South River Incident (31 page)

“But that road takes you
out into the country. There’s nothing out there but farms for miles and miles.
Are you sure you want to go this way?”

“Just do it!” She stuck the
gun in my ribs. “I’ll shoot you, I swear!”

I got over in the right
lane and made the turn. She was still sweating, and I was running out of time.
I looked in the rearview mirror and saw a car behind us. If I was going to do
anything, I had to do it before we were alone on the road.

“Do you want me to turn the
heater down? You look a little hot.”

“Shut up and drive. I’m
fine.”

“You don’t look fine. You
look a little pale.” I pretended to be concerned for her health. I took a
chance and reached over to brush the hair away from her face. “Are you sick?”

“Don’t touch me!” she
yelled. Her hand shook badly as she held the gun. “Leave me alone.”

“Why don’t we turn back
now, before it’s too late?”

She became indignant. “It’s
already too late.”

“It’s never too late.
Please, put the gun away and let me take you home.”

“I told you to shut up!”
She unfastened her seat belt, and in one swift motion, struck me up side the
head with the weapon.

A pain shot through my skull
like a sledgehammer. My vision blurred as I fought to maintain control of the
car. But it was too late. The car careened off the road, bounced in and out of
a ditch, and then slammed into a tree. My last conscious memory was of us
hitting the tree and that poor girl flying through the windshield. Blood
splatter was the last thing I saw before passing out.

S
lowly, my eyelids parted
,
focusing in and out repeatedly before I finally saw the
bright light in the ceiling. Once my vision cleared, the intense heat and glare
made my eyes hurt and caused me to turn away. The minute I moved my head, an
excruciating pain shot through my neck all the way down to the base of my
spine. I screamed out in agony, moaning and groaning as I wrestled with my
predicament.

“What happened?” I spat,
looking down at myself. I was sitting in a wooden table chair with my wrists
and ankles bound to it with duct tape. My clothes were torn and bloody, and I
ached all over. I screamed out loud, trying to get someone’s attention.
“Somebody
help me, please! Let me out of here! If you don’t release me,
you’ll be sorry, I promise you! Listen to me. If you let me go, I promise I
won’t tell a soul.”

Nobody responded to my
cries. Instead, I sat alone, listening to the sound of my own breathing. I
looked around the room, searching for the slightest hint of recognition. It was
like a scene out of one of those cop shows where they put the bad guy in the
middle of the room and shine a bright light in his face. The only problem was,
I was not the bad guy, and this was not a room at the police station. This was
someone’s bedroom; the decor obviously chosen by a female. The exquisite canopy
bed was covered with a pink, frilly bedspread and matching pillow shams. One
wall held a huge entertainment center, complete with all the amenities: stereo
system with a CD player, television set, VCR,
DVD
player, and several shelves
lined with store-bought
DVD
and VCR movies, CD’s, and cassettes. Another wall
held an antique bookshelf filled to capacity with expensive looking dolls. The
carpet under my feet was a thick, plush velvety pile the color of cream. A door
off to the side stood ajar, revealing what was obviously a private bathroom. I
could see a beige colored sink with a shiny brass faucet on top. Underneath, a
thick, furry rug of the same beige color lay on the tiled floor. Several feet
to the left of the bathroom door, I caught sight of a bedroom window. The
ruffled, full-length, pink drapes had been drawn, shutting out all visibility.
I couldn’t tell if it was day or night. Yet, seeing the window gave me hope. If
I could just get to it, maybe I could recognize something familiar and figure
out where I was being held. I had to try. I used all the strength I had in my
feet to lift me and the chair, but all I managed to do was to send another
spasm of pain down my spine. I felt a tear roll down my cheek as I bit down on
my lip, trying to ride out the pain. As soon as it passed, I tried again. This
time I made a little headway, and the pain was not quite so intense. What
seemed like hours later, and after almost tipping over a couple of times, I
reached my destination. My face was a foot away from the outside world. I
leaned forward, digging through the gap in the curtains, only to be met with
the resistance of closed mini-blinds.

“I don’t believe it,” I
mumbled.

Frustrated, but determined,
I tried once more using my nose. I poked and prodded, but still couldn’t
separate the slats enough to see anything. It was useless. The situation was
hopeless. When things start getting out of hand, I tend to go a little
berserk—as was the case now.

“Oh, give me a break!
Somebody had better get in here. I’m tired and I want to go home!” Nobody was
listening.

