Choke: A Thriller (3 page)

The oversized wooden door is kicked open.  The man walks inside and looks around to make sure nothing has changed since he last visited.

It hasn’t.

The building is an abandoned gymnasium with none of the athletic equipment remaining.  No basketball hoops, scoreboard, or bleachers.  Everything is gone.  It is now the kind of space that a fashion photographer would choose for a studio:  old brick walls, ancient wooden beams, a scarred wood floor.

The man leaves, then returns with the oversized hockey bag over his shoulder.  He walks into the middle of the room and drops the bag. From inside, muffled screams struggle to escape.  The duffel bag thrashes violently on the floor as Vicki struggles to free herself.

The man unzips the duffel bag to reveal Vicki Lee's terrified face.

“Hey!” she yells.

He slaps a strip of duct tape over her mouth, rendering anything else she says into muffled, unintelligible noises.  He pulls her out from the bag, kneels on her back, and duct tapes her ankles together.

She rolls onto her back and watches in horror as the man uncoils a long stretch of rope and throws it over one of the thick wooden beams high up near the ceiling.

A noose comes down the other side and hangs ominously over Vicki’s face. 

Her eyes widen in recognition of the object swinging over her head.

The reporter Douglas Eves is sitting in Vincent's office.  He has placed a recorder on the desk, halfway between them.  On his lap is a legal pad, in his hand, a pen.

“So your first patient who really was famous, or at least became famous after you got involved with him, was Bryant Mitchell, the baseball player,” Eves says.

Vincent nods.  “Yes, that’s correct.  When I met him, he was considered a young kid with a great arm and a lousy attitude.”

“But you changed that.”

“No, he did.  I just helped him.”

“And then he helped you.”

“Well, when Bryant pitched in the World Series, and they won, he threw my name around a bit,” Vincent admits.  “I did receive quite a few calls from other athletes after that.”

“Now you've moved beyond athletes to anyone who wants to achieve peak performance,” Eves continues.

“Right.  I spoke at a dinner of Fortune 100 executives the other night.”

Eves writes something down on his notepad.

“So what exactly do champions all have in common, from a psychological perspective?” he asks.  “What traits does someone need to consistently perform under pressure?”

“Through hundreds, even thousands of hours of research and discussions with people in a wide range of stressful occupations, I've discovered some constants,” Vincent says.  “One, they all practice positive self-talk.  Two, they all visualize themselves succeeding in whatever competition they're involved with.  And they all definitely say that the psychological component of their respective endeavors is as important as the physical aspect.”

“Meaning...”

“Meaning to be a professional golfer, you not only have to be able to drive the ball three hundred yards off the tee, but you have to be able to put yourself in the right frame of mind to consistently drive the ball three hundred yards off the tee.”  Vincent smiles.  “I know it sounds like I’m splitting hairs, but it’s actually a very important distinction.”

Eves scribbles down some more notes.

“And what about people who crack under pressure?” the reporter asks.  “I believe, in sports, it's called choking.”

“Invariably, it comes from a visualization problem.  Typically, it's produced by a collapse of the internal voice.  For some reason, the person's ability to put themselves in the right frame of mind is incapacitated.”

Eves puts his pen down and looks directly at Vincent.  “Have you ever personally choked?”

Vincent smiles.  “Hasn't everyone?” he says.

“Care to elaborate?”

Vincent shakes his head.  “Nothing really to elaborate on.  Everyone, from time to time, makes mistakes with regard to their thought process.  It has to do with being human.  Sometimes strong emotions interrupt the thought process.  What matters is how you get back on track.”

Eves doesn’t seem to want to let it go.  “I don't suppose it would be good for business, the psychologist who specializes in helping people remain cool under pressure talking about how he's choked in the past.”

“That's a very astute observation, Mr. Eves.  I hadn't thought of that.”

Eves looks at Vincent to see if he's serious.  At that moment, Vincent's secretary pokes her head in the door.

“Dr. Keyes, you have a call on line one.  It's Vicki Lee.”

“Okay, I'll take it” Vincent says.  “Are we done here, Doug?”

“Yep, I've got everything I need for now.  My editor may want me to follow up on some points later.  But we can just do that over the phone.  Thanks for your time, Doctor.”

