So Pretty It Hurts

“Bailey Weggins. Please, you’ve got to help me.”

With one swift movement the driver reached his right arm into the backseat and tried to slap the BlackBerry from my hand. I jerked away, pressing my body against the door.

“What is the license plate of the car?” the operator asked.

“I have no idea,” I exclaimed. “I didn’t see it.”

“What’s the car look like? What’s the make?”

“Uh—I don’t know. It’s dark. A four-door.” I peered into the front seat toward the glove compartment. I couldn’t see anything.

I prayed the guy would head onto a side street, where he’d be forced to slow down. But he turned south onto the FDR Drive, which ran between the East River and the eastern edge of Manhattan. My fear ballooned. There was only a small amount of traffic, and the driver now had the car up to at least fifty miles per hour. If I jumped out, I’d kill myself.

“We’re on the FDR now,” I yelled to the operator. “South.”

I grabbed the window handle and rolled it down. Cold air gushed into the back of the cab.

“Help me,” I screamed to the stream of cars to my right, but my voice was crushed by the wind. Finally a woman in the backseat of one of the cars seemed to notice me. She leaned forward, said something to the couple in the front seat, and then glanced back at me, her face scrunched in worry. But the car pulled off at the next exit.

I felt nearly dizzy with dread. Where was he taking me? I wondered desperately. Did he want to rob me or rape me, or both? He nearly careened off the South Street exit, and then to my horror swung onto the entrance to the Manhattan Bridge. He was taking me to Brooklyn, where it would be easy to find a deserted spot. He was forced to slow down just a little on the bridge, but there was too much traffic for me to even think of jumping out. On my right a subway car hurtled by alongside us. Inside passengers dozed or stared listlessly. I tried to motion to them, but no one noticed.

From my hand I could hear the operator calling out to me. I pressed my Blackberry to my ear.

“Miss, please, give me your location now,” she said.

“We’re on the bridge now,” I told her. “Manhattan Bridge.”

“Can you signal to anyone near you?”

“I’m trying, but they don’t see me.”

“We are alerting the police in Brooklyn to your location.”

Get control, I told myself. I had to think of a plan. When we left the bridge, the driver would have to slow down. That would be my chance to leap from the car. I pressed myself against the door and gripped the handle tightly.

Finally we came off the bridge, rolling into a dark, deserted part of Brooklyn. I could tell the driver was trying his best not to lose speed, but he had no choice but to ease off the gas. The traffic light ahead had just turned from yellow to red and he zoomed right through it. I’d never have a chance to jump if he refused to ever stop the freaking car.

There were only stop signs at the next two intersections and the driver just barreled through. He was about to do the same with the next one, but miraculously a delivery van came lumbering through the intersection. The driver touched the brake, slowing the car. I jerked the handle down. At the same moment the driver shot his right arm into the backseat and tried to grab hold of my jacket, but I was faster than he was. I shoved open the door, propelled myself out, and rolled onto the sidewalk.

I scrambled to my feet, veered right, and started to run. I was on a dark and empty street, lined with old warehouses and storefronts with their metal gates pulled down. Behind me I heard tires squeal as the driver jerked the wheel. Oh God, I thought. He was going to come after me, even though he’d be headed the wrong way down a one-way street.

“I’m out now,” I yelled into the BlackBerry. “On, uh—I can’t see.”

I couldn’t take the time to see. I just had to move. Running as fast as I could, I screamed for help a couple of times, but there wasn’t a soul in sight, just darkened or boarded-up windows everywhere I could see. In a minute I could hear the car coming up behind me. I propelled myself even faster, trying not to trip in my damn riding boots. My lungs seemed ready to explode.

I heard the driver gun the engine. He was almost parallel to me, just off to my left. I didn’t look over, just kept my eyes straight ahead, focusing on a point in the distance. About two blocks ahead I could see a big halo of light at an intersection, as if there were businesses and traffic there. Go! I screamed to myself. I only had to make it two long blocks. I yelled for help a few more times, just to let the guy know it would be a bitch to stop the car and try to get me inside again without a fuss.

We were coming to a stretch of the street where there weren’t even any parked cars along the sidewalk, and I wondered, horrified, if the driver might try to jump the car up onto the sidewalk and mow me down. And then it was like he’d read my mind. I heard the thud as he yanked the car up over the curb. Without even processing what I was about to do, I dropped my phone into my pocket and grabbed a garbage can near a doorway. I spun around and hurled it right at the hood of the car.

It didn’t do any damage, but it stayed on the hood. As I started running again, my lungs nearly screaming, I heard the driver curse through an open window and put the car in reverse, making the can roll off the hood. Within seconds, though, he was in pursuit again.

But it was too late. I was close to the intersection now, and I could see that it was filled with traffic, and there were even a few people up there too, a cluster of hipsters hanging by a bar. And on the far side, there was something that filled me with joy. A police cruiser.

I burst into the intersection and started waving my arms frantically. Behind me I heard the gypsy cab screech to a halt and then do a U-turn, the driver jerking the car forward and backward a few times. I slowed my speed a little, and looked back. The car was totally turned around, ready to take off in the opposite direction. In the dark I could make out only the first part of the license plate—L3. The driver suddenly thrust his head out the window and looked back at me. He screamed something in my direction. It sounded like “Stop. Be a body.” And then he took off like the proverbial banshee down the street.

Relief poured through my body, warm, almost intoxicating. I turned back to the intersection, waited for the light, and started to jog across to the police cruiser. As I moved, fighting a stitch in my side, I dug into my pocket and found my BlackBerry. The 911 operator was still connected.

“I’m okay,” I told her, trying to catch my breath. “I see a cop car.”

“Good. Please let me speak to one of the officers.”

As soon as I approached, the cop in the driver’s seat rolled his window down. He looked like he was twelve years old and might be wearing Spiderman underpants.

“What can we do for you, young lady?” he asked. The cop next to him set down the disposable aluminum dish he was eating from and leaned his head in my direction.

I blurted out that I’d been abducted and then handed him my BlackBerry. He listened intently, signed off, and then handed the BlackBerry back to me.

“Are you okay?” he asked, climbing out of the car. When I assured him I was, he asked for the best description of the car and driver I could give and then called it in on his radio.

I suddenly noticed that despite the cold, the sweater inside my jacket was wet with sweat. I also noticed a weird crashing sensation beginning to build in me, maybe from all the adrenaline that had been briefly pumped through my system and was now in retreat.

“We should cruise around and see if we can find this guy,” the cop told me when he was finished talking on his walkie-talkie. “But we don’t have much to go on. And we also need to make sure you get home somehow.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a yellow taxi head through the intersection, and the light was on.

“Why don’t I grab this taxi,” I told the cop. I shot out my arm and waved. The car screeched to a halt. “Thanks so much for your help.”

“You’ll need to file a police report tomorrow, okay?”

I promised I would and darted toward the cab. I spent the ride home fighting tears. I felt badly shaken.

By the time I let myself into my apartment, I was trembling, as if the fear was now really catching up with me. I stripped off my boots, jeans, and sweater and took a long shower. It felt so good to have the hot water course over me, as if I was washing the terror away too. My leap from the gypsy cab had left another ugly bruise on