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A moment later, the binds are cut. I fight the urge to rub my wrists or make any other sudden moves. It’s hard though. I want to beat on the window and draw attention to myself and pray that someone sees and tries to help. But that also seems like a dumb way to die, so I don’t.
The doors open and I catch a whiff of dank air. Humidity, motor oil, and exhaust. We’re not in the open anymore. We’re in an underground garage.
Oh, goody.
“Come along, Ms. Devlin.” Two hands grab my arms and help me out of the vehicle. My ankle wobbles for a moment, but someone catches me. They don’t use the opportunity to cop a feel, so at least they’re not creeps about this. It’s discombobulating to be led around while wearing a gag and a blindfold, but the pair walking me through the place are careful not to let me stumble. It’s almost like they do this kind of thing all the time, and that thought is not making me feel better.
A door creaks open ahead, and it feels like a pressure change when it closes again. Where the hell are we?
“There are many stairs between here and our destination. Step lively and carefully.”
My guides stay with me, one on each side. So, the stairway is wide enough for three people. The light has a hazy green glow and hum like bees—old fluorescents. A foul scent hangs in the air, like a building that hasn’t been cleaned in a very long time. Musty and thick. It reminds me of the time I got stuck in the basement at my great aunt’s retirement home.
That day was hell, and I hoped to never relive it. But I’d take that over this any day.
The stairs go on forever. Nine and then a landing, and we turn for the next batch. Eight stories down, until another door scratches the cement floor as it’s opened. The door opener’s footsteps sound far away in a hurry.
Was this a bomb shelter or something? Shamefully, I don’t know much of Boston’s history in that regard. But I know bomb shelters were a thing for a while in the fifties. Maybe that’s where they’re taking me. Someplace no one will ever find me.
No. Can’t think like that. This will all blow over.
I hope.
Something clicks ahead, and then he says, “That’s right, gents, over here.” It’s the same guy who grabbed me off the street—he’s the one who has done all the talking.
They lead me toward the grabber, then plop me onto a hard wooden chair. The next thing I know, they’re tying my ankles and wrists to the chair. After I’m bound, someone unties the gag, followed by the blindfold. It takes a few blinks before I realize I won’t be seeing anyone anytime soon.
I’d thought it’d be a minute before my eyes adjusted to the light again, but I was wrong. One of those floodlights people use for interrogations is aimed right at my face. I can’t see shit other than bright white light.
I smack my lips together a few times, surprised by just how dry my mouth is. It’s hard not to panic right now. I’ve been transported to a destination that they obviously planned for. In fact, they’ve clearly planned all of this for a while now, since they know my name and my involvement with Anderson. If they think I’m this valuable to him, then they know about things from an outside perspective—they don’t know we’re not together.
Well, are we?
No, not the point. Life and death on the line. Can’t focus on my romantic life at a time like this. I have to keep my wits about me and get answers. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?”
There’s no answer. I don’t hear footsteps, but I didn’t hear them after we came in, either. It’s like the men vanished into thin air. Like ghosts. There’s a pleasant thought. I’ve been kidnapped by ghosts. Won’t that be fun to explain … assuming I get out of this place?
“Anyone there?” I shout, hoping for an answer.
Nothing. Not even crickets.
Well, at least the interrogation lamp is warm. I need it down here—basements are cold. That’s what I’ve decided this place is. A basement. Not a bomb shelter. A basement is survivable. A bomb shelter is a great place to leave a body. I am not a body. I am a person, and I will survive this.
I have definitely not been left here to die.
Okay. Let’s forget the d-word for right now and focus on what’s happened. I’m strapped to a chair in a basement after getting nabbed by a crew of thugs. The grabber said this is business, not personal. They haven’t done anything untoward. Other than kidnapping me and threatening me with violence. Fine. It doesn’t appear to be something sexual, either, which is a relief. If anything in this situation could be a relief … whatever, I’ll take it.
How strong is this chair?
It’s wooden—I can feel the woodgrain under my nails. Can I pry it apart? Should I bother to? If I cooperate, they are less likely to hurt me, right?
All the times I’ve heard about kidnappings for money, it’s the cooperative captives that stand a better chance of surviving. And even though I know that, I can’t help but try to pry my chair apart.
Tugging at the rope doesn’t do anything but hurt my wrist. Flaking at the woodgrain with my nails only hurts my nails. I have no weapons on me, but I can’t just sit here, either. If I fall over, will the chair break? Not likely—this thing reminds me of the chairs at Appleton. Thick wood designed to be abused by kids. Solid construction. No chance of breaking it on the concrete floor.
If I hop the chair toward the light and knock that over, will someone come? Do I want them to? Would the light start a fire? Not that there’s much around me to burn. And I don’t want to die of smoke inhalation before someone gets here to save me.
If they’d save me.
