章節 34: Last Words
He thought about breaking into her car but didn't want her to know he had ever been there. He decided to stroll up to the vehicle and see exactly what he was up against. He didn't look like a stereotypical car thief. He peered in the window and patted his pants and jacket pockets like he was looking for keys. Then he saw it, the fluorescent orange spot on the lock. It meant that the doors were unlocked. In her haste, she never relocked the door.
Oh, fuck yes, it must be my birthday and Christmas combined.
He pulled the handle, and the door popped open. He opened the rear driver's side passenger door. He engaged the locks and closed the driver's door. He slid into the back seat, lay on the floor, and shut the door. He threw a blanket she had balled up behind the front passenger's seat over himself.
Tracie came back a half hour later. She popped the trunk and loaded a couple of bags in. She slammed the trunk, pressed the unlock button, and heard the locks snap open. She got into the driver's seat and backed the car up, watching the camera. Her biggest fear was hitting someone as she backed out. She chose the Sonata because it had a rear detection system. She put the car in drive and headed home.
He knew where the store was and how far she lived from it. Seventeen minutes door to door. Not counting any construction or heavy traffic. He let her drive for about ten minutes. She would be getting on the freeway soon. She would be on the backroad shortcut she always took if she were going home. One stop sign, two stop signs, she slowed down. Third stop sign. He made his move as she slowed down. He rose from the floor, just like in horror movies. His legs were stiff, but he moved slowly. The energy was pulsating through his veins. He was getting an erection. He was so excited. In one swift motion, he put his hand on her forehead, holding it in place and pushing something with a sharp tip into the side of her neck.
She froze, foot on the brake, hands now white-knuckled the steering wheel. Should she hit the gas pedal? Should she put it park and try to fight back? She made a decision. She threw the car in park and clawed at his hands. He removed his hand from her forehead but dug the knife deeper into her neck until it had slightly pierced the thin layer of skin.
"Look, Tracie. I don't want to hurt you. In fact, I want to take good care of you."
"How do you know my name!" she exclaimed.
"I know much more about you than just your name. I know you like bottled beer, not draft. I know you dip your fries in ranch dressing. I know you come home from work, hang your keys on the hook by the door, feed your cat Pugsly, then brush out your hair and get in the shower."
His words terrified her. How long had he been watching her? How much did he know? Did he know her mother? That she had a little brother? She wanted to cry and beg, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of showing fear.
"What's wrong? Is your dick that small that you need to stalk women and abduct them because you have no game? How is that my problem?" She looked in the rear-view mirror. "You're not too bad looking. My grandfather looked good with deep crow's feet, too."
"You know, I knew you were funny. I like the story you told your friend Syndy about when you flirted with a boy in chemistry class, and a big snot bubble came out of your nose."
"How do you… how could you possibly know that? There is no way..." her mind flew back to when she was at the bar with her friend. "You were there; you were there. You were sitting behind us. You were an asshole to the bartender."
"Well, she didn't give me excellent service."
"Was that before or after you slapped her on the ass?" she said.
She was so scared on the inside that she had wet herself a little. A lump in her throat held back her screams. Her tears were held in place by sheer will and adrenaline.
"You women. You always act defensive, but you love how you are treated deep down. You wear your little skirts and low-cut shirts, and your bra hangs out to entice men. The more skin a woman shows, the more she asks for it and begs for it."
"You must have attended a high school with a strict dress code. Just because a woman shows skin or chooses her outfit based on her style, body type, or what she feels good in doesn't mean she's asking for anything. Maybe you guys should have had an assembly instead of schools pumping out misogynistic jackasses like you, asshole," she said, her voice oozing with contempt and passive-aggressive nature.
"You know what, I'm getting a little tired of this self-righteous conversation. I think it's time to switch seats. Me driving, and your smartass in the trunk," he said. "Now move, bitch."
With the dagger pressed firmly against her spine at the base of her neck. One poke and she is no longer able to use her body.
"Go. Now." He told her to get in the trunk. She looked around with wide, terrified eyes, praying that a car would come by. But she had no such luck.
She climbed into the trunk, lay flat on her back, and he cuffed her. He took a handful of what she thought were plastic bags. Which they were.
"Any last words, Tracie?" he asked.
"Mihi vindictam ego retribaum.," she said.
"What the hell does that mean?" he asked.
