Lisa Gardner - Touch & Go

Then… Tape. My mouth. Taped shut. Oh God, oh God, oh God. I was going to puke, then suffocate on my own vomit. Panicking now, flailing wildly as my stomach rolled again and I clenched my jaw, trying to will the bile down. Not going to make it. Throat gagging… An unbelievable pressure building in my chest.

A man’s hand darted forward, grabbed the edge of the duct tape and ripped it, ripped it from my mouth.

I screamed short, then vomited long, a watery stream of old champagne and yellow bile that spewed past the bumper onto the black tennis shoes and gray asphalt. A man’s voice, swearing again. The tennis shoes, dancing back.

“Why is she sick?”

“I don’t know, man. Crap. Look at my shoes. These are brand-new!”

“Is it from the sedative?”

“No. Shouldn’t be. Hell, it could be anything. Shock. Motion sickness. Exhaust fumes. I mean, she’s been Tasered, drugged and stuffed in the back of a van for the past fourteen hours. An upset stomach isn’t out of the question.”

The voices fell silent for a moment. I opened my mouth, thought I would vomit again, but my stomach was empty. I dry heaved instead. Then the last of my strength left me, and I collapsed onto my side, finally registering the rubbery mat beneath me and the blue sky above me.

Except not all sky. Barbed wire. I made out rolls of razor wire spanning the horizon.

“Walk,” a voice said.

A man appeared, looming over me. Massive shoulders. Perfectly shaved head sporting a cobra tattoo, inked in shades of green. The coils twined around his neck and skull, the snake’s fanged mouth bared around his left eye. I stared at that tattoo, and for a shuddering instant, I swore the tattooed scales moved.

Then it came back to me. The hulking form at the edge of my foyer. The Taser. My husband’s terrible convulsing. My leg’s fiery pain. And my daughter, screaming. Calling out our names.

I sat up. The world spun, but I didn’t care. I had to find my daughter. Ashlyn, Ashlyn, where was Ashlyn?

My wrists were bound at my waist. Too late, I figured out my ankles were restrained as well, as I flopped out of the back of the van and landed hard enough to knock the wind from my chest and send my stomach spasming again. This time, I rocked onto my side until the worst of the dry heaving passed.

“She’s sick. She get car sick?” Tattooed man. Had to be. A menacing voice to go with a menacing face.

The tearing sound of tape being ripped from flesh. A short, hiccuping cry. Then my daughter’s voice, thin, reedy, uncertain. “Not…usually. Mommy?”

The man was moving. I could hear his steel-toed boots ringing out against the asphalt. My head hurt. My stomach, my back, my hip. I wanted to close my eyes. I wanted to curl up in a ball and squeeze my eyes shut, as if that would make it all go away. I would will myself back to sleep, except this time, when I woke up, I would be in my own bed, with my husband snoring softly beside me and my daughter tucked safely down the hall.

I opened my eyes. For my daughter’s sake, I worked myself around until, for the first time, I could make out our surroundings.

We were outside, under some kind of covered drive. A large white van was parked a few feet away, back doors still open. Behind it more fence. Tall, maybe twenty feet, topped by razor wire, and buffered by even more rolls of razor wire.

My eyes widened. I searched out my daughter, found her standing next to the smallest of three men. Her shoulders were rounded, her chin tucked defensively against her chest, while her long wheat-brown hair hung down in a curtain, as if to protect her. Her feet were bare and she wore her favorite comfy clothes, fuzzy ice-cream-cone-patterned pajama bottoms with a long-sleeved waffle-knit top. My first thought was that her feet had to be freezing. Then I noticed a dark stain streaking across the shoulder of her pale blue shirt. Blood? Was that blood? My daughter hurt, bleeding…

And Justin? What about Justin? I glanced wildly around the space, then spotted his booted feet, bound with zip ties and poking out the back of the van.

The tattooed guy, who wore a black commando outfit, turned to the younger kid next to my daughter.

“Watch her,” he said, and pointed at me, as if I were somehow going to magically make my escape now that I was tied up on the ground instead of being restrained in the back of the transport vehicle.

The man crossed to the rear of the van, where he was joined by a second guy, also garbed in black and almost as big and frightening looking, except his buzz-cut hair had been dyed into a checkerboard pattern of black and blond. Between the two of them, they heaved Justin’s bound body out of the van and placed him on his feet. Immediately, Justin started struggling.

Cobra-tattooed guy reached up and ripped off Justin’s duct tape.

My husband didn’t scream. He roared, hopping forward and trying to head butt his nearest opponent.

In response, the tattooed guy stepped back, unholstered his Taser and pulled the trigger. Justin dropped like a rock, blue jacket flapping, whole body convulsing. He no longer roared, but ground out gibberish through clenched teeth.

I glanced away, unable to see my husband in so much pain.

Across from me, Ashlyn was crying.

The tattooed guy pulled the trigger a few more times. When he seemed to feel Justin had had enough, he nodded once, and the second man jerked Justin back onto his feet, wires still dangling from his body.

“Here is the deal,” the tattooed guy boomed, and at the sound of his voice, Ashlyn started crying harder, her hands bound at her waist, her teeth digging into her lower lip.

I closed my eyes, not wanting to see my daughter’s tears any more than my husband’s pain. I pictured colors, flowers, melting clocks.

I smelled oranges, and tasted yellow birthday cake.

“You can call me Z. I am your new boss. You will speak when I say you can speak. You will eat when I say you can eat. You will live as long as I say you can live. What is my name?”

Silence. Belatedly, I opened my eyes, found the man staring at me. “What is my name!” he boomed at me.

“Z.” My voice came out weak. I licked my lips, wondered if I should try again, but he was already moving away.

This time, I tried to catch my daughter’s attention, tried to will her to look at me, as if by holding each other’s gazes, this would be easier to take.

“This is Mick.” The tattooed guy pointed to the checkerboard-hair man. “And this is Radar.” He pointed at the smaller, younger guy standing next to my daughter. The one not in black commando garb, but instead jeans and vomit-covered black tennis shoes. He bobbed his head slightly, as if pleased to make our acquaintance. Then he flushed self-consciously.

“And this”—Z turned half around, gesturing grandly—“will be your new home.” The man beamed, appearing particularly pleased with himself. I forced my aching body to turn again, take in the building I was only half aware of. Except this time, it became clear to me it wasn’t just a building, but a sprawling complex. An institution. Four stories tall with narrow slits for windows, surrounded by fencing topped with rolls of razor wire.

What kind of building had such tiny windows? What kind of landscaping involved so much razor wire? Then it came to me. A prison.

These men had dragged us from our home and brought us to a prison. Except…the place seemed eerily quiet, still. Not a populated facility, but empty. Abandoned, maybe.

“I will pay you money,” Justin spoke up clearly. “Any amount you want. Double, triple whatever you’ve been offered.”

For his response, Z pulled the Taser trigger. Once more my husband’s body arched. Once more his lips peeled back from his teeth, forming a macabre grin that went on and on.