Chapter Four:
Chow Mein
There was a flash of light and distant noises. My head felt like someone was taking an ice pick and chipping away at my skull with sadistic blows. I decided that death couldn’t be this painful, so I was probably not dead … or this was what hell was supposed to feel like.
My eyes were pried open, and a light came flashing again. This was followed by an animalistic groan, like a bear cub—was that me?
I managed to flutter my eyes open without anyone’s help. Inches away from my face, someone was holding a pen-sized flashlight. I couldn’t focus enough to see him, but I could definitely smell him: cigarettes, booze, dirt.
The ceiling was swimming. I thought I was going to vomit, and I had to let my eyelids drop to stop the spinning. Slowly, the muffled sounds became words.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” asked the man with the flashlight. His voice was raspy, and I could smell the nicotine off his breath.
“None of your business,” I managed, my voice bouncing like a rock against the walls of my skull. I could hear snickering in the background. I tried to get up, but barely managed to get my head off the pillow before it fell back with a thump.
“Whoa there, sweetheart! Not so fast! You’ve got a pretty big bump on that little noggin of yours,” said the raspy voice.
That would explain the blinding pain. “My name is definitely not sweetheart,” I defied—and there was more snickering from the peanut gallery.
“Of course it isn’t, honey. But that’s all I’ve got to work with right now,” he told me.
It’s not honey, either, I thought, but was in too much pain to argue with him on his use of sexist remarks.
“She’s probably got a mild concussion,” assessed the man with the nicotine breath. “Just make sure she gets plenty of rest and wake her up every few hours overnight. Give me a call if she gets any worse.”
“She looks like she’s in pain. Can she take anything?” asked a deep voice that I instantly recognized. I forced my eyes open. The boy in the gray sweater—Cameron—was standing at the foot of the bed, and color still hadn’t returned to his face.
“Not for the next twelve hours. But I’ll leave you something for tomorrow,” replied nicotine breath, like he was in hurry. The doctor’s stink matched his appearance, as if he had just crawled out of a cardboard box in a back alley. His dress shirt, which might have once been white, was untucked and had dark yellow and brown stains, particularly under the armpits and around the collar. His dress pants were grossly wrinkled and equally stained.
“Thanks, Doc.” Cameron furtively glanced in my direction and turned to the scary tattooed man who was standing behind him, in a soldier-like stance.
There was another boy leaning against the white wall. By the grin on his face, he must have been the instigator of the earlier giggling at my expense. He was a big kid, standing at least six feet tall and built like he should be throwing bales of hay around. He reminded me of an oversized Chucky doll, except with disheveled brown hair instead of red.
With a nod from Cameron, the tattooed man dug into his pocket and pulled out a wad of rolled-up bills. Not missing a beat, the Doc grabbed the cash and rushed out of the room without taking one more look at his patient. So much for bedside manner.
The tattooed man followed the doctor out the door, shooting me a frosty glare on his way out. Cameron turned his focus to the other boy.
“Get out of here, Kid,” he ordered. I watched as the kid walked out the door without saying a word, but with the same stupid grin on his face.
And then we were alone.
I ran my fingers through my hair, hitting a bump at the crown of my head.
“Ouch,” I said in an almost whisper. But Cameron heard me and glanced back. As soon as our eyes met, he looked away. I tried to read his face, but his expression was blank.
“Get some rest,” he said harshly as he too walked out, closing the door behind him.
I lay there, circling my fingers into my temples and trying hard to remember what had happened: the last thing I remembered was Cameron’s empty stare after I had watched him kill an innocent man in cold blood. This I tried hard to forget.
I was still alive, and the name of the boy in the gray sweater was Cameron. Of these two things I was almost sure. Everything else was a blur, including where I was and how I had gotten there.
I struggled to sit up and flip my legs over the edge of the bed. My eyelids were heavy; all I wanted to do was sleep.
My feet hit the cool wooden floors—and I suddenly noticed that I didn’t have my sneakers on anymore. Slightly panicked, I looked to see if anything else was missing, or different. I didn’t know what I was expecting to find, but whatever it was, I didn’t find it. Except for the grass stains on my knees, the rubber band that was missing from my hair, and the immense throbbing against my skull, everything else on my body was the way I had last left it.
