John Locke - Saving Rachel

“Sam,” he says, “we’ve never met, but I know you can hear me. I’ll give you thirty seconds to come out of your hiding place with your hands in the air.”

For the next thirty seconds, the cell phone in my pocket vibrates softly.

Then the man says, “Sam, I have Rachel here with me.”

Bullshit! I think. It’s a tape.

“I’m going to have a little chat with your wife, and you can listen in.” There’s a short pause, and then he says, “Rachel, I’ve got Sam on the phone. I told him you’re with me, but I don’t think he believes me. Tell him what time it is.”

In a small, frightened voice, Rachel says, “It’s ten till three.”

“You hear that, Sam? Check your watch.”

I do. And it is ten till three. Still, he could have prerecorded this on a tape and waited until now to play it. I’m not sure I believe their timing could be that good, but I’m not ready to surrender yet; I need more proof.

“Sam, I’m usually a patient man. Everyone says that about me. I had this whole thing worked out. It was incredibly elaborate. But you screwed up my timetable when you saw that situation in the trunk at the park a little while ago. I won’t give Rachel the details just yet. I’m not a monster after all.” He chuckles. “Well, some say I am.”

The phone in my pocket vibrates again.

“Answer the phone, Sam,” he says. “Now!”

Go fuck yourself! I say to him, in my head. Another half minute passes, but I still don’t answer the phone.

“Sam, for the next thirty seconds, I’m not going to call you. I’ll be too busy beating your wife.”

Ten seconds later, Rachel’s screams are playing throughout my house. She’s being tortured. I try to drown out her shrieks by focusing on what Creed told me, to hold out as long as possible. I wonder what he could be doing in the attic to help me. Does he have someone on the outside, triangulating the cell signal? Rachel’s screams die down. I hear her whimpering.

“Sam, you’re a stronger man than I am,” the voice says. “If this were my wife, I’d be dying inside. Perhaps when this is all over, you’ll want to reevaluate your relationship.”

The phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it.

“Very well, Sam. It’s only going to get worse.” I hear him sigh, which means everyone in my house hears it too. “Rachel,” he says, “take off your clothes.”

“No,” she says. “Please.”

My fists clench so tightly it feels like my knucklebones are going to burst through the skin. I shut my eyes and wince.

I hear him slap her. She cries out in agony. “That’s right,” he says. “Start with the blouse … good girl. Okay, now the skirt …”

I shift my weight from my right foot to my left and back to my right. I feel like throwing myself through the wall. I’ve got to give Creed as much time as possible to do whatever it is he’s trying to do. But I don’t want this man to hurt my wife.

“Now the bra …”

“Please,” she says.

He hits her again. But this time, it’s not a slap. I think he punched her. It sounds as though she slammed into something and crumbled to the floor. Maybe I’m reading that into whatever happened, imagining the worst, but I’m not imagining her sobs. I hear her whimper, “Please. Don’t hit me again. I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever you want.”

The man’s voice says, “You hear that, Sam? Okay then, Rachel, show me the rest.”

My heart is in my throat. My breath is coming out in short gasps, like a pregnant woman giving a Lamaze birth. Just when I think I’ll get through this part, I hear Rachel’s voice say, “Sam … I’m so sorry.” It’s more than I can bear. The cell phone vibrates in my pocket again, and I answer. “Where are you, Sam?” the man asks. “In the upstairs closet,” I say. “Please. Stop hurting Rachel. Tell your men not to shoot. I’m coming out.” Thirty seconds of silence pass before he comes back on the line. “Okay, Sam, come on out. They won’t hurt you.” “Where’s Rachel?” “We’ll take you to her.” “Promise you’ll leave her alone?” “I’ll promise nothing. But if you cooperate, it’ll go easier for her.”

I push the bookcase open and exit the closet; eight men are standing in a semicircle, pointing rifles at me. I don’t know much about guns, so I can’t give you the makes, model numbers, calibers, or whatever. I can tell you that all the rifles are equipped with silencers, but that’s about it.

Someone orders me to get facedown on the floor with my hands behind my back. I do what they say, and someone else ties a couple of pieces of plastic around my wrists. Then that person—or someone else—plunges a hypodermic needle into my neck.

Chapter 19

Idon’t know where I am.

I’m lying on my back on a hard surface, and it’s so dark I can’t see my hand moving in front of my face. I lift my head slightly and try to look around, but I get nothing, like I’m caught in a black hole.

How can anything be this dark?

I have a strong sense of breathing stale air, like maybe I’m in some type of enclosure.

Where’s Rachel?

I shout, “Rachel!” and listen to the sound my voice makes. It’s muffled, but not extremely so, which tells me at least I’m not in a coffin. I’m in an enclosure of some sort, but thank God it’s not a coffin.

Where’s Rachel?

I call her name again but get no response. I raise my arms up, like I’m doing a bench press, and get nothing but air, so I figure there’s probably enough height to sit up. I jerk myself up to a sitting position and raise my arms high above my head. There seems to be plenty of height, so maybe I’m not in an enclosure, though possibly a small room of some sort.

My inner voice says, How long have we been unconscious?

I have no way to tell. It’s too dark to see my watch. Hell, we—I could have been here an hour, a day, a week …

No. Not a week. Not even a day. I would have had to pee by now.

If I’d peed in here, surely I’d be able to tell. I sniff the air and touch my clothing. No, I haven’t peed. So I’m guessing I’ve been unconscious a couple of hours—however long it took them to carry me out of my house and transport me to wherever I am.

I slowly attempt to stand. My legs are wobbly, but I manage to get to my feet. I reach up until I touch a smooth surface, which I estimate at about seven feet high. I put my arms in front of me and take a few tentative steps before touching a glass wall. I follow it sideways a few steps until I feel the intersection of another glass wall. I follow the surface the entire length of the rectangle and realize I’m in a glass cage, approximately eight feet wide and fourteen feet long. I wonder if Rachel is in a similar cage. Wherever she is, she doesn’t deserve this shit.

Suddenly, a light comes on and then more lights. Lots of incredibly bright lights are coming on above and around me in all directions. The sudden brightness is too much for my eyes. Though I’m desperate to see what’s happening, I have to shield my eyes for more than a minute before they can adjust. While I manage a few short peeks, all I gain is watery eyes and only the blurriest information.

I allow enough time for my vision to acclimate. I blink a couple of times to finally bring the world around me into focus. I wipe the remaining tears from my eyes with the tail of my shirt and see that the walls of my cage are not made of glass, but rather a thick slab of Lucite. Beyond the walls that hold me captive, I see that my Lucite enclosure sits in the middle of a huge, empty room that looks like an indoor parking lot. The bottom of my enclosure is made of wood and metal and is elevated several feet above the parking lot’s concrete floor. I try to see what’s holding up my cage, but I can’t find any angle that allows me to glimpse the structure beneath me. But wait, I turn to one side and look through the clear material. I see something that takes me by surprise: the giant cab of a truck, the kind of cab used to haul large flatbed trucks across the country.