Choke: A Thriller (7 page)

Vincent is driving quickly, weaving in and out of traffic.

He keeps checking in the rearview mirror.  And there, clearly, is the front nose of an unmarked squad car.  It is following Vincent.

“Shit.”

He drives like a madman until he sees his exit, then takes it, barely negotiating the turn.

Vincent pulls into the driveway of Rachel's house, a bungalow.  He opens the front door and walks in.

Rachel is sitting on the couch, her back to Vincent.  She is holding the phone to her ear.  Vincent walks up behind her.

“Rach...”

She doesn't answer.

Vincent takes a step closer.

“Rachel, what...”

As he steps closer, he is able to see the phone more clearly. 

A long stream of blood is making its way down the phone.

Vincent reaches into his jacket for his gun, hears a step behind him, half-turns, and is clobbered by a crowbar to the head.

Vincent wakes up.  He is face down on a thick red carpet.  He is inside what appears to be a hotel’s honeymoon suite, complete with a large heart-shaped bed.  Two velvet colored chairs and a television set are on the other side of the room.

On the bed is Rachel.  She is naked.

Vincent stands and attempts to get his bearings.  Pain pounds through his head, and his neck hurts.  He sees Rachel on the bed and goes to her.  He checks for a pulse, fails to find one, then hangs his head.

He rushes to the door, but it's locked, apparently from the outside.

Among the rows of cars in the hotel parking lot is a black van.

In the back of the van a small black-and-white monitor is displaying the image of Vincent standing in the motel room.

A man is watching the monitor.  He is wearing a headset and microphone. 

In the very rear of the van is Bonnie, bound and gagged.  Annabel is restrained the same way, but has been placed closer to the man.

Tears run down her face.

A voice fills the hotel room.  It sounds tinny, as if it's coming through an inexpensive speaker.

“Hello, Vincent.”

Vincent looks around the room.

“This is the big night, Doctor.  You and the fair Rachel are finally going to consummate your relationship.  I know you already have, but hey, let's all play along, okay?”

Vincent looks closely at Rachel and his jaw hardens.

“Why did you hurt her, you sick bastard?”

“Oh, Vince.  Poor, poor Vince.  Don't worry your panic-filled little head about these things.  You've got far more important things to concentrate on.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I meant to congratulate you on your attempt to save Vicki, if you hadn't panicked so much, you could have saved her.  You did a much better job with Demetrius. You've come a long way, since we started your treatment.”

“You were there...watching.  You sick bastard.”

“Of course I was.  As director of your medical program, I've got to be aware of your progress.  And really, surveillance is quite simple with a few high-tech toys.”

Vincent looks around the room.

“Enough of this Vincent, let's talk about your next session.  This will be crucial to your development.”

“Fuck you.  I'm not doing anything but figuring a way out of this room, calling the cops, and then watching your ass rot in prison for the rest of your miserable life, you sick bastard.”

“Okay, Vincent, that sounds fair enough.  But before you get started, someone wants to say hi.”

“Daddy...” a small, scared voice says. Vincent immediately knows the voice is Annabel and shakes his head, squeezes his eyes tight.

“No...”

“Okay.  Now, Vincent, listen carefully,” the man says.  “I have in my hand an extremely large and incredibly sharp knife.”

“Don’t hurt her, please,” Vincent says.

“I am now placing the tip of the knife against your precious daughter's left eyeball.”

The killer has left the duct tape off of Annabel's mouth, and she now starts crying and whimpering. 

He straddles her and places one of his hands on her head.  The knife is at the tip of Annabel's eye.

“Do you know what happens when someone gets stabbed in the eye, Vincent?  The occipital orb is punctured and aqueous humor seeps from the socket.  It's incredibly painful, but not really life-threatening.  So your daughter will be very much alive, she'll just be a Cyclops.  A one-eyed freak.  She can be a pirate on Halloween and not have to worry about a costume.”

The man giggles as Annabel shakes in his arms.

“Don't touch her,” Vincent says.  His voice sounds hollow and weak in the van.

“Of course, you can prevent it all by performing a simple task,” the man says.

“Name it, I’ll do whatever you want.  Just, please, don’t hurt my daughter.”

