Amy Maxwell's 6th Sense (14 page)

Roger!
The waiter lied to me! Roger
was
there!
That’s it!
I am fuming now as I jump down off the milk crate and go storming back toward the men. I huff and puff and debate about which one I will yell at first.
Oh, they think they’re so clever because they’re men and I’m just a wee lass that they can lie to?
(I’m not sure when my subconscious became an old Irish wash-woman, but I like her).
I’ll show them lads a thing or two.

“Hey!” I call out when I am about ten feet away. I stop and plant my hands on my hips. Startled by the sound of my voice, the waiter looks up and quickly pulls something out of his pocket, squinting his eyes to see who is coming at him in the dark.

“Lady, what are you doing here?” he asks nervously. “I
told
you your husband wasn’t here.” He doesn’t sound so sure of himself now.

“Oh really?" I step closer to the men and grab Roger’s shoulder, whirling his body around. Only, it isn’t Roger. I instantly recognize him. It’s one of the men from the vending machine the other day. And he looks mad, even though he’s smiling at me. And pointing a gun at my chest.

~Sixteen~

“Oh, um, hi,” I manage to stammer. “I must have mistaken you for someone else.” I attempt to smile and sound cheery. My lips are actually trembling, making this feat quite difficult. In fact, my teeth are rattling in my head and giving me a tremendous headache.

“Lady, didn’t I tell you that your husband wasn’t here?” The waiter is shaking his head in disgust.

“Um, yup, you did! I guess I’ll be going now!” I spin on my heel, attempting to extricate myself from this mess I have stumbled upon.

“Not so fast,” the Roger Impostor says as he grabs me by the crook of my arm and pulls me back. The gun actually touches my chest this time. I gulp, frantically wishing I had told someone where I was going. Or better yet, that I hadn’t wandered into this alley to begin with.

“I was just going to go to dinner with my family,” I chuckle nervously. “I’m pretty sure the steak is already dead—no need for weapons!”

The Roger Impostor ignores me and my attempt at humor as he jerks his head toward the waiter. “Check her.”

Grumbling, the waiter starts at my arms and pats downward, glancing away as his hands graze the side of my chest. When he reaches Allie’s phone, he sticks his hand into my pocket and pulls it out.

“Ah, what have we got here?” The Roger Impostor remarks while grabbing the phone from the waiter with his free hand. He inspects the phone and says, “Oh, recording us, I see?” He sneers as he shoves the phone in front of my face. I can see the red audio recording button is flashing.

“I didn’t…” I stammer as he violent presses the stop button and then deletes the video.

“Oops, I guess it’s gone,’ he says in a sing-song voice. “Guess your little trick isn’t going to work.”

“It’s not what you think,” I attempt to explain.

The Roger Impostor snorts. “It’s never what we think. God, if I had a dollar for every time I heard that one—”

“No, it really isn’t,” I interrupt. “You see, that’s my daughter’s phone. I didn’t know how to use her phone, and I think my husband is having an affair so I was trying to record him with the mistress and—”

“What kind of person records her husband having an affair on her kid’s phone?” Bull Nostrils is visibly shocked by that idea.

“Well, I wasn’t—”

“It’s a likely story. Just to be on the safe side, I’m throwing the whole thing away,” the Roger Impostor says as he tosses the phone in the dumpster.
Oh crap. Allie is gonna have a canary. That phone is more important to her than her family.

Just then, the situation gets worse. Or better, depending on your point of view.

“Amy!” Roger’s voice carries through the alley, causing Bull Nostrils to groan loudly.

“Who the hell is that?” the Roger Impostor asks, loosening the grip on my arm, but shoving the gun closer to my trembling body.

“My husband,” I mumble like I have a mouth full of marbles. I am afraid if I make any sudden moves, the gun will blow a hole through my chest. Not that I haven’t ever stared down the barrel of a gun before—I told you, I’m quite the expert on getting into these tricky spots—but for some reason, I’m thinking these guys are
really
serious.

“
Now
he shows up?” Bull Nostrils asks incredulously. “Where’s he been?”

I’ve been wondering the same thing, my friend.

“Amy!” Roger calls out, this time, he sounds closer. I want to call out to him, tell him to turn around, run, and get help. But my lips are as paralyzed as the rest of my body.