With a stiff neck, I scanned my surroundings; there wasn’t much to decipher. I was in a small room, lit only by the bedside lamp that was on the table next to the bed. There was an armchair with a rose velvet cushion in one corner. Three of the walls were of a pristine white and frameless. The other wall was made up of four floor-to-ceiling undraped windows.
After waiting for another bout of nausea to pass, I went to the window, holding on to the small table as support for my shaky frame. Outside, the sun-setting sky was of resilient palettes of orange, red, and pink, and I was peering over the shadows of endless rooftops. Wherever I was, it was high above a city, at least thirty stories high. Down below, a yellow cab was waiting at a red light on an otherwise empty street. I couldn’t decide if I was still in Callister—I thought I recognized the clock tower that stood at the center of the city square, but it was too distant and I was too tired to be sure. My hand pressed against the glass; I closed my eyes until the dizziness passed.
I slowly, painfully trudged to the door of the bedroom and placed my ear against its smooth white surface. I could hear a TV echoing in the background and hushed voices, but nothing else. I twisted the doorknob, expecting it to be locked, but it wasn’t. Without a sound, I cracked the door open. Initially I was surprised to find that no one was keeping guard at the door, and then a sound from the ground startled me. The dog, Meatball, who had apparently been keeping the guard and had suddenly just seen me, quickly got up on all fours, his tail wagging excitedly. I could tell that he was getting ready to pounce. I speedily closed the door, hearing his disappointed whine.
I dragged myself back to bed, got under the warm covers, and let my eyelids fall once again. I had expended whatever small resource of energy I had left in me.
I would have to stay there—wherever there was—until my broken brain healed and could come up with a survival plan.
Within a few minutes, I was asleep.
I heard someone clearing his throat, and I was startled awake. The room was blackened, except for the light that was pouring in from the hallway. Cameron was standing by the open door, like he was waiting for me to wake up. I looked up at him through a sleepy, confused haze. He looked tired but satisfied, and he slid out, closing the door behind him.
I fell back asleep almost immediately.
The same thing happened many more times. Cameron would walk into the room, make some small noise, wake me up. Then I’d look up and he’d quietly exit the room—his expression always blank. He had apparently taken on the task of ensuring that I didn’t die in my sleep—so far, he had decided to keep me alive, for whatever reason.
In the morning, I woke up to the sound of Meatball whining at the closed bedroom door and the blinking pain localized to the top of my head. The grayish light of dawn was coming in through the wall of windows.
I sat up in bed, letting my tired head fall against the cold wall behind me. It wasn’t until I saw Cameron that I remembered where I was—well, at least I recognized the room I was in. He was sleeping, uncomfortably sprawled on the too-small armchair. He was still fully dressed, but had obviously changed out of his bloody gray sweater—I couldn’t remember if he still had it on when I had first woke up in this room.
His head was rolled back and resting on the wall with one hand half fallen over his eyes, an unconscious effort to block out the rising sun. His brown hair was scruffy, like he’d raked his hand through it a thousand times. The dark circles under his eyes told the story of someone who hadn’t been sleeping much, probably not for many days.
I watched him like this for a while, committing his features to memory.
And then his watch beeped, and he jumped awake, momentarily disoriented. His eyes quickly found me.
“How long have you been awake?” he asked with a hoarse voice, squinting down at his watch.
“A while, I guess,” I said with care, pulling the covers up to my chin.
He passed both hands over his entire face, rubbing his skin awake. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” I answered quickly without really thinking about the question.
Cameron moved to the side of the bed and stopped short, deliberating. Was he debating shooting me now or later? I looked for signs of trouble, like a dog going on the attack, like a gun being pulled out from the back of his jeans.
With a movement that was too fast for my bruised brain to analyze, Cameron sat next to me and rushed his hand to my face. In instinct, I gasped and recoiled from him. His eyes widened, and he snapped his hand away like he’d just been burned.
The features of his face washed with … Guilt? Worry? Anger? Disappointment? I couldn’t be sure.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice notably softer. “I was just going to check the bump on your head. I won’t hurt you.”
His concern was unreserved, which made my throat immediately squeeze shut. It was too late—the tears had sprung to my eyes.
