Captives and Captors Read online

  Brian sighed, then he said, “I know her father. Alright? I've worked on some of his construction crews on my free weekends. I've seen her around the house. She'd sometimes, you know, come out of the shower and I'd watch until–”

  Robin giggled and shook her head, blatantly laughing at the bartender's tale. She said, “Alright, I believe you. Write down the address for me. I promise, I'm going to find out what happened to Bruce. If it was nothing, he'll be here on his regular schedule to get wasted, alright? And, don't worry about the showering thing. I won't tell anyone.”

  Robin winked at Brian in a kittenish manner. The voyeuristic confession excited her. Downcast, Brian grabbed a notepad and scribbled an address on a fresh sheet of paper. Robin watched as each number and letter was scrawled, eyes brimming with a newfound sense of hope and determination.

  As he passed the paper to Robin, Brian asked, “Wouldn't... Wouldn't it just be better to call the cops about this? They'd be able to find him quicker, right?”

  Robin folded the paper and said, “No, no. It would be a waste of time. They're not going to put out an amber alert for a grown man. Don't call the cops. I can handle this on my own...”

  Chapter Five

  Interrogation II

  Frank shambled down the creaky stairs, dragging his feet into the dungeon. Each rickety step howled like a man groaning in pain. Bruce shuddered as the shrill sound pummeled his eardrums, mocking him with the same message – he's coming for you. Frank scowled as he reached the bottom of the steps, boots firmly planted on the concrete. He narrowed his eyes and curled his lip like a cowboy in a spaghetti western flick.

  Bruce said, “Please, let me go. I had nothing to do with your daughter's disappearance. I'm innocent, sir. I swear, I'm innocent.” With his sharp eyes locked on the captive, Frank strolled towards the washing machine. Bruce's bottom lip quivered as he stuttered, “Pl–Please... Please, sir... I'll help you find her. Let me go and I'll search for her, I promise. I'll get my friends and we'll start a search party. We'll find her. Okay?”

  Frank riffled through a container brimming with gray plastic bags – a simple collection of common grocery store bags. He was bothered by Bruce's pleas for mercy, but he couldn't show sympathy. He left his sympathy at the door, exchanging compassion for apathy. With a twisted plan pricking at his mind, he couldn't afford to show weakness.

  Over the rustling bags, Frank said, “You are correct, Bruce. You will help me find my daughter because you will answer my questions. You will cooperate or you will be hurt. It's that simple.”

  Bruce said, “I... I really don't know anything, though. I don't know what you're talking about.”

  “We searched your apartment last night while you were prowling for kids at the bar, but we found nothing. We even searched your car, but we found nothing. It really hurts my heart to say that, but there's no way around it. We didn't find her. So, tell me something, Bruce: where's my daughter? Huh? Where are you hiding her? Where did you take her?”

  “Please, believe me. I don't know anything about your daughter. I only... I only know what I've seen on the news. I don't know anything else, sir. Please, let me go. Please, please, please...”

  “Did you take her to a shed? Hmm? Is my daughter locked up in your shed waiting for rescue? If so, just tell me. Save yourself from the pain and tell me.”

  “Shed? What the fuck are you talking about, man?”

  Frank rushed towards the anchored chair. He wrapped his hand around Bruce's throat and barked, “The shed! The shed, goddammit, tell me about the shed! Tell me! Tell me!”

  With his thick fingers wrapped around his neck, Frank violently choked and shook Bruce. Bruce could only endure the strangulation as he gazed into his tormented captor's bestial eyes. He could see the slobber dripping from his chin as he snarled – a feral beast. The man had rightfully lost his grip on humanity.

  Frank released Bruce and stepped in reverse. He slowly shook his head as his hands trembled. In his cluttered mind, one thought towered over the rest: how far will I go? The answer was carved in stone, printed in a book and sitting on store shelves. He couldn't easily admit it, but his plan was already devised and set in motion.

  As Frank lurched towards the laundry machine, Bruce wheezed and asked, “What... What are you... What are you going to do to me? Huh? Are you... Are you going to kill me? You're going to kill me for something I didn't do?”

  Frank planted his knuckles on the washing machine. His back to Bruce, he said, “I'm going to do whatever I have to do. I'll do anything for my daughter. Anything. You can make this easy. Just tell me she's safe and give me her location. That's all. I'll let you walk out of here and I'll let the police handle you. Trust me, you're better off with them than with me. What I'm going to do... It's going to be much worse than death.”

  Eyes swelling with tears, Bruce said, “But, I really don't know anything. You've got the wrong man, sir.”

  “You have one more chance to tell me the truth. One more chance to take the easy way out. Please, for the both of us, don't make me do something I'll regret. Don't make me hurt you, young man.”

  As he panted like a dog in a summer heatwave, Bruce glanced around the grimy basement. The dingy dungeon shared the same entrance and exit – the staircase. The men were solely present in the basement. He couldn't beg for mercy to a nonexistent person. He was caught in a web and Frank was the spider skittering towards him – a vicious funnel web spider, to be exact.

