The Chosen

“Mr. Feldspar’s right in here,” Kyle said.

It never occurred to Taylor (not the most deductive of men) to wonder why the general manager of The Inn would be behind a padlocked door. He was too worried about making his pitch. He straightened his tie and lapels, then his hair, then checked to make sure his phony Rolex was still ticking. Yeah, it would be great to sell this Feldspar guy a bookkeeping contract. The company needed more business, and Taylor sure could use a contract himself since he worked on commission. At least at T.G.I.F. he’d gotten a salary.

Then:

What the hell is this? he thought when he entered the pantry.

The pantry was smaller than a trailer bedroom. And it was—

Empty, Taylor realized.

Nothing on the shelves because there were no shelves. No foodstocks, no supplies—

“What gives?’’ Taylor began to turn. “This is no pantry—”

And before he could finish turning, Kyle had the garrote around his neck nice and tight. Taylor tried to yell but no sound came out. His fingers tried to dig in under the garrote. His heart beat to explode…

Kyle was chuckling from behind, tightening the cord. The buttons on Taylor’s suit jacket flew off as he struggled. Next, he was powered to the floor, his Florsheim’s thunking the walls. The cord around his throat tightening in increments; Taylor felt his face swell up. He was a strong man, more than a match for this psycho Kyle, yet every expenditure of his energy proved a waste. Not much more than shock and pure, primitive terror coursed through his brain. Beyond that, however distantly, he somehow sensed that he was…descending.

Kyle’s knee pressed against Taylor’s neck; the garrote continued to tighten. And next:

A gush of air. A block of bright light.

Feet thumping, his eyes fit to launch from his skull, Taylor was dragged out by the throat. “Right this way,

Mr. Taylor,” Kyle mocked, his face huge in Taylor’s warped vision. “Mr. Feldspar seems to be detained for the moment, but I’m sure that we can take care of you.”

“Oh, we’ll take care of him, all right,” another voice issued. It was clearly a woman’s voice, rough and densely sultry. Two more hands were on him now. His brain starved of blood, Taylor could think now only in snatches and obscure chunks of terror. As he felt himself being lifted up onto some sort of table, his consciousness began to dim out…

“Aw, shit!” complained the woman’s voice. “He’s dead already. Why’d you kill him so fast? We could’ve had some fun first.”

Kyle’s hands came away. The garrote lost its tension. “Well, what difference does it make if he’s dead?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” The woman laughed. “We can still have a little fun at that.”

Blood swam back into Taylor’s brain—

They think I’m dead, he thought.

Unseen hands next were pulling off his slacks.

“Oooo! Red undies!” exclaimed the woman. “How sexy. I just hate plain old white shorts on a man.”

Don’t move!