Gregory Mason - The helpless captive

The suspense grew, and suddenly she just had to know. "Where are we going?" she screamed till the tendons in her neck stood out like telephone cords.

"Just for a ride!" he called back, changing lanes to allow a delivery truck to pass by.

Mark headed for the outskirts of town, taking the side streets and alleyways, winding and turning, just when Kathy thought she knew where they were headed. It wasn't until they passed the high school, which marked the boundary line of the village limits, that Kathy became alarmed. After that, she knew, there was nothing but farming lands and empty space. Too much empty space.

"Where are we going, Mark?" she called out against the slapping winds, and she pulled a strand of auburn hair that clung to her eyelashes. Her voice had lost its sweet patience, to be replaced by a high, shrill call of alarm.

They were leaving the town behind and the houses were far apart now. Kathy's hands were clammy, there was a sinking feeling at the pit of her stomach and little fingers of fear began to claw at her. Something was wrong, something was terribly wrong. The police department where Art housed his office was on the other side of Elston.

Controlling herself, Kathy shouted again this time at the top of her lungs, "Mark! Will you please tell me where we're going?" She clawed at his stomach, her tiny fists pulling at his shirt.

He didn't turn or speak.

Kathy clawed at him again. Where was he taking her? Kathy closed her eyes for a few seconds, it seemed an eternity. Behind her closed lids, the sunshine blinded her with red flashes. She took a deep breath fighting back the growing fear that had begun to gnaw at her. There had to be some reason for this; Art had said to give him what he wanted… but he never said that person's name would be Mark, or that he would be riding a motorcycle.

Clinging to his shirt with one clenched and desperate fist, Kathy released the other hand to pound the boy's back. The motorcycle lurched swerving to the right.

Jesus Christ, cringed Mark she's getting violent! He slowed the bike, reaching into his pouch at the same time to draw out the tinkling hand cuffs. In one simultaneous motion, he stopped the bike, supporting it with his strong athletic legs, and clamped the handcuffs over her tiny wrists.

"You beast! You little brat! What are you doing to me?" Kathy bellowed.

He had her now. No way could she jump off the bike without killing both of them; she was handcuffed to him and the only way she could escape was by pulling her hands over the top of his head – an impossible feat.

She began to tremble. She was shivering with cold, despite the warm breeze, yet her forehead was covered with beads of perspiration. The fear that had only flickered before settled, lead like at the very center of her being and ached there.

She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry, her lips parched. Futilely she ran her tongue over them. Above the roar of the motorcycle's motor, she could hear the beat of her heart.

They traveled on, endlessly taking dirt roads Kathy had yet to explore. The bike reared and roared like a lion in heat, jumping over rocks and eating up the dirt, spewing it out in a fine dust behind them. How long that journey took, she had no idea. Time had stopped her emotions had stopped, but her faith held strong.

Art… Art wouldn't let this happen to her. This was a trick, some kind of stupid joke. All the gangster movies and cops shows on television flickered in one dying second in her mind's eye. Those were all brutal, ugly people with scars and missing teeth. She studied the plaid shirted back of the fifteen year old boy who'd hand cuffed her to his body. This was but a boy! An innocent looking young boy. My God, he was probably still a virgin and hadn't even tasted the joys of sex yet! What had she to worry about?

They churned and ground on to the crest of the hill that over looked a wide valley below. A dilapidated, weathered cabin sat nestled in a grove of oak trees, looking as if it might have been a summer home at one time. Honey suckle, birch trees, and Dutchman's Breeches scattered the wooded grounds, in a primeval, innocent setting.

The motorcycle ground to a halt, serving as a signal to the others who popped out from behind trees, peeking their heads out of the broken windows of the cabin.

A loud cheer rose in the stillness of the forest. Triumphantly, Mark raised his hands spreading his two fingers in the sign of victory.

He was one step closer to five pounds of marijuana. He'd earned his share, and it would high sailing from now on!

Dodging her flailing arms and legs, ignoring the tiny fists that pounded and beat with a steady staccato rhythm at their shoulders, arms, and chest, the three young boys carried the screaming policeman's wife to the one-room cabin. Jim took command of "Operation Wife Bait", as he called it.

"All right, you guys," he commanded with a jerk of his blonde head, "Clear off that mattress and put down a blanket. We're gonna keep our little pigeon here as comfortable as possible." He stood with his hands on his lithe hips, his delicate features angling severely as he spat out the orders.

Kathy stared at him, a bewildered expression clouding her otherwise sharp features. "What are you doing?" she asked softly, trying to appeal to his sense of better judgment. Her arms ached from the handcuffs and her wrist burned in the vise-like grip of the steel bands. Confusedly, she stared down at the handcuffs, raising her wrists to eye level. "What do you want of me? I-I don't understand! You're all so young! You should be out playing football or chasing girls, not kidnapping a twenty-eight year old married woman."

Suddenly the fear she'd felt riding the motorcycle rushed back to clutch at her, sending a shiver and chill through her whole body. She shuddered her shoulders trembling. It was so ridiculous, funny almost. It seemed like an eternity since she'd gotten up that morning drank her coffee, retrieved the newspaper from its brambled burial ground – all her routine, day-to-day activities that kept her alive, identified her as Kathy McGuire wife of Art McGuire.

Now, somehow, that had all been swept away from her, like driftwood carried away from the shoreline by an ebbing tide. She stared down at the prim pink sundress she wore; it was as if she had never seen it before. The sandals, too, the pink toe nails – they all belonged to another person someone foreign but certainly not Kathy McGuire.

She stared again at Jim, her own blue eyes penetrating his cold, steely ones. A cry of pure terror welled up in her throat, only to be strangled there. He was about fifteen years old she guessed, but a glint in his eyes told her that his experience was more than that. This boy, this delicate featured boy, with his aristocratic hands and aquiline nose looked like a young czar, a prince… a militant boy in command. With his erect posture and thrown-back shoulders, he carried a presence about him not to be denied, Kathy could tell by the way the other boys were waiting, staring mesmerically at their blonde haired friend, that he was the leader, indisputably. But he was so young! He hadn't even started shaving yet!

"Okay, take off her handcuffs!" boomed Jim, turning to point to Mark, who started fumbling in his pockets, pulling out the lining so the key could rattle free. Jim grimaced, but bent to pick it up. "Be more careful next time," he warned, handing the key to Mark then indicating with a jerk of his head in Kathy's direction.

Her hands free, Kathy shook her wrists, trying to get the circulation back in her favor. Like lead, her wrists felt heavy and weak; she rubbed them with her fingertips.

"Jim, how we gonna keep her from runnin' away?" Robert wanted to know, watching the cop's beautiful wife massaging her own flesh.