“Downtown, please.”
The driver says nothing, just nods, slouches in his seat, and drives. We ride in silence, ’80s rap playing through the speakers until the yellow cab hits the morning streets of downtown. I have the couldn’t-care-less-about-my-safety cabbie drop me in front of a Walgreens, then I walk through downtown, flag a new taxi, and give the driver the address of a hotel four blocks from my apartment. He frowns, plugs it in his GPS. “That’s a good hour and a half away. You gonna be okay with that fare?”
From the privacy of the backseat I pull a handful of cash out, count out four hundred-dollar bills and push them through the window. “Will this cover it?”
He takes the money. “Buckle up.” Then he does what I’d hoped he’d do. Reaches out and turns off the meter. I stretch out in the backseat, put my head on my duffel bag, my face out of sight, and sleep, dragged easily into it by the hum of the road beneath our tires, the city disappearing into the night sky, passing streetlights fading until it is just darkness, the soft sound of radio, and the wheeze of the heat slipping through the back vents. I sleep, guilt fading a little as I leave the last piece of him alone and deserted in the long-term parking lot of the Oklahoma City airport. I saw an article once that described a woman who racked up $105,000 in airport rental fees after her car sat in the long-term parking lot for three years. I wonder, as sleep drugs my mind, how long it will take before the Mercedes is noticed. If it will be impounded and auctioned off or if police will be contacted. If…
I sleep.
The man calls out, his voice dragging me into awareness. “You said the Red Roof Inn, right?”
I sit up, adjusting my hat to make sure I am covered. “Yeah.”
“We’re here. You sure you want to stay here? This area looks pretty rough.”
“I’m good.” I crack the door, the burst of cold air making me regret my decision to walk the four blocks home. “Thanks.”
“Have a good night.”
I don’t look back. Blink and try to fully wake, my limbs sluggish, my left leg asleep as I limp from the car, into the cold day. The bright sun should have cast a cheerful light on my street, minimizing the street filth and homeless mounds. It doesn’t. I stuff my free hand into my pocket, heft the duffel bag over my shoulder, and walk. Walk and think of my apartment. Warm, clean, and empty. Even my shower, with its puny spray, is tempting at this moment in time.
The guilt problem gets solved an hour later, when I have showered and changed, the truck is back at Hertz, and FtypeBaby and I are having a getting-reacquainted visit to the tune of a hundred and four miles per hour. Open skies, empty highways, a deathly sprint that will one day get me pulled over or smashed into a hundred pieces… but this time, when my phone rings, Marcus finally and completely taken care of, I answer it. Ready to hear Mike’s voice. Ready to forgive his weakness. Ready to hear that my money, as unused as it may be, is back where it belongs. Not ready to hear the first words out of his mouth.
“Jeremy’s missing.”
CHAPTER 105
JEREMY’S FEET ARE numb. He’s tried kicking, and ended up doing some horrific version of a mermaid flail. He now moves his toes instead, working his ankles back and forth, trying to find some give in the zip ties that bind them together. If only he’d worn boots today. Then his ankles would have some bit of protection, some room. He might have been able to slide a foot out, kick free. Instead he wore Nikes with barely present socks, leaving his ankles naked and unprotected, the hair there not enough to stop the ties from cutting into his skin, the warm ooze of blood coming when his foot manipulation gets too enthusiastic.
Whatever drug he was given has worn off for the most part. He stills feel light-headed, bits of nausea still sweeping along, increasing every time he remembers that the sour taste in his mouth is vomit. He must have, at some point in time, chugged a gallon of it. That is unknown. Everything is unknown. He’d come home, grabbed mail on his way in… and that’s as far back as his memory goes. Nothing else. No explanation of why he’d been tied up on the floor, hands tied behind his back, ankles bound together but knees left free, looking like a police suspect banished to the ground for resisting arrest. Whatever bastard did this also felt the need to tape his eyes, one duct-tape strip running from ear to ear, the sticky side pushed down, into his eyes, pushed hard, like some asshole had wanted to make damn sure that every individual eyelash would adhere to it, to torture his lids into submission while robbing him of his sight. A second piece covers his mouth.
He can move a little. Crawl for a bit before his legs are stopped. They seem to be tied to something, his range of motion restricted to an arc that spans from counter to counter, the point of connection being… the kitchen sink? He tries to arch his back, feel with his hands the chain of zip ties that leads into the cabinet, but can’t get far. He can only guess that his feet are chained to a pipe or the garbage disposal. Whatever it is, it is sturdy. He’s yanked and only worn his skin raw as a result.