Monica O'Rourke: Suffer the Flesh

“Come on,” he said. “We’ll give you a ride home.”

“It’s okay, I live in Queens. I can take the train.”

He smiled, his lingering gaze making her uncomfortable. His eyes roamed her thighs, hips, stomach, chest, face. As if sizing her up. She couldn’t tell if that was disgust in his eyes. There were men out there who were attracted to large women, but she usually wasn’t interested in them. She wasn’t comfortable enough with her own size.

“Not a problem,” he said, his brown eyes droopy. He removed and replaced his cap, revealing a severely receding hairline. “It’s SOP.” He waved his arm toward the unmarked car, the only indication that it was a police car its cherry, still flashing.

She never asked to see his badge.

Once inside the car, he closed the door behind her. The windows and doors had no handles—it looked as if they had been broken off. A mesh grille separated the back seat from the front. The interior smelled like corn chips, the floor littered with empty soda and beer cans. The seat was ripped.

A second officer got in and sat beside her and pulled his door shut by the edge. The badge on his chest said MURPHY. A short-cropped beard obscured half his face.

Murphy banged on the screen and the car began to move. “Don’t you want to know my address?” she asked the man beside her.

“Sure. You said Queens.”

“Right, Astoria.”

He leaned forward. “She lives in Astoria.”

The officer driving nodded.

“Do you want my address?” Zoey’s breath quickened, and her pulse accelerated, though she didn’t know why.

Murphy stared out the window.

“But—” But what? Maybe she was pissing them off. Maybe they’d get pissed off enough to dump her somewhere in Brooklyn.

She leaned back and slumped against the seat, watching the midtown traffic trickle by, hypnotized by the nonstop rush-hour traffic, pedestrians crossing against red lights, and they carefully maneuvered in and out of cars like pinballs. Her thoughts drifted to the confrontation with the homeless man, how he’d accosted her, how fortunate she was the police just happened to show up.

Wasn’t that good luck?

It finally clicked, suddenly realized why she felt uncomfortable. She glanced out the window and noticed they were heading north on the East River Drive, not even close to the Queensborough Bridge, the way home.

She leaned into the mesh grille, wrapped her fingers in the wire. “This isn’t the way.”

“Sit back and relax,” Murphy said.

Traffic had thinned out, and they were driving the speed limit. The city was disappearing behind them at an alarming rate as they passed Yankee Stadium and headed toward the George Washington Bridge. Bile choked its way into Zoey’s throat. Her heart pounded.

Still they drove, crossing the bridge into New Jersey. After a while the driver made a series of turns down empty streets, onto back roads, until they reached a deserted area, an abandoned plant. Zoey squashed herself against the door. Tried to scream but her

lungs were frozen.

Fake Officer Murphy smiled. “Take it easy. We’re not going to hurt you.” He reached toward her and she cringed. “Look, you can make this easy, or not. You wanna be a pain in the ass?”

They never tried to hide their identities. Even if she cooperated, why wouldn’t they kill her? She could pick them out of a lineup.

The car stopped rolling, and Murphy said, “Let’s go.”

She sucked air, threw back her head and screamed. “No! No, please!”

Murphy took her arm, and she wrapped her fingers in the mesh, bloodless fingers gripping for life, willing to relinquish only if chopped off. He reached around behind her and brought his hand down over her face, covering her nose and mouth with a rag. Her fist flew wild, trying to connect with his nose, head, any part of his body. But then her body relaxed and collapsed on him, fingers loosening their death-grip on the wire. Somewhere beneath was a layer of panic, but she drifted away from it. It struggled to resurface, but for now, bliss.

“The hell did you use?” The driver opened her door and caught her before she slumped to the ground.

“Just something to mellow her out, Jason. She’s still with us for now.”

“Good. Then she can walk. I’d hate to have to carry this one.”

Jason laughed. He poked Zoey in her side. “Come on, princess, get out.”

Brain fog blocked thoughts of resistance, and she groggily lifted her head. Slowly she slid across the seat and fell out the door when she tried to stand.

The men laughed.

“I love watching them on this stuff,” Jason said. “Look at her—she can’t even stand.”

On her hands and knees, Zoey moved, groping for something to hold on to, blindly searching for a rock or a stick to use as a weapon.

“She’d better get used to that position,” Murphy said, and both men cracked up.

“Hey, there it is,” Jason said.

Zoey lifted her head, saw the van heading toward them from the distance. Tipped over on her side, physically unable to struggle any more, but her brain continued to scramble for a way out.

The van pulled up, and Zoey saw Jason talking to the driver. Out of desperation her head was clearing, charged by pure adrenaline.

Murphy, Jason, and a third man circled her.

“She can walk,” Jason said.

The van driver shrugged. “Not a problem. Let’s get her in the back.”

Struggles against the men who pulled her to her feet were weak, half-hearted. Still dazed, disoriented, she offered little resistance. Roughly they shoved her into the back of the van, pushing her onto a stained mattress that reeked of stale tobacco and wet dog. They flipped her on her back and secured her arms and legs with restraints fastened to the sides of the van. She tugged on the straps, her mind focusing, panic rising. Van driver hovered over her and flicked a syringe. Swabbed her upper arm and warned her to stay still. There was no longer any use in resisting, and a needle broken off in her arm would make things worse. Eyes closed, head rolled back, Zoey sobbed as she felt the prick of the needle, felt the liquid burn its way into her bloodstream, and moments later she drifted off.

The cell, unfamiliar and dreary. Dark, and dank, steeped in humidity. Dripping sounds, like a leaking pipe.

Terror such as this was foreign to her. She’d never known true fear before, fear that ripped her bowels to shreds, blurred her vision. She thought she’d known fear before—walking along a deserted side street in Queens, being followed by a group of drunk men—but she’d been wrong. The terror now was palpable, and it stole her breath, made her nauseous. The overwhelming sensation that death was imminent stole her last bits of sanity. Afraid to call out. Afraid not to. Her clothing was missing, replaced

by a long T-shirt that stretched to cover her knees. No underwear, no shoes. Jewelry missing.

She crept across the small cell and reached the locked bars. She gave them a push, hoping they were unlocked. No such luck. The hallway outside the cell was bathed in darkness, sparsely illuminated by dim sconces along the walls. Whoever had locked

her inside knew a thing or two about atmosphere. Every serial killer movie she’d ever seen came back to haunt her, and she was sure that some hatchet-wielding psychopath would show at any moment. She fell back on the cot and sobbed, prayed for her nightmare to end. Curled up in a ball, tried to shrink, make herself so small that she would just fold up.

Calm down. Think back to what happened… flashes of the van, of men staring down at her. Flashes of a cop. Her memory was spotty; her head reeled. Did the cop show up before or after the guys with the van? Couldn’t remember. Where the hell were her clothes? Where the hell was she?