Abandoned

before. It almost destroyed me. It’s happening again, here, now, and the possibilities terrify me.

I examine this and throw it aside. It’s neither pertinent nor helpful. Dali is not Sands. There’s no indication that he’s a rapist. His attitude with Heather Hollister seems to have been that of a zookeeper with an animal. He might beat me, but he probably won’t fuck me.

My heartbeat slows a little bit.

Second: Heather Hollister herself. She wasn’t a weak woman, but eight years alone in the dark drove her crazy. She was a strong woman, a competent, confident police officer; now she picks holes into her skin and talks in circles like a child.

I group this one with the third and fourth. Third: Dana Hollister. What if he decides to lobotomize me in the same way? What if he makes the darkness last forever? And, finally, fourth: He could just decide to kill me.

These things, on the advice of Barnaby Wallace, I embrace. They’re real. They make sense. They are things that could actually happen and thus are the problems to solve.

My heartbeat and breathing have both returned to normal.

Thanks, Barnaby. You go on the Christmas list, if I make it out of here cognitive.

So, fight or flight? Which makes the most sense in this situation? I tick off the factors in my mind. He’s got the weapons, which gives him a distinct advantage. If he’s had military training, he’ll be conversant in close quarters combat. The most troubling thing is his experience. He’s been doing this for years. He knows what to expect when that trunk opens.

Flight, then. But how?

I remember what Heather Hollister said. She’d been ready to jump out and attack when the trunk opened. She’d been pepper-sprayed and stun-gunned for her efforts. It was the most obvious tactic, and the first one he’d be braced for. Jitter-step.

It was one of Kirby’s words. She’d challenged me to a little hand-to-hand combat one weekend, and I’d accepted. I prefer my gun but am aware it’s not always an option, and I knew my jujitsu could use some serious updating.

We had a good time, and Kirby, as it turns out, was a good instructor. She was skilled but never brutal, and she was able to explain everything she did. At one point I thought I had her. I’d caught her from behind, in a headlock, and she was straining hard to escape. She suddenly relaxed, sagging, then strained again, then sagged further, then strained again. It was confusing, and I found myself off balance, struggling to anticipate and react. In the midst of this calculation, she went from straining a little to a huge burst of resistance that threw me off utterly. She surged forward and flipped me over her shoulder. I landed on my back, hard.

Kirby had grinned down at me as I struggled to catch my breath. Jitter-step, Smoky-babe. One step up, one step down, one step up, one step down, and then, just when they think they’ve got your rhythm, make it two steps, see?

The car moves forward again.

I decide to make my move as I’m climbing out of the trunk, when my back is to him. It should be when I seem the most vulnerable and off balance. I’ll pretend to struggle with the exit, as though I’m lightheaded or faint. I’ll try once, fail, try twice, fail, and on the third time, rather than fail, I’ll kick back, catch him with a foot, and run.

I hope.

The quality of the sounds has changed. They are subtly deeper, as though they contain an echo.

A garage. We’ve pulled in to a garage.

I take a few deep breaths to steady myself and chant one of the phrases Barnaby used later in his lecture. It had seemed cheesy at the time, but it helps me now.

Fear serves me. I do not serve fear.

The engine stops. A pause. I hear a door opening and the muffled sounds of footsteps against a hard, smooth surface.

The trunk pops open slightly, a crack of light. There was no key in the lock, so he must have used the remote on his key fob. Smart.

“I’m going to open the trunk door halfway. I’ll throw in a pair of handcuffs. You’ll put them on. If you make a single move I’m uncomfortable with, I’ll hurt you. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

The trunk opens a little more but not completely. The handcuffs are thrown in.

“No tricks. Put them on tight or I’ll hurt you. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

He sounds bored, as if he’s reading from a prepared script. Just a job, done it a hundred times, same old same old.

I ratchet the cuffs onto my wrists, ensuring that they’re tight. “Okay, they’re on.”

The trunk opens fully. He’s standing behind the car, relaxed but alert. He holds my gun in one hand, pointed at me. The other holds a can of what I assume is pepper spray, also pointed at me.

We’re inside a concrete structure with a roll-up door. The door is up and I can see night sky and a fence behind Dali. Freedom.

“You’re going to climb out of the trunk and stand with your back to me. I’ll walk you forward. You’ll go where I direct you. If you make any sudden move, I’ll shoot you. I’ll injure you if I can, but I’ll kill you if I have to. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Climb out.”

Now or never. This is the chance. Jitter-step.

I struggle to get out and fail.

That’s one.

I take a quick breath, steady my nerves, and get ready to try and fail again.

He sprays me with the pepper spray before I even start. It hits me in the worst way: directly into my open eyes and down my throat. The pain is immediate and excruciating. I scream as my eyes burn, and then I can’t scream because I’m coughing uncontrollably and retching. He continues to spray me, he won’t stop, and I’m unaware of him, of the car, of the fear, because everything is about the agony I’m in.

He kicks me so that I fall back into the trunk, and then he slams it shut.

I cough and retch in the dark. I scream when I can. My skin burns anywhere the spray touched it. I rub my eyes, but that only makes it worse. The pain is more terrible than anything I’ve ever experienced, not in terms of its intensity but because of its inescapability. Nothing I do lessens it, nothing will make it stop.

I burn in the dark, and writhe.

I have no idea how much time passes. Time is measured in suffering, in its lessening, and finally in its ending. Somewhere in the part of my mind that’s still capable of rational thought, I guess that an hour must have passed. I’m covered in sweat; my face drips with tears and snot. I’ve vomited on myself. My muscles are weak, and I’m filled with a deadening mixture of lassitude and despair. A hand pounds twice on the trunk.

“We’re going to try this again. If you attempt to do anything other than what I’ve told you, I will give you the same again. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I whisper, my voice trembling with fear and hate.

“Do you understand?”

He couldn’t hear me. The hate rises.

“Yes,” I say, louder. “I understand.”

What else is there to say?

The trunk opens. The scene is the same as before. The night sky behind him, the gun in my face. I gulp in cool night air. I tremble, and hate that I tremble.

“Go on,” he says. “Get out.”

I shake as I climb out, no funny stuff this time. I stand with my back to him. He places a hand on my shoulder. The gun settles into my lower back.

“Walk.”