“No problem.  We'll see you in print.  Or should I say digitally?  Print is dead, right?”

Eves doesn’t seem to hear as he leaves Vincent’s office.

Vincent picks up his phone and punches a button.

“Vicki?”

He hears a scream.

Vicki Lee has a noose around her neck.  She is crying.  The man, his hand clad in a black leather glove, holds a phone to her ear.

Her voice trembles.

“Vincent.  Please help me.  Hurry.  I'm at thirteen...thirteen forty East Wright Street.  Don't call the police.  I'm in big trouble.  Just come, please.  I need your help.”

The phone is taken away from Vicki and the man clicks the disconnect button.  Vicki starts sobbing.

“Vicki!”

Vincent runs from his desk, yells to Nancy as he races by the receptionist's desk.

“Call the cops, tell them to meet me at thirteen forty East Wright Street.”

“East Wright Street?  That's just a few minutes away.”

“I know where it is, call the cops, Nancy!”

“Okay, okay.”

Vincent sprints to the Mercedes, drives quickly, gunning the powerful engine of his car, and taking corners with abandon.  His tires squeal as he takes a corner, then he guns the engine again.

He quickly passes into a neighborhood with older buildings and a lot of vacant lots.

He slams on the brakes in front of thirteen forty East Wright Street.  It is a tall, dilapidated brick building.  There are iron bars over the windows, as well as the main doors.

Vincent gets out of his car and looks around.

The numbers 1340 are clearly visible over the main door of the building. 

Vincent rushes up the stairs and pushes against the doors.  They are unlocked.  He crashes through them and rushes inside.

Inside the building, Vincent sees that it is completely deserted.  There are no signs of anyone anywhere.

Long hallways lead off from the main entrance, and a set of thick wooden doors faces Vincent.  He approaches them.

Vincent puts his hand tentatively on the door handle, it opens partially.  He takes one more look down each hallway, then pushes the doors open.

At first glance, the gymnasium seems empty.  Vincent lets the door close.  As it swings shut, he hears a sound from above.

He looks up and sees an elaborate rope and pulley system that leads to the center of the room, high above Vincent's head.  There, perched precariously on a beam, is Vicki Lee.

The rope leads to her neck and duct tape covers her mouth.

The rope, triggered by the closing of the door, is snapped upward, and it whiplashes, tightening along a line straight to Vicki Lee.

The place is
booby-trapped
, Vincent thinks.

As the rope takes up slack, the board beneath Vicki's feet shoots out from under her, and Vicki drops three feet, hitting the end of the rope with a vicious jerk.

Hanging by her neck, with her hands tied behind her back, Vicki's feet start kicking wildly.

Vincent is frozen by the sight.  He starts shaking.  Vicki's terrified eyes blaze at him, willing him to move.

Finally, he snaps out of it.

He looks at the rope above him, and tries to jump for it, but it's at least ten feet over his head.  He starts to move in one direction, stops, then moves in another.

He looks around the room, but there are no chairs, no ladders, nothing to help him reach the rope.

Vicki continues to kick and thrash.  He can see her face.  It's turning blue.

Vincent races to the big double doors, throws them open and screams down the hallway.

“Help!  Help!”

He rushes back into the room and starts shaking again.  His eyes follow the rope back to the door.

He looks back at Vicki.  She has stopped kicking.  Her body's only movements are momentary convulsive jerks.

Vincent opens the door, and locks it open, then climbs, using the door’s wide handle as a foothold.  He reaches the top of the door, and stretches across it, teetering and nearly falling.  He brings one leg up to the right, and manages to bring himself to a kneeling position on top of the door.

He stands upright and gauges the distance to the rope overhead.  Sweat has begun to pour down his face.

He jumps and his right hand catches the rope.  He swings his left hand up and starts climbing his way, hand over hand, toward Vicki.

Halfway there, he throws his feet up and hooks them over the rope.  Now he can climb faster.

Vicki has stopped moving.

With ten yards to go, Vincent sees that the rope runs through a hook in an adjoining beam.  He studies it momentarily, then shifts one hand to the section of rope opposite the beam.

He is now a good twenty feet above the floor.