“I’m fine … really,” I said in answer to the increased concern on his face.
“You don’t look fine.”
I wiped the tears as soon as they escaped my eyes. “This is stupid. I don’t know why I’m crying.”
“I do,” he mumbled resentfully, his jaw tightening. “Can I check your head … even if you say you’re fine?”
I nodded through my sniffles and bent my head forward as a peace offering. My heart pumped hard in my chest while his fingers parted the hairs at the crown of my head and pressed lightly on the bump. My face winced under the cover of my hair.
“Does this hurt?” he asked.
“No,” I lied, the strain in my voice betraying me.
“I didn’t think so,” he said. “I’ll get you something for the pain.”
Before I could refuse, he was out the door, and Meatball had found his way in. In an instant, he was on the bed, crawled up and laying his head on my chest. I rubbed his floppy ears; he whined. For a big beast, he could be cute, as long as he wasn’t trying to bite your head off.
“Meatball. Out. Now.” Cameron’s authoritative voice startled both Meatball and me.
Like the boy the night before, Meatball immediately obeyed, but not before slipping me a lick with his sticky tongue against my hand.
“Wow! Does everyone just jump like that when you give orders?” I blurted as I watched the dog run out.
“Not everyone,” he said dryly. He walked over to my bedside and handed me two little white pills and a large glass of water. The water was liquid gold to my eyes: my mouth tasted like I’d been licking the chalk off a blackboard all night. As for the mystery pills, I hesitated and shyly glanced up.
Cameron folded his arms. “It’s still really early and you need to get more rest. The pills will help with the pain so you can get some sleep.” He stood there, watching me like I was a mental patient, ensuring that the crazy girl took her pills.
I needed to get some answers; starting with what I thought I knew seemed like a good idea. “Your name is Cameron,” I mused, my voice echoing inside the glass.
Cameron’s body stiffened. “Uh-huh.”
We watched each other while I took two large gulps of water to make sure that my throat was open to choke down the drugs.
He deliberated again before sitting next to me.
“What else do you remember?” he asked me.
Color rushed to my face. “Is this where I tell you that I don’t remember anything?” I blurted again. As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I wished I would have spent more time thinking about the weight of his question and coming up with a response that wouldn’t get me killed.
“No,” he said without blinking, “this is where you tell me the truth.”
I took my time swallowing the first pill and my tears. “That man in the cemetery, what did he do to deserve what you did to him?” I needed him to tell me that the man hadn’t been just some random runner who was in the wrong place at the wrong time—that only bad people got killed—that girls like me didn’t get killed just because they witnessed a murder.
His face hardened. “You assume that the man was blameless.” This wasn’t a question—he had read what had been lingering in my mind. “What if I told you that justice was served?”
“He’s dead, isn’t he.”
“What does it matter?” he said. “It’s not like you knew him.”
I closed my eyes, which forced the tears to drop down my cheeks. Then the words came drooling out before I had time to process them. “His family will never know what happened to him, and they’ll spend the rest of their lives wondering what they could have done to change things. There doesn’t seem to be much justice in that.”
I fearfully braced myself for the blows that would come next. When I felt his fingers quickly brush my damp cheek, I opened my eyes. There was no anger on Cameron’s face—but his eyes were appraising.
I cleared my throat to cut through the pain in my chest, and I swallowed my second pill. My fingers tingled—the first pill was already working its magic. Whatever I was chugging down, it was potent.
“Cameron,” I said, “what am I doing here?”
“You’re resting.”
“Who were all those people in the room yesterday?” I probed again, my head falling into the pillow.
“My colleagues.” His stare was unwavering while my eyelids were getting heavy. I was fading fast.
“How long are you going to keep me here?” I drowsily continued.
Cameron pulled the glass out of my numbed hands and set it on the table next to me. “For as long as it takes.”
“And what are you going to do with me?” This came out as a whisper. My eyes were barely slit open.
Cameron paused on this question. He scanned my face, like the answer was written somewhere between the freckles.
“I don’t know,” was that last thing I heard him say before I fell comatose.
The next time I woke up, the sun was already setting.