I twisted in my seat, my
anger rising with each passing moment. My momentum built until I was shaking,
twisting, jerking, bouncing, and doing just about everything I could do to
release myself from my confinement. The chair creaked, but remained intact. I
held still, panting and hissing, my face grimaced and distorted from the pain
as my senses went into high-alert mode. I became all too aware of my
predicament.

Suddenly, I heard footsteps
accompanied by voices outside the bedroom door.  Panic replaced the anger. I
cowered like a whipped dog, slobber drooling from my mouth, my hair a tangled
mess of long strands hanging down my arms. I slumped down in the chair and
pretended to be resting. It was the only way I could calm myself. If I didn’t
get myself calmed down, I would turn into a raving idiot.

At a glance, I must have
looked rabid, because when the man walked into the room, he took a step
backwards.

“Having a bad day are we,
Miss Watson?” he asked. At the same time he laughed that ridiculous laugh that
all short, skinny, half bald-headed men seem to have, who suffer from what I
call little man syndrome
.
He was a small man with a big attitude. I
despised him instantly.

“Don’t tell me, let me
guess,” I snipped. “Clayton Tyler?”

“That’s me,” he smiled.
“I’m afraid we haven’t been properly introduced.” He walked across the room and
stood by the bed, keeping his distance as if he was almost scared to get too
close to me. “You’re Jesse Watson—troublemaker and snoop.”

“And you’re Clayton
Tyler—gangster and murderer,” I shot back. I glared at him and showed no fear.

“You know, I’m almost your
worst nightmare.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that you’ll meet
your worst nightmare later tonight.”

“I’ll have something to
look forward to.”

“Save the sarcasm, honey.
I’m not impressed.” He moved from the bed to the bookshelf and picked up one of
the dolls, examining it. “I bet you’re wondering whose room this is, aren’t
you?”

“Actually, I don’t care who
this room belongs to. All I want to do is get out of here.”

“I’m sure you do.” He sat
the doll back down and turned to me with that stupid grin still plastered on
his face. “She was such a lovely young woman...”

“Are you talking about that
teenybopper you hired to kidnap me? The last I saw of her, she was flying
through the windshield of my car. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Is she dead?”

“Unfortunately, Tammy
didn’t survive the crash, poor child. I had my doubts about her from the start,
but he assured me she could handle the job. Incompetents... all of them! You
just can’t get good help anymore. What’s this world coming to?” He walked to
within a few feet of me and stood there with his hands shoved into his pockets,
rocking back and forth on his heels. “But this isn’t Tammy’s room. Oh, no, Miss
Watson, this room used to belong to a wonderful young woman whose life was cut
short because of you. The sad part is, you probably didn’t even know. You don’t
have a clue.”

“Why don’t you enlighten
me, Mr. Tyler? You seem to have all the answers and I’m sure you’re dying to
tell me.”

“And deprive him of the
pleasure of watching you squirm? No, I don’t think so.”
Tyler
turned
and walked to the door to leave.

“Wait a minute,” I
demanded. “I think you owe me an explanation. I haven’t done anything to you so
why are you out to get me?”

“Past tense, my dear,” he
sneered. “I’ve got you.”

“Whatever,” I said, not
wanting to argue the semantics of a few words. “How do I fit into your little
game?”

He didn’t answer. He turned
and left the room, slamming the door behind himself. I heard the click of a
door lock.

There was no longer any
doubt in my mind that Clayton Tyler planned to torment me before he killed me.
What had I done to him? It certainly wasn’t because he had made the unfortunate
mistake of having his face show up in a picture filled with a bunch of cops,
and said picture had ended up in my hands. Besides, I wasn’t the one who found
it in the first place and I certainly didn’t have it now. No, there had to be
more to it. And who had been the occupant of this room? Was I really
responsible for someone’s death and just didn’t know it? I put on my thinking
cap and surveyed the room. The first thing I noticed was that there wasn’t a
single photo anywhere. I thought everybody had at least one picture of somebody
sitting on top of their dresser or nightstand. That wasn’t the case here. There
wasn’t even a picture of a pet. It made me wonder if the room had been stripped
of all those personal items just to keep me from guessing my whereabouts, or
was it because the memory of the young woman was too painful? Clayton was
correct, I didn’t have a clue. Some private investigator I’m going to be!