Vincent swings his feet up and braces them against a ceiling beam.  Sweat is pouring down his face.  The muscles in his arms and legs are burning.  Straining, he manages to create a hint of slack in the rope.

“Come on, come on!” he yells at himself.

He pulls harder and now there is just enough slack in the rope to slip it from the hook.  Vincent does just that and, now free from the hook, Vicki falls to the ground with a thud that sickens Vincent. 

Vincent manages to reach the same rope and slides down it fireman-style, landing next to Vicki.

His hands are shaking and he's crying as he works to loosen the noose.  Her eyes are wide open and unblinking.  Even though the noose is off now, her face remains blue.

“Vicki!  Vicki!”

He begins mouth-to-mouth.

“Come on Vicki!  Come on!”

He keeps trying mouth-to-mouth, but Vicki shows no signs of reviving.

Vincent hears the sound of sirens but they seem far away.

He checks for Vicki’s pulse, but fails to find one.  He hangs his head and starts sobbing.

Vincent is sitting at a table while Detective Ponko paces in front of him.  It is a typical interrogation room with a single overhead light and empty walls, save for a two-way mirror on one side.

Ponko is a black woman with a hard, cynical look to her.  She has neatly trimmed hair and her lips are thin. 

Vincent has already told his story to her at least three times and he is now waiting for his attorney to arrive.

“So you won't tell me what you two talked about in your last session?” Ponko asks.  Her tone is both sarcastic and suspicious.

“Look, we've been over this, Detective,” Vincent says.  His voice is hollow and all he wants to do is go back to his house, drink a huge glass of Scotch, and cry.

“Humor me,” Ponko says, and folds her arms across her chest.

“I'm a psychologist specializing in peak performance,” Vincent says.  “Vicki is, was, a world-class figure skater.  What do you think we talked about?  Global warming?”

“So you didn't get into her personal life?  Wouldn’t that have to do with how well she was skating?”

Vincent saw the obvious leading question for what it was.  He looked toward the interrogation room door.  “Where's my lawyer?”

“He's on his way.”

“You’ve been saying that for the last two hours.  I'm not answering any more questions until he gets here.”

“This is all off the record, Doctor.  So tell me, did you get into her personal life?”

Vincent knew nothing was off the record.  He was sure the whole conversation was being recorded.

“Look, I've already told you, when I treat a person, I treat the entire person, not just the athlete.  Who a person is affects everything they do.  So if someone comes to me wanting to improve their performance in whatever they do, you’re goddamned right we get into personal issues.”

“What were Vicki's issues?”

Vincent drummed his fingers on the table.  He knew Ponko was just trying to wear him down, but it was working. 

“Look, I told you, she was a confident, happy, well-adjusted woman.  Her dream was to go to the Olympics and bring home a medal.  I was doing everything I could to help her achieve that.”

“So you're saying she didn't really have any personal issues?”

“Look, Vicki's personal issues, as you call them, were issues of organization, time management, not the kind of stuff you're looking for.”

“What exactly is it I'm looking for?”

“Well, obviously not the killer otherwise you wouldn't be wasting your time with me.”

“Sounds like I need some peak performance training, right?  You wanna sign me up?  You give seminars or something like that?”

“Sure.  The first thing we'd work on is to get you to start doing your job.”

She stands and laughs, then looks at him.

“I am doing my job.”

Just then, the door to the interrogation room opens and in walks Ken Lamm, Vincent's attorney.  He is sharply dressed and carrying an expensive briefcase.  He looks at Ponko and Vincent, then holds the door open.

“Come on Vincent, we're leaving.”

“Thank God,” Vincent says, getting to his feet.

The attorney looks at Ponko.  “Everything you two talked about is inadmissible since you kept me cooling my heels out there for the last hour,” Lamm says.

“I know.  I know,” Ponko says.  She hands Vincent a business card.

“Here's my card.  If you think of anything you may have forgotten, call me.”

Vincent angrily snatches the card from her hand and is about out the door when the detective speaks again.

“And Dr. Keyes?”

Vincent stops at the sound of her voice.

“If I find out you've got anything to do with Vicki Lee's death, you better hope your lawyer here is at the top of his game.  'Cuz you're gonna need him.”