I was feeling better, rested, though my joints and muscles ached from the lack of movement. As for the bump on my head, it was only sensitive to the touch of my fingers—there was no more throbbing. My hair on the other hand was a tangled mess; my head felt naked when my hair was down. I searched my pockets and then the barren room for anything that I could use to tie it back. The only thing I found was the glass of water that had been refilled, and that I greedily gulped down.
The bedroom door had been left open, and hollowed sounds from a TV could still be heard. As soon as the smell of food tickled my nose, my stomach grumbled. The last meal I had eaten was the stale peanut butter sandwich I’d gobbled down on my lunch break from work; how long ago was that? My brain was still too foggy to count back the hours—or the days.
Letting my stomach do the thinking, I got out of bed and shuffled to the door on my white-socked feet.
The darkening hallway had many doors, all the same as the one I had just walked through, and all closed. The only source of light came from the other end of the hall. I passed a small, white-tiled foyer … and what looked like a front door, or a way to escape. The door had five different locks on it: I kept going while I tried to calculate how long it would take me to go through all those locks before I was discovered. A tiny knot loosened inside of me when I noticed my worn, familiar sneakers neatly placed next to the pile of large shoes that were on the floor.
In the living room, the big kid, the one that looked like a big Chucky doll, was sprawled on one of the couches, remote control in hand, looking utterly bored.
The tattooed man was sitting erect on the edge of an armchair. He shot up and stood as soon as he saw me; his venomous stare unimproved.
The kid followed his colleague’s gaze and narrowed his eyes, as he scanned me head to toe.
“You look like crap,” he remarked, his lethargic gaze returning to the TV. We had just met; as far as he knew, I could have looked this awful every day.
I scowled.
“Thanks.” My voice was still throaty.
“Hungry?” asked the only voice that I recognized. I turned to see Cameron strolling out of the kitchen, a cardboard box with red symbols in one hand, the other stuffing a heap of noodle-laden chopsticks into his mouth. There was something decidedly different about him. The worried creases on his forehead and around his eyes were lessened.
I couldn’t stop my heart from thudding. He was handsome … for a kidnapper.
Meatball was at Cameron’s feet, slobbering and eyeing with anticipation every mouthful of food, hoping that some would fall his way.
Feeling the weight of the tattooed man’s stare, I tucked my hair behind my ears. Cameron’s smile almost reached his eyes. Sticking his chopsticks into the box, he took something out of his pocket and handed it to me. It was my rubber band. My face flushed while he watched me put my hair up—but I felt better, less naked, as soon as my carrot locks were pulled back.
With a nod of the head, Cameron directed me to follow him through the small kitchen to the kitchen table. He pulled a chair out and left to fix me a plate. I had hoped to get away from the tattooed man’s stare; regretfully, I sat in clear view of the living room. I kept my eyes down to the table. When I looked up again, the tattooed man had found the edge of his seat again and turned half his attention to the TV. The spiderweb on the back of his neck was all I had to contend with.
Cameron placed an overfilled plate of Chinese takeout in front of me; there was no way I would be able to finish that. But I started loading food into my mouth anyway while Cameron watched from the kitchen doorway. Every time I looked up from my plate, his eyes were on me. There was something unsettling about eating—with clumsy chopsticks no less—under someone else’s scrutiny.
“Do you feel better today?” he asked.
I swallowed.
“Yes. Thank you.”
He paused and read my face. His eyes narrowed—unsatisfied with what he found. “How’s your head?”
I doubted he knew what a loaded question that was. “My skull is fine.”
“Do you feel dizzy?” he asked quickly.
I brought the chopsticks to my mouth. “Not anymore.”
He waited, and then he continued, “Any throbbing?”
“Just a little bit,” I answered truthfully but quickly before he chose to poke and prod my head to catch me in a lie again.
He paused and watched.
“Good,” he said finally with satisfaction.
I breathed a sigh of relief; I had passed his assessment. I looked down at my plate with surprise—one more chopstick-full and it would be polished off.
“More?” Cameron asked with amusement when I took my last bite.
I thought about it, but shook my head. He took the empty plate back into the kitchen. With Cameron’s easy mood and food in my stomach—a lot of food—my shoulders were starting to unclench.
It didn’t occur to me why Cameron was so relaxed until he came out of the kitchen and announced his decision, “Kid’s going to take you for a drive.”
