.

He stuck the straw through the slit, then held the can up, saying, “Drink.”

She did.

“You’re going to have to lie down again, after this,” he said. “And you’ll have to take another little nap.”