“It's time to overcome your performance anxiety, Vincent.  This is a crucial step in rectifying your cowardice, your penchant for freezing up under adverse circumstances.”

Annabel yelps and Vincent flinches.

“I want you to have sexual intercourse with your dead girlfriend. That is, if you can rise to the occasion, so to speak.”

Vincent stands stock still.

“Fuck her, or I'll stab your daughter in the eye, Vincent,” the man says through clenched teeth.  “I'll give you one minute to start.  If you have not achieved penetration in one minute, I'll blind Annabel’s left eye.  If you have not achieved penetration in two minutes, I'll blind her other eye.  If you’re not getting the job done after three minutes, I move on to Bonnie.  Get the idea?”

“Please.  Kill me.  Do whatever you want to me, just don't touch them.”

“Oh, I plan on killing you all right.  I just feel we need another session or two to really work out your problems.  Forty-three seconds and counting.  Come on, you’re in the honeymoon suite.  You should be getting in the mood by now.”

“Please, I'll give you everything I have.  I've got-”

“The only thing you can give me of any value is proof that you are cured of your problem,” the man says.  “Once you've shown me you can perform under pressure, I'll have everything I need.  Now get over there and throw the knockwurst at Rachel.  Look at it this way, she's not going to say no.”

“You fucking bastard,” Vincent says.  He is on the verge of sobbing.

“Fifteen seconds and counting.”

Vincent walks to the bed and looks at Rachel.  He's crying as he unbuckles his pants.

Annabel jumps from the killer's arms as he lets go and she stumbles to Bonnie.  She buries her head in Bonnie's sweater.  Bonnie does her best to cover her daughter's ears.

“Come on, Vincent,” the man says.  “Love is in the air.”

On the monitor, he can see that Vincent is now on top of Rachel.

“Oh, yeah,” the man says.  “Don’t come knockin’ if the heart-shaped bed is rockin’.”

Vincent is on top of Rachel, but he is scanning the room.  At last, his eyes fall to the television set and focus on it.

“Look at the fuck machine go,” the tinny voice overhead says.  “Damn, you should do some porno flicks, Vince.”

Vincent reaches out to the small table next to the bed.  A cheap alarm clock is sitting there.

“Why don't you rub her...there...a little bit?  She needs some pleasure, too.  Don't be a selfish lover, Vince.”

Vincent judges the distance from the bed to the television set.

“Why don't you switch to doggy style, Vincent, I bet she likes it that way–”

Suddenly, Vincent lunges from the bed and, in one swift motion, rips the alarm clock from the wall and hurls it at the television set.  It's a perfect shot.  The glass screen implodes to reveal a small video camera, microphone, and speaker inside.  The video camera is demolished.

Vincent freezes, waiting for the voice to say something.

It doesn’t.

In the van, the monitor suddenly goes to static.

“Shit!” the man says.

He pushes it aside and races to the front of the van, drops into the seat.  He keys the ignition, throws the van into gear, and guns it.

Vincent has thrown on his pants and he now hurls himself against the door.  It doesn't budge.  He stands back and makes another run.  The door moves a bit this time.

The door of the motel room buckles under Vincent's third attack, but the crude lock fashioned on the outside of the door holds.

Vincent hurls himself against the door.  This time the center of the door splinters.  He rears back and kicks hard with his foot, opening a long column in the door.  Vincent continues to kick hard until there is at last a space big enough for him to work his way through, which he quickly does.

The van squeals its tires as it races from the lot.  Vincent, clad only in his pants, runs after the van.  The vehicle swerves around a row of parked cars.

Vincent chases it, jumps on top of the parked cars, and runs across the tops of them, still barefoot.  The van makes it by him, and Vincent jumps off the car, stumbles, and falls face-first onto the parking lot’s pavement.

Suddenly, the van slams on its brakes and Vincent sees the backing lights blink on.  He looks behind him and realizes he's trapped.  The van's rear tires burn rubber as it hurtles backward.

With the van less than a foot away, Vincent scrambles up the hood of the car behind him.  The van crashes into the car and Vincent is again thrown to the ground.  He falls between the two cars, bleeding from the head.

The van accelerates ahead, hurtles itself around the final row of cars and out of the motel's entrance, into the night.