My full stomach dropped to my knees, and Kid’s head snapped up, at last finding interest away from the TV.
“I am?” he asked, echoing my own thought—though mine was more of a horrified gasp than a question. The tattooed man also looked surprised by this announcement; apparently Cameron hadn’t shared his plan with anyone else.
“Yep,” Cameron said with confidence, turning to Kid. “You’re taking Emily to the farm tonight.”
At this announcement, the big kid let his head fall back in annoyance, like a ten-year-old child being asked to clean his room. “Tonight? Are you kidding? It’s already getting dark! It’ll take forever!”
I still had hope: Kid—with the now noticeable strangler-sized hands—was too lazy to kill me today. But Cameron offered incentive: he grabbed a set of keys from the kitchen counter and adeptly threw them across the room to Kid, who adeptly caught them with his monster hands, which were attached to his humongous arms. His eyes lit up.
“Seriously? You’re letting me take your car?” he said, his voice squeaking with joy.
The tattooed man stared at Cameron in disapproval, but kept silent.
Not needing any further encouragement, Kid hastily got up, glanced in my general direction and headed for the door. “Let’s go, Red.”
My stomach was now down to my toes. Was taking someone “to the farm” some kind of code word along the same lines as having someone who “sleeps with the fishes”?
Tears sprung to my eyes. I couldn’t breathe.
I turned the full focus of my pleadings to Cameron. “Cameron, please don’t do this. I won’t talk … I’ll do whatever you want. It doesn’t have to be like this.”
But my beautiful kidnapper’s easy mood turned to ice, and his lips spread thin. “Your shoes are at the door,” he said sharply.
I looked down, my teeth biting into my quivering bottom lip. I went to the front door and slid into my still soaked sneakers—not bothering to lace them up.
By the time I made it out of the apartment, Kid was already down the hallway at the elevator, impatiently pressing the button over and over. I looked back once—Cameron’s back was turned, and his arms were tight to his side—and I closed the door.
The hallway was bright, with brick walls painted white and plush carpets—not the kind of carpet I expected to find in the hallway of an apartment building but the expensive kind that your feet sink into and leave footprints behind when you walk on it barefoot. There were only two doors on this floor, the one I had just exited, and the door to the elevator I was about to enter. The apartment, I noted, must have been the penthouse.
Going down the elevator, Kid was silent, squirmy, eagerly spinning the key ring around his index finger, clearly indifferent that I would be joining him, even if it would only be for a little while—until I was dead. The elevator doors opened, and we stepped out into a closed-in garage, with a garage door at the front and a laneway only big enough for cars to tightly enter and exit. There were four vehicles in the garage: one was a newer model black pickup truck, and two were beaten-up, rusty cars. The fourth car was an Audi, sleek black with tinted windows.
The Audi beeped as we came closer. Kid jumped right in and started it up. I hesitated, casting my eyes in search of an exit that I might have missed.
He rolled down the window and stuck his head out. “Are you coming or not?”
I wasn’t dumb enough to assume that he was really giving me the choice.
My heart pumping through my ears, I climbed into the passenger side, the Audi’s locks clicking shut as soon as I closed the door.
The kid excitedly gripped the steering wheel and side-glanced me. “Put your seatbelt on—this is going to be fun.”
I did as I was told, and he hit the red button on the rearview mirror, which caused the garage door to slide open.
We drove out onto the gloomy street. Kid didn’t let go of the gas pedal until we were driving well above the speed limit. Darkened street signs flashed by. He sped through a red light, swerving around a car that was patiently waiting its turn. What was the point of making me wear my seatbelt if he was planning on killing us both by crashing the car?
With an extended grin, he weaved us in and out of traffic.
Eventually we moved away from the city streets and onto a country road. We picked up more speed, but at least there were no other cars to play chicken with. I was able to unclench my teeth and my stranglehold on the security bar against the door, using my free hand to wipe my newly dampened cheeks.
With little distraction and the car’s novelty having worn off, Kid remembered that I was sitting next to him.
“Sorry about hitting you on the head like that yesterday,” he said, his eyes still on the road. “I didn’t think that I had hit you that hard.”
Unprepared for this discovery, I kept quiet. What was I supposed to say? Getting hit on the head seemed insignificant compared to what was coming.