“Tell him you’re fine,” the Roger Impostor murmurs, pasting a fake smile on his face as I hear the real Roger rapidly approaching. “Tell him we’re just talking.” I nod at him, but still can’t seem to talk. Fear usually has the opposite effect on my body—I can’t shut up half the time and end up digging myself deeper into a hole.

As Roger steps closer he asks, “Amy, why aren’t you answering me? Why are you in a dark alley? I’ve been looking all over for you! Who are those men? Are you in some sort of trouble?” Roger seems to be plagued with my normal affliction of diarrhea of the mouth.

I have heard that after many years of marriage, some couples are able to read each other’s minds. As Roger gets closer, I am trying to send him telepathic messages;
Stop talking! Turn around! Get help!

Roger, of course, is oblivious to my signals. I should have known we couldn’t read each other’s minds. If that was true, I would have known he was cheating on me long before this ill-fated vacation.
Which is probably going to cost you your life. And Roger’s, too. Awesome. I’ve heard affairs can destroy families, but this is certainly taking it a step too far, even for you, Amy.

“Tell your husband to scram,” the Roger Impostor urges again, this time digging his nails into the soft and thin flesh covering my so-called triceps.

I knew I should have lifted weights more instead of doing strict cardio only. Beth warned me that an effective workout routine consisted of cardio
and
weights, but I never listened. Oh, who am I kidding? I didn’t do the cardio either. And I highly doubt lifting a few dumbbells a couple times a week would have helped me fight off these beasts. I need to be a WWE wrestler to stand a chance against these meatheads.

“We’re gonna have to take care of him, too,” Bull Nostrils says through gritted teeth.

I should pause here to establish that I don’t know either of these guys’ names. However, for storytelling purposes, I must stop referring to them as “Bull Nostrils”
and “The Roger Impostor”. They look to me like a Mario and a Jerry. So from this point on, I will refer to the waiter as Mario and the other guy as Jerry. Continue on...

I wince at the phrase “we’re gonna have to take care of him, too”. I'm pretty sure they’re not talking about providing exceptional customer service by setting us up in a beach cabana and bringing us fruity drinks all day, while a masseuse massages our feet, or even moving us to a bigger room in the hotel. I have a feeling this is the sinister version of “taking care of” someone.

I hear Roger panting way before his beet red face comes fully into view. “Geez, Amy, are you going deaf?”

I can see him out of the corner of my eye, but I don’t think he realizes the whole gun to my chest situation quite yet. Perhaps he thinks I’m chatting in a dark alley with these guys because I’m looking to find out where the nearest Hobby Lobby is.

“Who are these guys?” Roger finally asks when he can see the pained and panicked look on my face. And then, his eyes focus on the gun. “What the hell is going on here, fellas?” He glances back and forth between the gun, my face, and my two captors.

Quite honestly, I’d like to know what the hell is going on here also, but of course, Mario and Jerry do not fill us in. Instead, they begin to “take care of us”.

Mario has his own gun, which he quickly shoves into Roger’s rib cage. Or at least where his rib cage should be. He’s got a heck of a lot more padding than I do, yet he yelps, “Ouch! What's the big idea?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, half expecting the gun to explode just then and leave my husband’s innards all over the alley.

When I only hear more of Roger’s protests, I attempt to send him more mental messages. Mainly “shut the fuck up before you get us killed!” I swear he actually replies mentally with “well if you weren’t a busybody, neither of us would be in this situation right now!”

My eyes pop open, but of course Roger has not been communicating with us telepathically. Instead he is arguing with our captors. “I’m on vacation you know! This is not how guests expect to be treated when they stay in a resort!” He is poking at Mario’s waiter attire, which is emblazoned with the hotel’s name and insignia.

“Then you should stick to the resort and not go poking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” Jerry retorts, while Mario digs the gun deeper into Roger’s side, as if he has the right to hold a gun to the chest of any guest who doesn’t stay where they belong.

“I was just looking for my wife!” Roger sputters. “She’s the one who was in this alley!’

Oh, sure honey, thanks. Throw me under the bus. I’m so glad we’re getting a divorce after this vacation. If we’re not dead, of course.

“She claims she was looking for you,” Jerry tells Roger with an eyebrow cocked. “I don’t know what game the two of you are playing, but I’ve taken down narcs a lot smarter than the two of you.”

They’ve taken down narcs? Crap, we are so dead.

“Narcs?” Roger’s voice squeaks. “Narcs? What the hell are you talking about? We’re not narcs!”

