Born to Lose (2 page)

The house stood a stone's throw from the town's railroad tracks which ran along the river. It was already dark. I was late finding the place, but it was lucky I knew where to look at all. Once on the porch, I pressed the doorbell. A curt response came from behind the door. “Who's there?”

I identified myself and offered an explanation—sort of—but it's tough talking through a closed door to a suspicious woman. I hadn't called beforehand, figuring it would be too easy for her to decline over the phone. I don't know what I said through that door—but it opened.

She was forty-eight years old, I knew that, and three decades removed from her association with the protagonist in the story I wanted to write, but I knew she would remember. She listened another minute, but her stance was forbidding: you should have seen her in that doorway, leaning against one side with her arm propped against the other, barring entrance.

When I quit talking, we—the mistress and me—stood in silence, I wondering what the next moment would bring and she considering the stranger at her door and her sudden dilemma. Finally, her arm dropped to her side. She sighed, then said, “I always knew one day someone like you would show up here. Come in.”

Once Kathy Defino became resigned—to death, that is—she stood upright, still, and waited for the shove from behind. Peering down into black air, Kathy could make out the dull sheen of a river. Does Ohio have a river like this, like the ones at home? I am in Ohio, aren't I? she wondered. Kathy stood atop a cliff, so near the edge that one step forward would consign her to a dark abyss. Only a fool would stand so close to the edge, for the sheer height of the cliff meant the slightest slip would bring sure death, but Kathy had been ordered to stand right at the scary lip. And the man who had so commanded her stood right behind her. When would she feel the push? Now? In a few more seconds?

Kathy faced out, only inches from a free fall to her end. She was drained and near total collapse, barely able to remain upright. Hope gone, Kathy used whatever moments were left to her to worry if her body, battered and mangled, would ever be found.

Earlier, around 6:00 P.M., Kathy had been at home, sewing together a new pair of culottes. Her friend Sharon had called to see if Kathy could come over. Sharon was stuck babysitting and could use some company. Both seniors at Shaler High, north of Pittsburgh, the two had been friends since jacks and hopscotch. Kathy had three brothers and a baby sister, not yet a year old, who kept her house hopping, but though the siblings were close, it was Sharon Boehm, the same age as Kathy and her sister in all but name, who was her closest confidante.

“I think I can come over,” Kathy said. “I'm finishing up my outfit, but I should be done in an hour. Everyone's gone or busy, so I'll probably walk.”

“Good,” replied Sharon. “If I'm upstairs, just come in.”

Kathy put the final touches on her sewing, then cleaned up the dishes and put down food for the dog, occasionally watching the portable TV on the counter. It was Good Friday eve, April 4. Exactly one year earlier, Martin Luther King Jr. had been shot in Memphis. Walter Cronkite was commentator for a special news story about the assassination. Kathy watched absently while finishing her chores.

Finally done, the teenager called upstairs. “Mom, I'm going over to Sharon's, okay?” Theresa Defino came to the top of the stairs holding little Jenny. Theresa held her index finger to her lips. Shhh, baby's sleeping. The mother smiled and waved her hand. Kathy slipped into her brother's CPO jacket, grabbed her purse, pulled a Shaler Huskies ball cap onto her head, and trotted out the door. She considered taking the shortcut through a field and some woods, but the ground was too wet and it was getting dark, so she walked up her street to Middle Road, which led her to Maryann Drive.

Kathy had no more than turned toward her friend's house when she heard a car slow on Middle Road. Then it stopped. Looking over her shoulder, Kathy saw the low-slung form of a Corvette, candy-apple red, gleaming like it had just been washed and waxed. The Corvette pulled forward onto Maryann Drive and proceded slowly until it halted beside Kathy, too close to her, really, which made her step further to the left. When she heard the driver call to her, she stopped walking.

“Hey, can you tell us how to get to Route 8?”

Kathy saw two males in the car. Standing by the Corvette, her angle of vision revealed only the torso and legs of the passenger, but the driver seemed a rough sort, twenty-something with an insolent look. Kathy thought it best to reply quickly to send them on their way.

After giving directions, she stepped away from the car and began walking. The car crept up beside her again. The driver thanked her a little too formally, then added, “Hey, what's your name?” Kathy quickened her pace. She heard the revving of the 'vette's powerful engine and saw it leap forward fifty yards—but then it stopped again, idling, its taillights glowing orange-red. Standing still, Kathy felt a fist of fear in her stomach. Her eyes darted around. It was almost dark and she saw no one in their yards. Behind her, Middle Road was quiet. A few houses down on Maryann Drive she noticed an upstairs room light pop on. Although she was edgy, she hesitated. Should she stand or flee? She rearranged her ball cap … and watched the car.

