Stained (7 page)

I feel the hinges, hoping there's something I can unscrew, but my fingers slide over unmoving metal. Screams tremble in my throat.

I whirl around and start along the next wall, feeling my way around the room. I count the walls as I go, but even so I have to go around three times before I can convince myself there's only the one door.

He plans to keep me here.
Something snaps in my mind, and I go at the door like I'm crazed, slamming into it with my body, not caring about the way it jars my teeth, my bones, hurts my shoulder. I batter the door, clawing and kicking and screaming until I am sobbing with exhaustion.

I sink to the floor, trembling and feeling sick. I hurt all over, I have to pee, and I am intensely thirsty.

Don't let me die here. Please.
I never got to say goodbye. Never got to tell Mom I'm sorry, tell Dad how lucky I am to have him for a father. A whimper wrenches its way out of my throat. I want to be with them so badly, I can almost feel Dad's strong hand on my shoulder, can almost smell Mom's orange-blossom perfume, the one Dad gave her when I was born.

I wonder if they're thinking of me right now, if they even know I'm missing; wonder if my fear and pain has somehow reached them. I know it's crazy thinking, but I want it to be true.

I want to be saved—
need
to be saved—the way people are in movies. The hero never giving up, breaking down the door or bursting through the wall to save the victim, sometimes at the last minute, but always, always succeeding.

Even more than that, I wish I were Superman or She-Hulk, so I could rip off my blindfold and smash my way out of here, bricks and bits of wood flying. But I'm just an ordinary girl locked up by some sicko.

I chew on my lip. If Brian is anything like the villains in comic books, he could be out there right now, watching me trying to escape, gloating at my defeat.

I leap to my feet and feel my way back to the door, then press my mouth to the hole. “Are you out there, you sick jerk? Are you listening? You haven't won, you hear me?” My voice is hoarse. “I'm going to get out of here! And when my dad finds out you did this—and he will—he's going to make sure you go to jail for a long time!”

I stop shouting and listen.

There's nothing, just silence. It was stupid to think he'd be watching. He probably left me here to die.

And then shoes crunch along the gravel and ice, pebbles jarring against one another.

AT FIRST I THINK the footsteps are heading away from me, but then they get louder. I feel like I'm choking on my own heart.

The crunch of gravel stops. I strain to hear, my breath rasping in my throat.

“I won't be threatened,” Brian says, his voice surprisingly close. “You'd better learn that fast. You've just guaranteed that your parents will suffer.”

“What? No, please—”

But his footsteps retreat, leaving me alone.

I lean back against the door. He could be lying to get me to behave. But if he isn't . . .

I take a shuddering breath. If he isn't, I just put them in danger. God, I hope he's lying.
Please let him be lying.

I leap up and pound the door again, pound it as hard as I can, kicking and punching and tearing at it, but it is just as unmovable as before.

I need to warn my parents—and I can't. I don't know what to do, except I have to stop thinking about it or I'll break. I really think I'll break, just start screaming and never stop.

I sink to my knees, my bladder aching. I can't believe I'm locked up here, all alone, waiting for a psycho to come back. If Brian fooled me—
me
with my great sense of people—then how will Dad and Mom ever figure out who kidnapped me? He's probably heading back there now to console them.

I slam my head against the door. If they can't see through him, then no one will know where I am. No one will know what happened to me.

A BIRD BEGINS TO chirp like nothing's happened, an inane chirp that makes me want to scream.

I wrap my arms around myself and try to keep from losing it. The need to pee is getting worse. I can't believe I have to; not right now. I've got to escape! But how can I, when I can't even open the door? And there's no one around to find me even if I did. I know that now. Brian wouldn't have taken the chance of removing my gag if he thought someone could hear me scream. I must be far away from people. Very far.

I wonder if they've found my backpack yet. If Mom is crying over it, if Dad is pacing up and down the hall. I wonder if Charlene's instant messaged me, or if she even knows I'm missing.