Jerry digs his gun so deep into my chest that I actually let out a gasp. “Really. Most suburban housewives don’t wander down dark alleys with recording devices in their pockets, closely followed by their
husbands
.” He doesn’t relax his grip on me to work the air quotes—they’re just implied.

“Well, you’ve never met my wife,” Roger mumbles. “She’s got a nose for trouble.”

I scowl at him just as Jerry says, “If she’s even your wife.”

“He’s my husband! I swear!” I shout. “Do you think that’s something I’d say if it wasn’t true?”

Roger recoils like I’ve slapped him. “Gee, thanks, Amy.”

I shrug indifferently. He has no idea that I’ve caught him with Victoria and now is not the time to bring it up.

Roger ignores the shrug and continues to argue. “I’ll show you my license! We’re married! We’re on vacation! We live in New Jersey for God’s sakes!” Roger throws in his own plea, as if being from Jersey makes us innocent.

Mario glances at Jerry as Roger digs into his pocket for his wallet. “We’ve seen husband and wife teams before,” Mario says with a knowing look. “That means nothing.”

“Don’t move a muscle,” Jerry growls, and Mario grabs Roger’s arm out of his pocket, twisting him like a pretzel.

“Ouch!” Roger yelps, dropping the wallet. It bounces by his feet and lands neatly up against the dumpster.

I expect one of the thugs to grab the wallet, to at least check for cash, but they ignore it and push us farther down the alleyway. “Let’s go you two,” Jerry mumbles.

“We can’t go anywhere,” I tell him. “Our kids...we have four kids.”

“That's right!” Roger pipes up. “We would love to join you fellas, but we’re late for dinner with the kids.”

“Too friggin’ bad,” Jerry grumbles, shoving me forward. I stumble on an uneven piece of pavement—Roger’s hand shoots out to grab my arm and prevent me from falling.

“Are you okay?” he asks, concern in his eyes as he caresses my skin. Well, I assume it’s concern. After all, we are in a bit of a pickle right now. I’m almost touched, but then I remember that I am furious with him.

Where was your concern when you were giggling with your girlfriend a few minutes ago, Roger? Hmmm? If you were so concerned about me then, we wouldn’t be here right now.

“I’m fine, Roger,” I mutter, shaking off his grasp. Roger is hurt—I can see it in his eyes, and I feel oddly triumphant.

It’s rapidly getting darker, the sun completely set now, but the moon has not risen yet. The sky and atmosphere have a surreal appearance to them, a purplish haze and a charged feeling to the sky, not unlike the air before a summer storm. I shudder as we step out of the alley and right up to a deserted dock that runs behind the resort. I can hear the waves slapping against the pylons and what appears to be a row boat tied up to the dock. There is also a large door at the back of the resort, like one that a truck could be backed up to. Maybe this is where they get their seafood deliveries.

“Get in,” Jerry shoves me roughly toward the edge of the dock, poking the gun into my right shoulder blade.

“Huh?” I turn to stare at him. “Get in where?” I scan the dock for a car. Or a golf cart. Or scooter.

“Get in the boat,” Jerry says through gritted teeth.

“The boat?” I squeak.

“Yeah, the boat,” Jerry says slowly, like I’m a dim-witted moron.

“I can’t get in the boat,” I tell him in a panicked voice. “I get seasick. I’ll throw up all over the place.”

“It’s true.” Roger vouches for me. “On our honeymoon, she threw up on the gondola ride in The Venetian.” He rolls his eyes. “That’s in Las Vegas,” he adds, in case
one of our friendly captors actually care. Like they’re going to start comparing travel notes with him.

“Lean over the side then,” Jerry grumbles unsympathetically, practically shoving me off the dock. “Don’t puke in the boat.’

I whimper, falling on my knees from his push. The dock is rough, and I feel a splinter pierce my hand as I fall. It’s the same hand I caught in the door earlier. I had nearly forgotten about that but now I am reminded as my hand begins to throb again. But I don’t cry out or complain. This is no joke.

I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, wishing I could be like Dorothy and click my heels three times to find myself at home again. Screw vacation. I never want to go on another vacation as long as I live. Which won’t be long if we don’t get out of this mess. I start bargaining with the man upstairs.
I won’t even ask for a girls’ weekend away. Heck, I swear I won’t even ask to go to the bathroom in private ever again if you can get me out of this mess in one piece. And Roger...I guess. Even though, it’s technically his fault.