In the blink of an eye the car reversed toward her and in seconds was again beside her. The driver got out, mentioning the front tire was going flat. He stepped toward the hood, began to bend down to inspect the tire, then slowly straightened and faced Kathy, who was inching herself further onto the berm.

He sprang with such speed that Kathy barely began to turn and run before she was caught from behind, her scream cut off by his hand clapped on her mouth. She struggled, dropping her purse in the process, but her
lithe five-three frame gave her little chance against her attacker, who manhandled and dragged her to the car. Meanwhile, the passenger had gotten out; he stood by the open door as Kathy was shoved inside. Both males jumped in, but this time the driver got into the passenger seat and his companion got behind the wheel.

They sped away on Middle Road but soon entered a bewildering series of turns on back roads. The one who grabbed her, now in the passenger seat, put a gun to Kathy's head. From then on it was nearly always pointed at her body or head. The man wielding the gun finally said, “My name's Bill, and this,” indicating the driver, “is Ron.” Kathy sensed these were fake names but made no comment. Bill continued, matter-of-factly, “We just robbed a bank in Philly and we're on our way to Ohio. We need a hostage in case we're stopped by the cops, ya know, something to give up for a getaway, so you're it.”

Daring to speak Kathy asked, “Where are you going in Ohio?”

“We'll let you know when we get there,” she was told. “Keep your head down an' don't look out the windows.” Kathy dropped her head, staring at the gear stick. With her long blonde hair loose, she realized her ball cap was no longer on her head. She'd lost that as well as her purse, probably when she was grabbed.

Kathy clung to the hope she'd be let go in Ohio, but she had some troubling thoughts. When the Corvette had first pulled up, she was asked for directions, so it fit that they were from Philadelphia, now lost in Pittsburgh. Yet now her abductors seemed familiar with the territory. Kathy also worried about the car itself. Why was it so clean and shiny? Men fleeing a bank robbery in Philly surely wouldn't stop to wash and wax a car. Her optimism about release in Ohio began to evaporate as Kathy realized she'd been lied to from the start. Although she'd been warned not to talk, her mounting dread forced the question, “You're not going to rape or kill me, are you?” The one who said his name was Bill pointed his gun away from Kathy. “If we were gonna kill you, we would've shot you already. What good's a dead hostage? And we ain't got time for sex, okay? Now keep your mouth shut.”

Bent and cramped, Kathy worried in silence before Ron, driving at a leisurely pace the whole way, finally turned onto a dirt road, winding upward and steep in parts. When the road split into three directions, they turned left onto a narrower road that proved to be a rutted driveway leading to a dilapidated farmhouse and a few scattered outbuildings. Parking beside the house, all three got out. Bill walked to the front porch, calling out “Paul!” several times. There was no response other than the hoarse
and insistent barking of two mangy dogs tied nearby. Bill tried the doors and windows, but everything was shut tight. He returned to the Corvette. It was now very dark, and he reached inside to turn on the headlamps. In the diffused light, Kathy was able to take a better look at the two men. Slim and with light brown hair, Ron, at five-ten or five-eleven, was the taller. He looked around twenty years old—not much older than she—with a face like that of any kid in any neighborhood. Harmless looking, with a guileless smile, he seemed more likely to be to earning merit badges than building a rap sheet (Record of Arrest and Prosecution). He hadn't been aggressive in speech or manner, and Kathy couldn't imagine what he was doing here, part and parcel of what amounted to her kidnapping. She felt that if she could talk to him alone, maybe he'd let her go. Ron, though, was clearly under the influence of Bill, the one doing most of the talking, now standing casually with his left arm resting on the 'vette's roof while his right arm hung down, his hand loosely holding the gun. He was shorter than Ron and heavier, more muscular. His hair was dark and fashioned into a “duck's ass” in the back. He looked like a hood.

Her abductors talked in low tones only a few feet away. If she was going to be let go, why hadn't they done so on the main road? Why had they taken her to this remote spot, pitch black and abandoned? If only Bill would again walk away somewhere, Kathy concluded, she would talk to Ron, reason with him, promise him money … say anything for a chance to get away.