I sniff back tears. There's no one in the world who knows where I am except Brian—and he's not going to tell. There's just him—and me. And no one will ever think to look at him. If they look at anyone, it will be Bad Boy. After what he did today, he's the most obvious suspect. All anyone will remember about Brian, if they think about him at all, is how he saved me. No one will ever find me.

No. I can't die in this shack. There's got to be something I can use to help me. Something he overlooked.

I get down on my hands and knees and slowly move forward, sweeping the floor with my hands. My fingers touch the stiff cotton, and I jerk my hand away and keep going in as straight a line as I can without being able to see—all the way to the wall. I repeat this until I've covered the entire room.

I lean my head back. There is nothing here except the down comforter. This is a holding tank, a prison. Nothing more.

I have to pee so badly now that it hurts. I shift uncomfortably. My abdomen, my crotch, even the muscles at the top of my thighs all hurt. There's nowhere to go, no toilet—and I am not taking my jeans off when he could be standing outside watching, waiting for me to make myself vulnerable. I've been trying to ignore the pressure, but the pain is getting bad.

I clench my fists. “I can control this. Mind over matter.”

But the pressure builds, and I have to let go. I feel relief as warmth spreads across my jeans and down my legs, and the pain subsides.

And then I feel the cold, wet fabric against my legs. It's all I feel.

I haven't peed myself since I was little and got scared watching
Star Wars.
Mom cleaned me up and didn't even get mad. I want to hear her and Dad's voices so badly, want them to tell me it's okay, that I will get out of here.

I slide down to the floor. I need to cry, but I won't let myself give in. I think of Mom, of the way she's always so positive no matter how bad things get, and I draw that strength to me.

I
will
get out of here.

I'm starting to feel the cold in my toes and fingers, and deep in my core. I shudder. What's positive about my situation? There has to be something.

I guess I'm lucky I have shelter, that he didn't tie me up outside, and that he left me my down coat and the comforter. There. I can do this positive-thinking thing when I have to. I draw my knees up to my chest and hug myself, trying to keep warm.

But I'm not just cold. I'm fiercely thirsty. My mouth is so dry I can hardly swallow. I wish I had something, anything, to drink. Orange juice, root beer, chocolate milk—I want them all. Hot chocolate, tea—I'd even take coffee, though I hate its bitter taste. I can't believe I actually stood in the grocery store last week and argued with Mom over which brand of juice to buy. Right now I'd take anything, even the store brands that never taste as good. I try not to swallow.

I read once that a person can go for forty days without food, but only seven days without water. I can't have been here for more than a few hours, but I'm so thirsty my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth. I shouldn't be this thirsty; it must be the drug he gave me. But telling myself that doesn't help.

Anything's better, though, than him being here. Unless he's left me here to die. But what's the point of kidnapping me just to let me die?

I shiver. He had to kidnap me for a reason. Ransom? But my parents aren't rich, and Brian knows Dad's company is in trouble. So why? To rape me? To kill me?

I gag. Those are the most likely answers. But then why didn't he do it already?

I hate not knowing why Brian did this. But I don't really want to know, either. I just want to escape.

It doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense. I trusted Brian. So did my parents. But here I am, Brian's prisoner. And Dad and Mom? They must be crazy with worry.

I miss them so badly. And I'm scared for them. Scared for me, too. But I can't do anything until Brian gets back. That's when things will change. I'll
make
them change. Because he'll have to open the door to come inside. And when he does, I will burst out of this prison.

I rest my head on my knees and wait.

7:50 P.M.

 

I CAN'T BELIEVE WHAT a prick Charlene's dad is. I could hear him swearing at her right through the phone, telling her to get her fat ass home. I felt sorry for her, though I tried not to show I'd heard.

I wish she'd stayed. It's cold, lonely work stopping passersby to ask them if they've seen Sarah, going into stores and asking shopkeepers who don't want to talk to me once they see I'm not buying anything. I worry that I'm wasting my time, that there's something else I should be doing to find her, but I don't know what.

I trip. I look to see what snared me—and stop breathing. I recognize that She-Hulk badge. I take a step back and nudge the backpack with my foot, turning it over and scooting it closer to a streetlight to be sure.

