Don't Leave Me (25 page)

Authors: James Scott Bell

BOOK: Don't Leave Me

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Chapter 61

They took Chuck up some stairs, the Kovak guy and one of his men and some wispy Asian dude following, holding an old fashioned doctor’s bag.

It was this guy Chuck feared most.

Up in a second-story room now. The soldier opened the door and pushed Chuck inside.

The room was dim, the recessed lighting kept low. A large bay window gave the same ocean view as below. This man sure liked his moonlight. Maybe he was a werewolf. Maybe a silver bullet was what we needed here.

Or any weapon. And an invading army.

There was the chair in front of the window. The soldier took Chuck’s arm and set him in the chair. There were large flat arms on the chair with leather restraints. The soldier put his hand on Chuck’s throat and pushed him back against the chair. Kovak secured the restraints around Chuck’s wrists.

“I’m afraid this is necessary,” Kovak said. “You will understand. No harm is going to be done to you.”

“I believe everything you say,” Chuck said.

“There is no need to be skeptical. I’m a man of my word. All you have to do is give me what I want and I will let you see your brother.”

“I have one question for you,” Chuck said. “Will my brother and I be able to leave here alive?”

“Why don’t we take this one step at a time? It’s very important that you relax. Isn’t that right, doctor?”

The Asian man said, “Yes, that would be very helpful.”

He placed his black bag on the table and opened it.

Stan sat in front of the computer.

Okay, now think! Do it. Think.

What was her name? The cop. The nice cop.

Epperson, that was it.

And she was from Topanga. That’s what she said. Topanga station.

Stan Googled
police Topanga station.

Got it! Top hit.

It had a phone number. He’d call!

No phone in here, in this little office slightly off the pool.

Now what?

Think, Stan, think before they come back.

There were two pictures on the website. Tim Barasco and Harold Peters. It said they were Captains.

Captains were good.

But there were no phones!

Wait a second, wait. What’s that? A link. A link on that Captain’s name. Barasco.

Click.

There he is again. His picture. And stuff about him.

Tim Barasco began his career as a police officer in 1988. He promoted to Sergeant in March 1993 and to the rank of Lieutenant in February 1999. After promoting to Captain in April 2005, Captain Barasco was assigned to Southeast Patrol Division as the Commanding Officer, where he led a very successful effort . . .

Come on, that doesn’t help.

Wait. Under his name.

Leave a Message

Click.

A box came up. He could type into it!

A door slammed.

The doctor prepared a syringe and spoke softly. “It will go much better if you do not fight. You will feel warmth in your arm and then in your head. It will be as if you are dropping into a nice sleep, but you will not be asleep. Is that clear?”

Chuck said nothing. He would give them nothing. He would go to sleep. He would black out. He would . . .

The doctor swabbed Chuck’s left arm at the elbow.

Don’t give them anything. Nothing.

Nothing.

“Little sting now,” the doctor said.

And then it was warm, in his arm.

Gotta hurry!

Stan typed.

help
us
tell detective epperson me and chuck are at this big house by the ocean they got us

“Hey!”

A guy coming in the other way, through the other door, running at him.

Send, send, hit send!

Chapter 62

A dim light flicked on in the back of Chuck’s brain. The figures standing there in the shadow dance, two of them, he saw the faces. Yes, for sure, it was the same, it was this one, Kovak, and another, darker. The darker one had deformed feet. Like rocks.

“The feet . . .” Chuck said.

“Ah!” Kovak said happily. “You see them.”

“See what?”

“Try to hear him,” Kovak said.

“What do I hear?” Chuck said. His voice was thick and slow.

“Just listen.”

“No,” Chuck said.

“And?”

“My brother.”

“I like you,” Kovak said. “I like you very much. You may be able to save your brother. Would you like to do that?”

“Where?”

“You give me something first. That’s all I ask, will you do that for me?”

Stan. Need to see him. See him. “Yes,” Chuck said.

“Good,” Kovak said. The Kovak in the room with him now. The Kovak in his memory was also talking. Chuck could hear his voice, “
Where did he say it was? The truck. Where did he say it was?
”

And then in his brain two men fighting. Men in uniforms.

Sports uniforms.

The dream. The weird, strange dream. Only not a dream now, in his mind now.

“You see something,” Kovak said, Kovak in the room. “What is it?”

“Nolan Ryan,” Chuck said, unable to resist the questioner. “Mario Lemiux.”

Chuck’s eyes were heavy, like he wanted to sleep. But it was clearer in his mind. Nolan Ryan and Mario Lemiux. He could see them now.

Nolan Ryan, his childhood hero, wearing his Angels uniform, on the mound at the Big A, only the uniform top was too short and his stomach was showing. He had a rash or something on this stomach.