As the time passed, I got
closer to a panic attack. I was taped to a chair, barely able to move, and
escape was not an option. Unless... if I could break the chair, I could get
free… and if I could get free, escape would be possible. I had to try. I
thought about the many times I’d seen this same scenario played out on
television—it worked then and it would work now. So began my struggle as I
inched and bounced my way toward the bathroom door, praying the whole time.
“Let me see,” I told myself, once I got to the opening. “All I have to do is
lean forward on my feet, push
up, and slam the chair leg against the
doorjamb. It’s a piece of cake.” Once satisfied with my new plan of action, I
put it into operation, following it step-by-step. What I had failed to take
into consideration was the possibility of it actually working the first time
and the consequences of breaking the chair leg. A snap and a crunch later, I
hit the hard ceramic tile of the bathroom floor sideways, my right hand still
gripped to the seat, and pinned between it and the floor. I cried silently.
Pain and suffering were quickly becoming a way of life for me. Using my body
weight, I managed to roll the chair over on its back, freeing my hand from the
pressure. I lay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. “Well, you’ve done it
this time, Jesse,” I said, my voice echoing off the bathroom walls. “Billy’s
going to kill me for giving a ride to a stranger. Look where it got me! Why do
I do such stupid things? I
know better than to trust someone I don’t
know.” My next browbeating words were interrupted by the bedroom door swinging
open. I couldn’t see who had entered, but I heard their voices.

“I brought someone to keep
you company, but I can see that you found a way to amuse yourself, Miss
Watson,”
Tyler
said. “I have to leave for a little while. Please try
to behave yourself.”

“Drop dead!” I yelled from
the bathroom floor.

Clayton Tyler then spoke in
whispered tones. “Cuff her hands and don’t let her out of your sight for a
second. As you can see, she’s a feisty one. If she has to use the bathroom,
make her leave the door open. If she gives you any trouble, you know what to
do. Just remember, I want her alive when we bring the Indian here. Our man
wants to do them together. Don’t disappoint me.”

“No problem,” a familiar
voice said. “She’s not going anywhere.”

Tyler
walked over to where I was lying, leaned over and
admonished me for trying to free myself. “Look at what you’ve done to yourself.
You’ve got to stop trying to escape. You’re not getting out and you’re only
making things worse. If I untie you, will you behave yourself?”

“Yes,” I grunted, still
trying to place the voice of the other man.

Tyler
turned to leave, but hesitated. “Oh, by the way,
you’ll be having a visitor soon. I’m sure you can’t wait. It’ll be so much
fun.”

“Mr. Nightmare?” I hissed.

“Yes, and he’s dying to see
you.”
Tyler
chuckled and then walked away.

The bedroom door closed
with the familiar click of the lock as I waited to see who was left in the room
with me. My heart pounded and my breathing got heavier. I closed my eyes. When
I opened them, I got the shock of my life. Cole was staring down at me.

“I don’t believe it,” I
said, looking up at him. “I should have known you were too good to be true! You
dirt bag jerk! You’re the scum of the earth! I hate you... you lying, sneaky,
ratfink...”

“Shut up!” he yelled, and
then kicked at the chair. The force of his foot should have rocked me hard, but
it barely made contact. It was as if he was doing it for show; not to hurt me.
I was confused, until I saw him raise his finger to his lips to shush me. He
wasn’t the bad guy after all. But what part did he play in
Tyler
’s
dangerous game? “They’re watching,” Cole whispered, removing the duct tape
around my ankles, and then progressing to my wrists. “There’s a camera mounted
behind one of the dolls.”

Once untied, Cole jerked me
up and out of the chair by my T-shirt, pulling my face to within an inch of
his. His lips formed the words, “Play along,” a second before he threw me face
down on the bed, and slapped a pair of handcuffs on my wrists.

“Ouch,” I cried, trying to
sit up. “They’re too tight.”

“Too bad,” he snapped.
“You’re lucky to still be alive, after all the trouble you’ve caused. 
Fortunately, your days are numbered. I can’t wait to see the look on your
boyfriend’s face when they bring him here. I wonder which one I will have the
pleasure of killing first, you or him. Either way, I’m going to enjoy it. He’s
been a thorn in my side ever since we were kids, always sticking his nose in
where it didn’t belong. I should have buried him a long time ago.”

Cole was trying to tell me
something in code, but my mind was in such a spin that I couldn’t assimilate
the meaning of his words. Was I supposed to figure it out from his facial
expressions or was I to pick out a few choice words? One thing was for sure, we
needed to have a conversation, away from the view of the camera. An idea came
to me.