The two were done whispering. Then Kathy heard Bill tell Ron, “Take the car down below. I'll see you when you get back.” The knowledge that she was to be left alone with Bill jabbed fear through Kathy.

“Wait! Why can't I go?” she cried. “You said you'd let me go, you only wanted me as a hostage. We weren't stopped by the police, so you made it! You're free! You don't need me anymore!” Ron raised an eyebrow in question to Bill, who shook his head and gave Ron a nod toward the car. Kathy rushed forward shouting, “Wait, stop, take me with you!”

Bill raised the pistol and yelled, “That's it, don't move!” The gun, almost touching her and held perfectly steady, so unnerved Kathy that she dropped to her knees and raised her hands to shoulder height.

“Please, I thought I could go now. You said so … You made it to Ohio….” Hearing the Corvette fire to life, then rumble off, Kathy slumped in despair.

With his own plans in mind, Bill said, “What's the problem with you? I'm starved, so he's gonna find a pizza or something. You must be hungry, too. He'll be back, we'll eat, then we'll take you out on a road somewhere and leave you go.” His words did nothing to raise her spirits but still, she
had to think, maybe in a little while she'd be free, alone along a road. She could find a house, call home. For now, though, she told herself, sit quiet and hope for the best. Or should she chance a run, get away somehow? Kathy dropped her arms and stood up, feeling unsteady. She watched the Corvette's taillights disappear around a distant bend in the lane.

Bill mentioned a picnic table behind the farmhouse. “Come on,” he said, “we'll go back there and wait for Ron.” Already alone and isolated, Kathy felt that if she went behind the house she would disappear altogether. “I don't want to go anywhere. Look, here's a big rock. I just want to sit here.” Kathy kept her eyes on Bill while moving sideways toward the rock.

Bill was tiring of the girl's unwillingness to comply, yet he didn't lash out. “You know what? I told you my name, my buddy told you his name but you never said what yours is. So, what is it?” Would it be good or bad to reveal her name? she wondered. Give him a made-up name like the one she'd surely got from him? In the end she said truthfully, “My name's Kathy. Is Bill your real name?” “Nah,” he said, laughing. “How did ya know it wasn't? Can't say why I said Bill. Do you want to know my real name? I mean, why not? We'll never see each other again.” Learning his true identity, Kathy realized, might put her in even greater peril; she shuddered to think that he would readily reveal it. Had he planned to kill her all along, to avoid leaving a live witness to this kidnapping? Kathy tried to sound casual. “No, it's okay, I'll keep calling you Bill. One of my brothers is named Bill,” she lied. “I like the name.”

This banter about pizza and exchanging names—real or not—had Kathy thinking for the first time that maybe her captor wasn't perfectly evil, wasn't a hardened criminal. Now that his bank-robbing and hostage-taking escapade had succeeded, he would feel safe, pleased with himself. Wasn't that enough for one day? After Ron got back, maybe they would take her down from this forsaken mountaintop, drop her off, and drive away to enjoy their ill-gotten gains. These thoughts were so reasonable that Kathy tried to dismiss her anxiety over Bill's willingness to reveal his own name. Yes, of course it was all over now. They were done with her and probably would be glad to be free of her.

Hanging on to this better outlook, Kathy was emboldened to say, “I guess Ron will have to look around to get some food. Some places are going to be closed 'cause it's Good Friday, but he can find somewhere open, don't you think?” Without inflection Bill responded, “Yeah, I think.” Gone was his spurt of friendliness. He seemed distant and preoccupied but, Kathy thought, at least he wasn't as threatening as he had been. A minute passed
with nothing said, Bill's eyes alternating from the farmhouse to the rutted road, then back to the farmhouse. Kathy broke the silence. “Is it okay if I sit on this rock? I'm feeling tired.” Through the darkness she sensed Bill's appraisal. “No, it's not okay,” he answered. “We're going behind the house for awhile.” Stepping very close to Kathy, he extended his hand, saying, “Hold on, it's dark.” Kathy countered as much as she dared. “We shouldn't go there. When Ron comes back, he won't know where—” In an instant Bill's right arm came up straight as a yardstick with the gun at her face. He grabbed her wrist and yanked her toward him, encircling her waist with his left arm. In a forced walk, Kathy was led away. Once behind the house Kathy looked around in the darkness. Up to the right she saw rounded heaps, silhouettes, but only after getting closer did she make them out to be junk cars, five or six of them. Bill shoved her toward the jalopies with such force that she stumbled and fell. She heard him say, “Take off your clothes.”