He was pitching to Mario Lemiux, but Mario Lemieux was a hockey player . . .

Kovak shook Chuck’s shoulders.

The images in Chuck’s head scrambled, then coalesced again, stronger.

Kovak said, “What are you talking about? Save your brother.”

“No,” the Asian doctor said. “Too hard.”

“Shut up,” Kovak said.

Rush ten line . . .

“I see it behind your eyes,” Kovak said.

“Rash,” Chuck muttered. “Nolan Ryan has a rash tan line.”

The doctor said, “He’s delirious.”

“No,” Kovak said. “He’s got something. He’s
got
something.”

Someone pounded on the door.

Kovak went to the door, threw it open. Chuck heard voices. He thought he heard someone muffled, like he was gagged.

The door opened wider.

Stan!

Gagged. Eyes pie shaped. Hands restrained behind him.

Pushed inside by someone.

Someone Chuck knew.

Yes. The guy from the accident. The guy who rear ended him and pulled a knife. The Mad Russian.

Every nerve in Chuck wanted to jump up and tear into everybody, but he couldn’t move. Lethargy enveloped him, made everything feel slow around him.

“And so here he is,” Kovak said. “Your brother, safe as you can see. He’s scared, a bit nervous––”

Stan broke free of the Mad Russian and ran at Kovak with lowered head.

And got him right in the stomach.

Kovak grunted as he went down, hard, on his back. Stan on top wiggling and trying to get up.

Mad Russian grabbed Stan by the shirt and yanked him up like a laundry bag.

“No!” Chuck managed, his tongue feeling like two tons.

Mad Russian threw Stan against the wall.

Stan hit, went down, didn’t move.

God, oh God, let me out of here. Give something to kill with.

Kovak was on his feet. Blue fire in his eyes.

He advanced toward Stan.

God, oh God.

Kovak stopped before Mad Russian, took one look at Stan, then slapped Mad Russian so hard he hit the ground.

“Incompetent!” Kovak took a step toward the downed soldier.

Crablike, Mad Russian scurried backward.

And then the room’s lights started flashing. Alarms split the air.

Kovak leaned over and picked up Mad Russian the same way Mad Russian had picked up Stan.

He threw Mad Russian out of the room.

He waved at the doctor to follow.

The doctor seemed like he couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

He’s going to leave us here. Me and Stan.

Stan, who still was not moving.

Kovak went through the door, closed it.

Chuck could not hear a lock. The alarm pierced his hearing.

He wanted to cover his ears, couldn’t do a thing.

Alarms and flashing lights going on in the room and in Chuck’s mind.

Chapter 63

Remember!

Afghanistan.

Kovak was there. And so was the man with rock feet. Deformed feet. Dressed in Afghan clothes.

Warlord.

A villa. He’d been taken to a villa.

Chuck closed his eyes. The alarms going off made it hard to think.

They tortured him, he knew that. He knew because he’d been debriefed after, and that cut on his neck, didn’t happen by accident.

It was coming back.

A truck.

Something about a truck.

Dylan Bly.

Something Dylan Bly said about a truck.

Chuck opened his eyes

Stan wasn’t moving.

The door opened.

No.

It couldn’t be.

No.

It was.

Julia.

I’m gone now. Crazy. It’s over. I’m gone, crazy . . .

But she closed the door and came to Chuck.

She unlatched the restraints.

No, he was still crazy.

It could not be her.

“Chuck, get up,” she said.

“Dear God!”

“Get Stan up. Hurry.”

Chuck grabbed her shoulders. “Tell me what this is!”

“They’re coming,” Julia said. “Cops and who knows what else. We’ve got to get out the back way.”

She sounded like Julia. She looked like Julia.

She
smelled
like Julia.

Chuck tried to talk, couldn’t.

“Get Stan,” Julia said.

Yes, Stan on the ground.

I
am
crazy. I must be. This can’t be happening.

Stan started to roll over.

To get from where he was to Stan was a matter of ten feet, no more. But those ten were like a slog across a muddy football field at night. Half his mind was trying to make sense of Julia being alive, and that half was sending signals down his spine, to his legs, to his arms, distress signals, trying to put the brakes on movement. The other half was getting to his brother, and then getting out of there, somewhere.

And Julia was letting them.

How,
how?

On his knees, Chuck ripped at the duct tape on Stan’s wrists. It wouldn’t budge. He leaned over and used his teeth to create a tear, then ripped it off.

He untied the gag.

Saw Stan’s glassy eyes.

“Stan, hey.”

“Chuck?”

“I’m right here.”

“They’re mean.”

“Can you get up? You hurt?”

“I’m mad now.”

“We need to go.”

“Julia’s here!”

“I know.” Chuck looked up but Julia was gone.