"It means that I am going to hurt you someday, somehow, bad," she said.
"Oh, you will be the only one to suffer, my dear. You see, I am not going to kill you, but the longer I have you, the harder you will beg me to," he said.
He took a long strip of duct tape and wrapped it around her mouth and head tightly.
"Oh, one more thing," he said.
He took her hands and broke each finger one by one, slowly. She tried to scream, but the tape was so tight all it did was trap air into her throat.
"We wouldn't want to try to take that tape off now, would we? " he asked. He laughed maniacally. "Who's hurting bad now, Bitch." he said to her, slamming the trunk closed.
She felt like she was in the trunk forever. The tires were whirring on smooth roads, crunching on gravel. Uphill, downhill, over and over. She thought that he had to be going in circles at some point. Her mind was racing. She needed a plan. She couldn't pull the emergency release because of her fingers.
"Think Tracie," She squeezed her eyes tight and tried to control her breathing. "Panicking will only get you killed."
Then it came to her. Her Sonata had a small folding seat for this exact situation. The only problem was how she was going to get out. Her movement was restricted. He did have the music turned up loud. He sang along to every song. He was a dreadful singer and didn't know all the words half the time. He was acting as if it was as if it was just another day. It was like listening to nails dragging across a chalkboard. Then again, the less he could hear, the better it was for her. He had made one huge mistake; when he put the homemade cuffs on her, he tied them in the front instead of behind her back. She rolled over and faced the rear seats. She used her head to push the access seat down slowly. It was small, but she was small. The seat didn't make any real noise. He just continued singing. She ducked back in and put her arms out first. She bent her knees and braced her feet against the front of the truck. She pushed herself forward and slid out of the flip-down seat. She got halfway out and had to shimmy the rest of the way. Her fingers didn't hurt much anymore. Most likely from the adrenaline that is starting to course through her veins.
The music played; the bastard was still singing. He must have liked the next song because he turned the music louder than it already was. It was an older song. She remembers her mom listening to it. It was an old song from the 80s. He thumped out the rhythm on the steering wheel. She slithered down onto the floor. She positioned herself behind the driver's seat. She ducked over so he couldn't see her in the mirror. He was now singing all the harmony parts. In one quick, fluid movement, she sprung up, put her arms over the headrest, and then caught his neck with the small chain of the handcuff. She pulled all her weight backward. The homemade cuffs were not long in the center, but it was cutting into his neck. Right into his Adam's apple.
He swerved left; he swerved right. The car went into a spin, and he overcorrected. The vehicle went through a wooden guardrail and began to turn and tumble. It tumbled 100 feet down into a ravine, the windows busted out as it came to a jarring, sudden halt on its roof. She was ejected half the way out of the window. The impact had broken her neck. Her arms were now slacked; her shoulders were dislocated, and her nose broken. The airbag deployed, striking the man in the face; white power exploded everywhere. He was hanging upside down, still belted into the seat.
The man slowly opened his eyes. They were swollen from the impact of the airbag. He wasn't sure where he was or what had happened. The last thing he remembers is that he was singing, and then he lost control of the vehicle. But why he lost control, he couldn't remember. How long had he been down there? Tracie. Was she still in the trunk? Something made him lose control. How did she get out? His mind was racing. There is no way she got out of the trunk.
He was arguing with himself. He needed to get out of the car. It was mangled beyond recognition; he couldn't believe he wasn't crushed. His knees, however, had been pinned under the dashboard. He unlatched the buckle. At first, it was stuck. He pulled mercilessly at it. The buckle finally released, and the man fell. There was a massive searing pain in his knees. He climbed out of the window, pulling his legs behind him. He felt them budge, but it hurt him worse than before. He pulled, and he wriggled. The dash cut into his legs as he could exit the vehicle through the window. The ground smelled of gasoline. There was half a tank when they crashed. It took him a couple of minutes to extract himself from the vehicle. He unbuttoned the back pocket of his dress pants. He pulled out the zippo his father had given him for his birthday. His father was an old bastard. This was the last thing his father gave him before he died. If he had known his son at all, he would have known that he never smoked.
The smell of gasoline was thick in the air. He hit the striker, and an orange flame erupted. He threw the lighter towards the back of the car, and flames erupted.
"I think it's time to volunteer in the Congo. No one misses people who disappear there. It's time for a vacation.
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