Vincent staggers to his feet and limps toward the street, then watches the van disappear into the darkness, a helpless look on his face.

He goes back to the room, walking as quickly as he can.  He goes to the side of the bed and looks at Rachel.  He puts on his shirt and pockets his wallet.

In the distance, police sirens begin wailing.

A tear escapes Vincent's eye as he brushes a strand of hair from Rachel's face.  Slowly, he pulls the sheet over her face.  He sits on the bed and holds his head in his hands.  With his eyes closed, he begins to remember something.

In his mind’s eye, Vincent remembers a scene.  It is the attack in Rachel's apartment.  Vincent sees himself turn and then the killer swings the crowbar.  In his memory, he sees the killer swing the crowbar again.  Another swing.  Another.  Another.

Vincent's eyes snap open.

“Oh God.”

A cab pulls up and Vincent peers up at his office window.  It is dark.  He pays the fare, then steps out of the cab.  He has pulled himself together, but there is still a streak of blood running down the side of his face.

He pulls out his key and enters the building, goes directly to his office, and pulls out a stack of files.

He finds the “L” section and flips past folders.  Little.  Lord.  He stops at Lucas.

Vincent goes to his desk and lets out a deep breath.  He opens the file.  There is a picture of Miles Lucas, the amateur tennis player he has been treating for the past year.

Vincent leans back in his office chair, again remembering something.

Miles Lucas is playing a match.  Vincent is watching from a box seat.  Miles is running back and forth along the baseline, hitting strong groundstrokes.  With a burst of speed, running right at Vincent, he hits a running forehand for a winner.  The crowd cheers.

In Vincent's mind's eye, Miles hits the running forehand.  Then he hits it again.  And again.  And again.

Suddenly, the image of the man with the crowbar overlaps the image of Miles hitting the forehand. 

The stroke, the body size and shape, are all identical.

Vincent is leaning back in his chair.

“Miles.  Miles Lucas.  Why?”

Vincent rips open the file folder and hunches over it intensely.

He scans quickly, looking for any biographical information that will help him figure out who Miles Lucas really is.

There is nothing.

Lucas had left all of the family information blank.  And during their course of therapy, Lucas had never talked much about his family, saying they weren’t a part of his life.

Vincent sets the file down, then pulls out Lori Ponko's business card.

Detective Ponko is standing outside the motel room Vincent had just left.  There are squad cars everywhere, their lights flashing.  Rachel's body is being loaded into an ambulance.  Ponko watches the gurney go into the ambulance.  She has a cell phone pressed to her ear.

“Ponko.”

“Detective.  This is Vincent Keyes.”

Ponko waves furiously to a uniformed officer nearby.

“Dr. Keyes.  What's up?  Where are you?”

“Why do you want to know where I am?”

“Well, for one thing, Rachel Levin's dead body was just found in a motel room.  In fact, I just watched it get carted away.  And guess what, Doc?  Someone filed a missing persons on your daughter and ex-wife.”

“I didn't kill Rachel and I didn't kidnap Annabel and Bonnie.”

“I'm sure you didn't,” she says, trying to sound as believable as possible.  “Look, just tell us where you are and we'll get this whole thing all straightened out.”

“I know who did it.  His name is Miles Lucas.”

She pauses a moment to act as if she were writing down the name.  “Got it.  Okay.  Let me send a squad car over to pick you up.”

“You don't believe me.”

“Sure, I do.  I really do.  Now tell me, where are you?”

She looks at the cell phone, suddenly dead in her hand.

“Shit.”

She shouts at the uniformed officers next to her.

“I want units at his home, his office, his parents’ home, anywhere he might be.  Now!  Go!”

Vincent puts the phone down and pulls his gun from his waistband. He checks the magazine and the chamber. 

His head snaps up as a sound is made just outside his office door.

Quickly, he crosses the room and stands next to the door.  Slowly, the door swings inward and a dark shape enters.  Vincent clocks the figure with his gun, then whips an uppercut and a right hook that sends the figure to the floor.

The figure's face is revealed.  It's Douglas Eves, the reporter.  His face is covered with blood.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Sorry.”

Vincent races down the steps and out the door.

Eves touches his face and his hand comes away bloody.