18 my bad

The boy comes awake very slowly. The first thing he’s aware of is the inescapable fact that he’s wet the bed. Again wet sheets, the stench of his own urine. Then the feel of the gag in his mouth—it tastes like throw-up. A moment later he becomes aware of the tight, tingly numbness of his wrists and ankles. White plastic straps securing him to the bed. He remembers the straps from the last time he woke up, and the sneering voice that threatened to put rubber pants on him. Rubber pants like a baby.

Bastards.

He remembers calling out for his mother, too. This time he won’t make that mistake. Obviously Mom isn’t here, or none of this would be happening. Still, he searches his mind for the most recent memory of his mom. Was it standing in the dugout, cheering him on? Maybe. No, no, after the game. Giving him money. Ice-cream money. But he never got the ice cream. Something happened. What was it exactly?

Choking. A hand covering his face. White van. No, the white van was first. Then a door sliding open. Shadow behind him. Then the hand on his face, a whiff of something powerful. Dizzy darkness. Next thing, his bladder hurting. Voice of a stranger, threatening him.

Kidnapped.

Tomas had heard scary stories about strangers who steal children, but the stories never had anything to do with him. Scary junk about sickos, or vampires, or slimy monsters from outer space, they were all the same really. Just stuff to make you shiver. Not real.

This is real.

Not fair, he’s thinking. A sense of unfairness so deeply felt it feels like heat spreading from his belly. The heat overwhelms the cold knot of fear, melts it away, and that makes him feel stronger. Not strong enough to break the thick plastic restraints, but strong enough to let him think.

First thing, what does he know? Tomas makes a list in his head. He knows he’s been kidnapped, taken away from everything that’s ever been familiar. He knows he was put to sleep somehow, and that it has happened more than once. He knows he’s facedown on a bed not his own, in a room not his own. He knows there are men nearby, because if he screams they come into the room, threaten him, and put him to sleep.

Tomas knows he doesn’t want to be put to sleep again, no matter how tempting that might be. He must stay awake. He must think. Mom is always telling him to use his brain. If she were here, he knows she’d want him to find a way to escape. Probably she wants him to do that anyway, no matter where she is.

He sure hopes his mom is okay, but he can’t let himself think about that too much or he’ll cry, and if he’s crying he’s not thinking.

First thing, he has to do something about the straps on his wrists and ankles. In the movies guys always fray the rope and get free. But this isn’t a movie and there’s nothing to fray the plastic against. Nothing but damp sheets. And when he tugs, the straps just get tighter. He tries willing his wrists smaller but that doesn’t work. And he can’t really see what’s going on with his ankles, tangled up as they are in the ruined bedclothes.

Think. There’s always a way, if you use your brain, young man.

Tomas is thinking as hard as he can when a door opens behind him and footsteps come softly into the room.

“Dammit!”

The boy steels himself for a blow. Instead, a dark form appears in his peripheral vision. Can’t quite focus, but this man, like the others, conceals his face with a kind of mask.

“I told them not to let this happen,” the voice says. “My bad, Tomas. You deserve better than this.”

Something shiny near his face. A knife. The boy flinches, squeezing shut his eyes.

“Shh,” the voice says. “Easy now. Here’s what I’m going to do. First I’m going to cut away the gag. You must promise not to scream. No one to hear you anyhow. Then, I’ll free your hands and feet. You promise not to scream?”

Tomas nods.

The blade slices through the gag and he can breathe through his mouth. He takes great, gulping lungs full of air. Then coughs, because the stench of the ruined bed is so acrid.

Suddenly his hands and feet are free. Didn’t even feel the knife slicing through the plastic straps. Which makes him even more afraid of the blade, what it can do.

“Roll off the bed onto the floor,” the voice commands. “Sit there.”

Tomas slides off the bed, away from the blade. He’s dizzy, not sure if he could stand even if he wasn’t so afraid of the voice and the knife it wields.

“We’re going to treat you better, Tomas,” the man says. “There will be a new mattress, fresh clothes. No more drugs. I want you to be healthy. Do you want to be healthy, Tomas?”

Tomas hates that the voice knows his name. He’s afraid to look up at the man with the knife.

“Answer me, son.”

He hates that the man calls him “son.” But he’s afraid not to answer. “Yes,” he says.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I want to be healthy,” he says, speaking into his hands.

“Good. Excellent. You’re going to do me a big favor, Tomas,” the man says. “You know what the big favor is? Can you guess?”

“No,” the boy says.

“It’s very simple, really. You’re going to make things right.”

19 queens for a day

There’s something about the highway, about getting the show on the road, that makes me feel almost optimistic. Maybe because I’m finally doing something, making decisions, taking action.

Today is the day, I’m thinking. The day I find my son. The day Tommy comes home.

Have to think like that or I’ll fall apart.

Ted used to joke about potholes on 295 that were big enough to swallow Hummers. And that was long before military vehicles became the new station wagons. As I’m discovering, the pothole thing hasn’t exactly improved over the years. On the approach to the Throgs Neck they have the look and feel of bomb craters, and once or twice my passenger’s head comes close to smacking the underside of the car roof. Not that he’s complaining. Nothing less than an exploding land mine would break his concentration on the coffee he’s been sipping since we got on the thruway heading south.

Earlier, explaining his sleep disorder, he’d mentioned “zoning out.” Apparently that means staring at the dashboard with unfocused eyes as his right hand robotically feeds a steady dose of Starbucks caffeine into his system. Several times I’ve attempted to initiate a conversation, but his response is limited to noncommittal grunts.

I’ve owned dogs that were more responsive to my queries.

Shane snaps out of it as we begin our descent from the bridge. Suddenly his eyes brighten, his posture changes, he’s back in my world. “Little nap,” he says, yawning happily. “I feel much better.”

“That was a nap?”

He shrugs. “My version. Not refreshing, exactly, but it helps.”

Traffic opens, I find the right lane, slotting us into the flow for the Cross Island. After we successfully negotiate our way onto the parkway, Shane suddenly announces, “I’ve been thinking about motivation.”

“Motivation?” I’m at a loss. Is he about to bring up the so-far unmentioned subject of his fee?

“There’s the money extorted from you,” he says. “Half a million bucks is plenty of motivation. But if they have that kind of access into bank software, it’s a good guess they could have drained your accounts without having to risk a child abduction. Not to mention killing a cop.”