“How did you manage to sneak right by me?” he asked, like he was nervous with my silence.
“I didn’t sneak by anyone,” I hissed, my eyes shooting daggers at him. “I was just trying to get home.”
“Who runs alone, in a dark cemetery, toward danger? It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
I had to look away to keep my temper under control long enough to come up with a plan.
When I was in eighth grade, our teacher fell ill after consuming the glue that had mysteriously found its way into her morning coffee. We spent the rest of the day sitting in front of the TV while the principal scurried to find a substitute teacher at the last minute. Of the multitude of educational videos we were forced to watch that day, one had been a bad reenactment of an attempted kidnapping. I didn’t have to rack my brain too long to remember the first rule: never get in the car with a stranger who offers you candy.
I started to panic when I noticed the yellow road signs with pictures of crumbling rocks flashing by us. We were heading into the mountains … the largely uninhabited mountains. And then my panic triggered something—a hazy survival tip from one of those crime shows: make the attacker see that you’re a real person, not just a nameless witness to a murder, or something like that.
“My name is Emily,” I announced.
He looked at me like I was crazy.
Right. I’d forgotten that Cameron had already mentioned my name.
“What’s your name?” I asked, my full stomach lurching as the Audi sped into a curve.
He considered this while I gulped the takeout back down my throat. “You can call me Sexy Bull.”
My head was buzzing, and a bead of sweat lined my forehead. We were going to bond whether or not he wanted to.
“My mom’s name is Isabelle and my dad’s name is Burt; it’s short for Bernard. And I had a teddy bear called Booger when I was a kid—he lost an eye after I tried to flat-iron his fur. And my middle toe on my left foot is longer than my big toe. And when I was four—”
“Jesus, what’s wrong with you? Are you still high?” There was incredulity mixed with an edge of worry in his voice.
“And when I was four—” I continued, but the Audi was rushing through curves and up and down hills. The shadowed landscape was flashing by. Suddenly, as the car aggressively looped around a cliff, I felt a knot in my throat; my heart started racing, and my body temperature went up a thousand degrees.
“Oh God!” I yelled.
“What now?” he sighed, annoyed.
“You need to stop! I’m going to be sick!”
“Stop? We’re in the middle of the mountains! There’s nowhere to stop!”
I started heaving, my hand in front of my mouth.
“Hold on! Keep it in!” He swore and, in flailing panic, blindly fiddled in the backseat with his free hand, his eyes never leaving the road. He pulled out a plastic bag, emptying its contents before throwing it at me.
I pulled the bag open and I threw up immediately, repeatedly.
“That’s so gross!” he gasped, opening his window and sticking his head out. “It still smells like chow mein.”
The fresh air rushing in from his opened window made me feel better—and I had nothing left in my stomach to puke up anyway. After a few minutes, I pulled my face away from the bag and glanced up.
He was glaring at me, holding his nose and wincing. His face had gone from rosy-cheeked to pale and sickly.
“Throw the bag out the window,” he ordered.
“I can’t do that!” I said. “It’s a plastic bag. It will take over a hundred years to disintegrate. I don’t want to pollute.”
“Emily,” he said, carefully enunciating every syllable, “if you don’t throw that bag out the window in the next second, I’m going to be sick too.”
I sighed and reluctantly threw the bag out my window. But I didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty as I watched him breathe through his nausea.
“Sorry,” I said, trying to not mock him, “I guess my bruised head’s still not quite right.”
He looked at me with revulsion. “That’s the grossest thing I’ve ever seen. Now I’m kinda glad we didn’t take my car. Who knew one girl could be such a pain …” His voice trailed back into his head.
“Ugh!” he groaned dramatically a few seconds later, “It really stinks in here.” And he stuck his head out his window again.
I’ve never had an iron stomach. Once a guy on his bike crashed next to me, and a broken bone in his right calf pierced through his skin. As any Good Samaritan would do, I insisted on waiting with him until the paramedics showed up. He spent the next twenty minutes holding my hair back while I puked on the side of the road. I couldn’t remember if he ever thanked me for waiting with him.
I thought about telling Kid about this life event to further solidify our kidnapper-hostage bond, but I was worn out. I let my head fall back into the seat and closed my eyes.