“ That’s better. You see we can get along, you and me.”
J.P. stared into the man’s steel eyes and saw nothing there. He thought of the under-the-bed monster that had caused him so many sleepless nights shortly after his father had left them. Nothing, he had thought, was worse than that thing that lived under the bed, but he was wrong, there was something worse and that something worse was staring into his soul, holding a gleaming Jim Bowie knife that was dripping his very own blood.
His eyes must have held a question, because the big man reached out and ripped the tape off his mouth. The tearing, ripping sound of the tape was worse than the stinging pain.
“ What?” the man asked.
“ Are you the Ragged Man?”
“ Not so ragged, I don’t think.” The big man stepped back and looked down at his clothes. “Hmm, maybe I haven’t changed in a few days.” He rubbed his chin. “Or shaved. Maybe I am pretty ragged.” He seemed to be talking to himself.
“ Then you are the Ragged Man,” J.P. said, his hoarse voice traveling through a parched throat.
“ What the fuck are you talking about?”
J.P. didn’t answer
“ Don’t make me mad, boy. I can be nasty when I get mad.”
“ The Ragged Man can’t die. He kills and kills and he can’t die.”
“ Everybody dies.”
“ Not the Ragged Man. If he dies he takes over another body.”
Sam Storm dropped the knife and J.P. heard it thud against the ground. For a second J.P. thought he saw a glimmer of something in the man’s eyes. Then for a another second, he saw the big man’s crooked frown change into a smile, but it didn’t last.
“ How?” he asked through bone white lips.
“ He’s a demon from Australia and he can’t die. He takes over people and makes ’em kill, and now he has you.”
“ You’re full of it, nobody has me. I should peel off your skin, but you stink. The last thing I want is your shit on my hands.”
J.P. watched as the big man turned and left his sight. He heard footsteps walk away. He heard the car door open, then heard heavy footsteps coming back. The man had a roll of gray duct tape in his hands.
“ Gonna tape your mouth shut again.”
“ I won’t make any noise,” J.P. promised.
“ Not when I’m through with you, you won’t.” He raised J.P. by the neck and started winding the tape around the boy’s head, covering his mouth, cheeks, chin, ears, the back of his neck and with the last wrap his nose. J.P. saw it coming and sucked in a deep breath through his nostrils before the stubble faced man closed off his air and slammed the trunk down, again encasing him in the dark.
“ Sweet dreams,” the man said with a bang on the trunk that hurt his ears.
J.P.’s hands were leaving their hiding place behind his back and going to his face even before the trunk slammed shut and the light was gone. His fingers met his cheeks below the eyes and he ran them down along his nose, digging them under the tape. He tugged it down, pulling with all his strength. His lungs were bursting with the need to breathe and the tape didn’t want to give.
He inched his fingers down further under the tape and jerked out, pulling the tape from his nose. Then he pulled down again and the mummy wrapping slid over his nose and he filled his lungs with air. After a few breaths, he tried to dig his fingers under the several layers that covered his mouth, but he couldn’t do it. He pulled his fingers out and started working the tape down, pawing at it over and over, until, after several attempts, he had it sliding down over his upper lip. He opened his mouth wide and took in several breaths of the stink-filled-air. No air in all his young life had ever tasted so sweet.
Now, able to breathe, he felt around his head and found the place where the tape ended and began to peel it off. The first couple of layers peeled off without difficulty, but the last layer hurt as it pulled hair from his head, but he had been through too much to be put off by a little pain. He ripped it off with the same speed a doctor uses to remove a bandage, quickly done and quickly over with.
With the tape off, he rolled onto his side and bent his body at the waist, stretching his arms, grasping the rope that bound his feet. He tried to untie it, but his small hands were no job for the masterful way the big man had tied the knots. He tried to wiggle his feet out of the rope, but he couldn’t get it over his heels.
He wished the Ragged Man would have left the Jim Bowie knife, but he hadn’t.
There had to be another way. He began a thorough search of the trunk. Above his head, he felt the tire jack bolted onto the center of the spare tire. He ran his hands over and behind the tire and grasped what could only be battery cables.
He pulled the cables from behind the tire, grasped one of the ends in his hands. He opened and closed the clamp. He ran his fingers along the sharp teeth of the clamp’s jaws and had an idea. If he could break the clamp in half, he could use the copper teeth as a saw.
He grabbed one end of the clamp in each hand, twisted and twisted again, working the clamp back and forth like he would a metal coat hanger he was trying to break in half. The bottom and top of the jaws separated a little further from each other with each twist, till he managed to twist the clamp enough that the jaws came apart. Again he ran his fingers along the teeth and thought they would be sharp enough to saw through the rope.
He was wrong. After repeated attempts at sawing on it and making no progress, he gave up. The rope was stronger than his makeshift saw. He would have to find something else.
He found the battery cables behind the spare tire, maybe there was something else there, too. He shimmied back over to the spare and reached over it. Nothing. He ran his hands into the well under the front part of the tire. Nothing! He searched the rear area and bingo, wedged between the tire and the well, he found a flash light.
He pulled the light to his breast like a mother would a baby. He was almost afraid to turn it on for fear it wouldn’t light. He counted to ten then flicked it on, sighing as the beam of light illuminated the cramped space, and to his absolute relief, on the other side of the trunk, up against the wall, the light landed on a bright red tool box.
His shaking hands caused him to lower the beam, and he fought tears as it landed on the dead form of the poor little kitten. He scooted around, carefully moved the white kitten’s bloody body out of his way, without noticing the sticky blood that stuck to his hands. Then he opened the tool box.
He hovered over the metal box, like a pirate over treasure, and went through its contents. He removed the top tray and its assorted nails and screws, then he rummaged through the tools-wrenches, screw drivers, a tape measure and a hammer-not quite sure what he was looking for, then he found it, a metal gray utility knife.
He took the utility knife out of the tool box, handling it as if it were Spanish Doubloons. His prayers had been answered, this was his magic ticket. He caressed the smooth metal tool with his thumb, then used that same thumb to flick out the razor sharp blade.
Boy, he thought, if that Ragged Man came back now he would be in for it. One slash and no more eyes Mister Ragged Man. A second slash and no more throat. Let’s see how brave you are now, he angrily thought. And then common sense took over and he began to think. If the Ragged Man came back, he, not the Ragged Man, would be the one in deep shit.
He slashed through the rope that bound his legs, wincing as blood started free flowing to his bare feet. He lay still through the pain and tingling, waiting for normal feeling to return.
He played the light over the top of the trunk, then directed the beam to the lock. He could see there was no way he could open the lid, but he had to give it a try. He felt around the lock, hoping that maybe there was a cable or something he could pull on to open it. There wasn’t.
From the lock, he sent the light back over the tools and saw no help there, unless he wanted to use the hammer to beat on the metal sides of his coffin-like enclosure to draw help. But what if his captor was the only one outside? He would be in for it then.
Moving the beam, he rested it on the gas can. Its fumes, suppressed by the combination smell of his fouled pants and the dead cat, were no longer noticeable. He jiggled the can. There was gas in it. Moving the light more, he checked out the spare tire, the tire iron and jack, oily rags, the battery cables, the dead cat and lastly he pointed the beam on the back of the back seat.
Then he lay very still and listened.