  Bruce said, “I don't know anything about your daughter or her disappearance. Honestly, sir, I had nothing to do with it. If you hurt me, you'd just be wasting your time and you'd be breaking the law. Is... Is that what you want your daughter to see when she returns? Huh? You want her to see you going to prison for hurting the wrong man?”

  Frank inhaled deeply, then he said, “That was the wrong answer.”

  ***

  Frank's breathing intensified as he shuffled through the cluttered plastic bags. The rustling reverberated through the sealed dungeon. The everyday sound was unsettling. Bruce squirmed in the chair, frantically trying to escape the restraints to no avail. Beads of sweat spurted from his glands like bullets from a machine gun.

  With a crumpled bag in hand, Frank sternly said, “That was the wrong goddamn answer.”

  As Frank approached, Bruce shouted, “Wait! Wait! Don't do this! Please, don't do this!”

  Bruce leaned away as far as humanly possible, petrified and anxious. Frank gritted his teeth as he wrestled to wrap the bag around his captive's head. He struggled to find the perfect angle, missing by a hair with each swift swoop.

  Weaving and bobbing his head like an experienced boxer, Bruce yelled, “I don't know anything! I don't know! Please!”

  Frank grabbed a fistful of Bruce's hair, tightly gripping the moist strands with his left hand. He pulled on Bruce's resplendent hair, stopping him from slithering away. He punched him with all of his might, trying to daze the young man. Only three punches were required to tame the suspected predator – three punches to an already fractured nose. Bruce coughed and grunted, sniffling loudly as blood dripped from his nostrils.

  Before he could utter another word, Frank said, “Shut your mouth. You asked for this.”

  Frank wrapped the plastic bag around Bruce's head. He leaned behind the chair at an angle, tugging on the bag with all of his weight. The bag fluttered as Bruce wheezed. His quavering breath was raspy, echoing over the rustling bag. Blood stained the thin bag, streaming across the plastic and smearing on the captive's chin. As Bruce slowly suffocated, a puddle of blood formed within the bag.

  Through his gritted teeth, Frank said, “You... You better talk to me, boy. Where's my daughter? Where is she?”

  With the last bit of energy he could conjure, Bruce chomped on the plastic. He shook his head and ripped through the bag. The puddle of blood splattered on his jeans and on the concrete floor, staining the room with a symbol of violence. Savoring the oxygen, Bruce gasped as the bag tore around h
is face.

  Frank huffed as he yanked the ripped bag away. He tossed the shredded plastic aside and said, “I have more than one bag. I can keep this going all day. You understand me? You'll be brain dead by the time I'm done with you, so talk.” Bruce sat in silence, his breath rasping through his throat. Frank barked, “Talk!”

  Between breaths, Bruce said, “I... I really don't know anything... I'm sorry.”

  Frank stared at Bruce with glistening eyes, trying to contain his sorrow. Disappointment swelled in his tormented soul. Although the option to quit remained on the table, the dedicated father felt compelled to proceed to the next step of his plan. Katherine's safe return was his only concern. His filthy soul could rot in hell as long as his daughter returned unscathed.

  Frank said, “Fine, fine. Bags rip. I knew it would happen. I figured you'd need something more resilient before you started talking. People like you, apathetic people like you... It takes a lot to crush you, doesn't it?”

  Frank bit his bottom lip and nodded. He walked back towards the washing machine. With flickering eyelids, Bruce watched Frank's every movement. Frank opened the washing machine, then he retrieved a thin blue towel. He left Bruce's field of view, hidden behind a pillar blocking the neighboring drying machine.

  Bruce's mind ran rampant with the demented possibilities: A hammer? A knife? A gun? His eyes widened as Frank emerged with a jar of lemonade.

  Nervously smiling, Frank said, “This... This is very dangerous, Bruce, especially for inexperienced people. I'm not sure I know how to do this well enough to guarantee your survival. Are you sure you want to go through with this? Huh? Can you keep this game up?”

  A tear streamed down Bruce's cheek as he blinked. He asked, “Why are you doing this to me? Why won't you believe me?”

  Frank frowned and said, “Wrong answer.”

  ***

  Frank glowered as he walked towards Bruce, dragging his feet towards the chair. At heart, he had hoped the tension would break his prisoner. Although he had researched the subject extensively beforehand, he was not an expert in torture. Yet, torture was the only card he held. His options were limited.

  Sulking, Frank repeated, “Wrong answer.”

  Bruce stammered, “Pl–Pl–Please...”

  Frank placed the jar on the floor beside the anchored seat. He pushed Bruce's head back, shoving his forehead with his fingertips. Bruce indistinctly yammered as he hopelessly tried to squirm away, but to no avail. He could not evade Frank's grip or wrath. His jerking movements and plaintive cries were fruitless.

  Frank covered Bruce's forehead and eyes with the towel. Bruce's lips fluttered and his chin trembled from his erratic breathing. He was hyperventilating before the torture even started. Frank grabbed the jar, then he carefully poured the lemonade onto the towel. The towel was darkened and saturated, growing heavier as it absorbed the liquid.