It's Sarah's, all right. The little Superman figure dangling from the zipper pull, the Wonder Woman button I gave her, the Batgirl badge she made herself so that it would be her favorite Batgirl, Cassandra Cain . . .

I think I'm going to be sick. Sarah would never leave her bag. I know for sure now—something bad has happened. If only I'd walked her home, or convinced her to go to the comic store with me. If only I'd been with her.

God.
I close my eyes. I don't want it to be true.

I look again. It's still lying there in a dark, sodden lump.

I feel surreal staring at her bag, like it's not really there or I'm not really here, but I know it is and I know I am. I wake my cell and call the detective, telling him what I found. I hang up and can't remember a thing he said. I just know he's coming.

I pray that Sarah isn't lying in a ditch somewhere. Pray that she's still alive.

I lean over, trying not to puke. I have to let Sarah's parents know. I swipe open the keypad on my cell and call directory assistance.

 

Mrs. Meadows stands shaking over Sarah's backpack. Mr. Meadows curses and turns away. The detective's already taped off the area, and two more cop cars have pulled up, their lights flashing silently.

I hover in the background. I feel like a dirty voyeur watching their pain and grief, but I can't look away. I need to know what happens.

A cop leaning over the gutter cries out, bags something, and holds it up. I move closer. A cell phone in a Wonder Woman skin. Sarah's cell phone. Mrs. Meadows runs over.

“Now, Mrs. Meadows, you know you can't touch it,” the detective says. “We need it for evidence.”

Mrs. Meadows whirls around, her fists clenched, and for a second I think she's going to punch him. “What are you doing to find her? Tell me what you're doing!”

I take a cautious step forward. I want to know, too.

“We've questioned that boy who bullied Sarah; he alibis out. So we're tracking down new leads. We've put out an AMBER alert for Sarah. We're getting roadblocks in place as we speak. Sarah's description and photo have been sent to police stations around the country, and we've got people patrolling the roads. We're doing everything we can to find her.”

“Too little, too late,” Mr. Meadows says, rounding on the detective, his face haggard. “You should have been out looking for her hours ago! Who knows how much time has been wasted.”

“And it's not enough,” Mrs. Meadows says. She draws herself up taller, her face as pale as the snow. “I want us on every TV station, radio station, and newspaper that will have us. Websites, too. We've got to get the word out, appeal to whoever did this to Sarah.” She glares up at the detective. “Can you arrange that?”

The detective looks humbled. “Yes, ma'am, I can.”

“Good,” Mrs. Meadows says, nodding sharply. “Then do it.”

I see where Sarah gets her brassiness from.

The cop walks a few steps away, signaling to another officer talking on a radio.

I edge closer, my throat dry. “Mrs. Meadows, Mr. Meadows—I want to help find Sarah. I'm good with computers. If you let me, I can set up a website with her photo, and ask people to send in tips. And I can put posters up in the neighborhood and at school. Maybe someone saw something that will help us get her back.”

Mr. Meadows rubs a shaking hand across his eyes. “I design for a living. I can do the poster and get one of my team to do the website, but I'd sure appreciate your help—especially if you can get the bare bones up tonight. And you probably know more social networks to reach out to than we do.”

“I'll get on it right away.”

Mrs. Meadows squeezes my hand. “Thank you, Nick. Come by anytime tonight, no matter what the hour. We'll be up.” She smiles painfully.

I'm surprised she remembers my name.

“Why don't you just come work at our house?” Mr. Meadows says. “That is, if it's all right with your parents.”

“It'll be okay with my dad,” I say, my voice hoarse.

Mr. Meadows nods, then walks to their car and opens the back door. “Then hop in.”

Hang on, Sarah. We're going to find you.

I CAN'T STAND THE stink of my own urine, the roughness of my jeans where I peed. I find my way to the door and shake it as hard as I can, but it is as firm and as unyielding as a wall. I don't think I'm going to get out of here alive. I wish I hadn't brushed Nick off this morning. Wish I hadn't fought with Mom. Wish I'd told Dad how much I loved him, how nothing mattered as long as we were all together. There are so many things I would have done differently if I'd known today would be my last day.