Harlan Coben - Six Years

I pulled up. “Who’s this?”

“Again with the names?” Bob said. Then, with a dramatic sigh, he added, “Otto. Jake, meet my friend Otto.”

“Otto and Bob,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Two palindromes.”

“You college professors and your fancy words.” We had reached the van. Otto stepped to the side to let me in, but I didn’t move. “Get in,” Bob said.

I shook my head. “My mommy told me not to get in cars with strangers.”

“Yo, Teach!”

My eyes flew open as I turned toward the voice. Barry was semi-running toward us. He had clearly imbibed, and so the steps made him look like a marionette with twisted strings. “Yo, Teach, a quick question if I—?”

Barry never finished his sentence. Without warning or hesitation, Otto stepped forward, reared back, and punched Barry square in the face. I stood there for a moment, shocked by the suddenness of it. Barry went horizontal in the air. He landed on the asphalt with a hard thud, his head lolling back. His eyes were closed. Blood streamed from his nose.

I dropped to one knee. “Barry?”

He didn’t move.

Otto took out a gun.

I positioned my body to the left a bit, so I could shield Barry from Otto’s gun.

“Otto won’t shoot you,” Bob said in the same calm voice. “He’ll just start shooting students until you get in the van.”

I cradled Barry’s head. I could see that he was breathing. I was about to check his pulse when I heard a voice cry out.

“Barry?” It was another student. “Where are you, bro?”

Fear seized me as Otto raised his gun. I debated making a move, but as though reading my mind, Otto took a step farther away from me.

Another student yelled, “I think he’s over there—by that van. Barry?”

Otto aimed the gun toward the voice. Bob looked at me and gave a half shrug.

“Okay!” I whisper-shouted. “I’m going! Don’t shoot anyone.”

I quickly rolled into the back of the van. The seats had all been cleared out. There was a bench against one side—that was it for seating. Otto lowered the gun and slid in next to me. Bob took the driver’s seat. Barry was still out cold. The students were getting closer as we pulled away. I heard one cry out, “What the . . . oh my God! Barry?”

If Bob and Otto were worried about someone spotting the license plate, they didn’t show it. Bob drove the van at an aggravatingly slow speed. I didn’t want that. I wanted Bob to hit the gas. I wanted him to hurry. I wanted to get Otto and Bob as far away from the students as possible.

I turned to Otto. “Why the hell did you hit him like that?”

Otto looked back at me with eyes that sent a chill straight through my heart. They were lifeless eyes, not the slightest hint of light behind them. It was as though I were looking into the eyes of an inanimate object—the eyes of an end table, maybe, or a cardboard box.

From the front seat, Bob said, “Toss your wallet and phone into the front passenger seat, please.”

I did as he asked. I took a quick inventory of the back of the van and didn’t like what I saw. The carpeting had been ripped out, revealing a bare metal floor. There was a rusty toolbox by Otto’s feet. I had no idea what was in it. There was a bar welded into the van wall across from me. I swallowed hard when I saw the handcuffs. One loop of the handcuff was fastened to the bar. The other handcuff loop was open, waiting perhaps for a wrist.

Otto kept the gun on me.

When we hit the highway, Bob began to steer casually with his palms, like my father used to when we’d head to the hardware store for a weekend home project. “Jake?” Bob called to me.

“Yes.”

“Where to?”

“Huh?” I said.

“It’s simple, Jake,” Bob said. “You’re going to tell us where Natalie is.”

“Me?”

“Yep.”

“I don’t have the slightest idea where she is. I thought you said—”

That was when Otto sucker punched me deep in the gut. The air rushed from my lungs. I folded at the waist like a suitcase. My knees dropped hard to the metal floor of the van. If you have ever had the wind knocked out of you, you know how it completely paralyzes you. You feel as though you’re going to suffocate. All you can do is curl up in a ball and pray for oxygen to return.

Bob’s voice: “Where is she?”

I couldn’t give an answer, even if I had one. My breath was gone. I tried to ride it out, tried to remember that if I didn’t struggle, the air would return, but it was as though someone was holding my head underwater and I was supposed to trust that he would eventually let me go.

Bob’s voice again: “Jake?”

Otto kicked me hard in the side of the head. I rolled onto my back and saw stars. My chest started hitching, my breaths finally coming in small, grateful sips. Otto kicked my head again. Blackness seeped into my edges. My eyes rolled back. My stomach roiled. I thought that I might be sick and, because the mind works weirdly, I actually thought that it was a good thing that they had pulled out the carpet so the mess would be easier to clean.

“Where is she?” Bob asked again.

Scuttle-crawling to the far side of the van, I managed to spit out, “I don’t know, I swear!”

I pressed my back against the van wall. That bar with the handcuff was above my left shoulder. Otto kept the gun on me. I didn’t move. I was trying to buy time, catch my breath, recover, think straight. The booze was still there, still making everything a bit of a haze, but pain was an efficient way to bring clarity and focus back into your life.

I pulled my knees in to my chest. As I did, I felt something small and jagged against my leg. A small shard of glass, I figured, or maybe a rough pebble. I looked down at the ground, and with mounting dread, I saw that it was neither.

It was a tooth.

My breath caught in my throat. I looked across and saw a hint of a smile on Otto’s model face. He opened the box, revealing a set of rusted tools. I saw a set of pliers, a hacksaw, a box cutter—and then I stopped looking.

Bob: “Where is she?”

“I already told you. I don’t know.”

“That answer,” Bob said. I could see the back of his head shaking. “It’s very disappointing.”

Otto remained impassive. He kept the gun aimed at me, but his gaze kept sneaking a loving look at his tools. The dead eyes would light up when they landed on the pliers, the hacksaw, the box cutter.

Bob again: “Jake?”

“What?”

“Otto is going to cuff you now. You won’t do anything stupid. He has a gun, and hey, we can always drive back to campus and use your students for target practice. You understand me?”

I swallowed again, my mind whirling. “I don’t know anything.”

Bob gave an overdramatic sigh. “I didn’t ask you if you knew anything, Jake. Well, I mean, yes, I asked you that before, but right now, I’m asking if you understand what I said—about the handcuffs and the student target practice. Did you understand all that, Jake?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, so stay still.” Bob used his blinker and slid into the left lane. We were still on the highway. “Go ahead, Otto.”

I didn’t have much time. I knew that. Seconds maybe. Once the handcuff was in place—once I was fastened to the van wall—I was finished. I looked down at the tooth.

A good reminder of what was about to come.

Otto came at me from near the back door. He still held the gun. I could rush him, I guess, but he’d be expecting that. I considered trying to open the side door and roll out, take my chances with this van moving more than sixty miles per hour on a highway. But the door locks were down. I’d never get one open in time.

Otto finally spoke: “Grab the bar next to the cuff with your left hand. Use all your fingers to hold on.”