  Bruce wept as the lemonade stung his eyes and nasal cavity. Despite the agonizing cries, Frank lowered the towel over the captive's mouth. The towel fluttered as Bruce panted. The technique instantly caused his gag reflexes to kick in. His entire body moved as he wheezed. He jerked every which way as he struggled to breathe. With each tremble, his boots rapidly thudded on the ground like a practicing tap dancer. The sheer panic was evident.

  Frank staggered in reverse as he watched the suffocation. He watched every fidgety movement on Bruce's shuddering body. He listened to every hoarse wheeze – gravelly like a smoker on his tenth pack of the day. He counted each passing second, too – seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Twenty was enough for an amateur.

  Frank rushed forward and pulled the towel away. Bruce gasped for air as he glanced around the room. His face glistened due to the wet towel. His eyes were bloodshot and his eyelids were leaden with exhaustion. He was visibly rattled by the experience. The torture took a toll on his fracturing psyche, bringing him to the dark brink of death – eternal sleep.

  Frank gently slapped Bruce, trying to wake him from the nightmare. He said, “This won't end well for you. You have to start talking. Tell me: where's my daughter? Where are you hiding her?” Stunned by the suffocation, Bruce's head spun. Frank sternly said, “Tell me. Don't make me hurt you, boy. Please, don't make me take this any further. Where's my daughter?”

  Bruce stared at Frank with vacant eyes. He said, “I... I don't know. I've never seen her before in my life. I... I don't know anything. I'm sorry.”

  “Don't play stupid with me. Don't fuck around with me like that. Detective Washington and the Missing Persons Unit named you as the prime suspect. They believe you took my daughter. Why? They didn't pick your name out of a hat. So, tell me: why are they interested in you? What makes you so damn special?”

  Bruce shrugged, then he said, “They must have something against me.”

  Frank glared at Bruce, piercing through his facade. He already knew the answers to his questions, he simply wanted to test Bruce's honesty. He wanted to give his prisoner an opportunity to confess – a chance to cooperate. His kindness was taken for weakness, though. The man was lying through his teeth and he could prove it.

  Disgruntled, Frank retrieved a folded piece of paper from his pocket – the evidence. He never wanted to see the sheet again, but he had to prove his point. He had to show his hand and proceed with the investigation.

  Frank said, “Lying isn't going to help you. It'll help me feel less sympathy and that isn't good for you. You understand that, don't you?” The distraught father held the paper to Bruce's face, revealing a simple chat log. He explained, “They found you talking to her online. They found several chat logs between you and Katherine. You were talking to my daughter before her disappearance, weren't you? You found her online, didn't you? You fucking sick pervert. In a few days, maybe even a few hours, they'll have all of your conversations. They'll have more of the crap you tried to delete.”

  Teary-eyed, Bruce examined each line on the sheet. He sniffled and furrowed his brow as he read the conversation. The text showed his username, but he couldn't remember if he was actually responsible for the conversation.

  Frank tapped the paper and said, “Just look at this bullshit. Look at all of the crap you sent her, Bruce.” In a mockingly soft tone, Frank read a few lines from the log: “You look cute, sweetie pie. Wow, you're adorable. Have you been to the beach lately? Did you wear a bikini? Do you have any pictures?”

  “I... I didn't say any of that. I don't know what you're talking about, sir. I–I... I talk to people online all the time. I don't... I never ask their age, though. That's none of my business. Maybe... Maybe she contacted me first and I just gave her a courtesy response. Maybe she was–”

  Flames crepitating in his furious eyes, Frank shouted, “No! No, goddammit! My daughter wouldn't talk to you! She would never talk to a piece of crap like you! She knows better than that!”

  Frank breathed heavily as he glowered at his prisoner. The mere suggestion sent him on a warpath. He was capable of scolding his daughter, but he would never blame her for another man's deception. She was the victim.

  As he recomposed himself, Frank asked, “If you did nothing wrong, why would you delete the messages?”

  Bruce loudly swallowed, then he said, “Maybe... Maybe they auto-deleted. Right? You don't know if I actually deleted them, right? How am I supposed to know? I don't even remember having that conversation. I could have been hacked!”

  Frank scoffed at the flimsy excuses. He could topple it with simple logic, but he had enough. The time for talking was over. He clenched his fist and crushed the paper, then he shoved the crumpled ball into Bruce's mouth. He placed pressure on his captive's jaw, forcing his prisoner to chew the stale evidence.

  Frank said, “Don't worry, I have copies.” He gently slapped Bruce's cheek in a disdainful show of power. As he walked away, Frank warned, “If they find Katherine in your shed with a single mark on her body, I'm going to hurt you. You'll feel pain beyond anything you ever imagined. Believe me...”

 
Chapter Six

  Bruce's Shed

  The sedan jounced on the pitted dirt road, bouncing with each hole and mound of dirt. The surrounding sea of trees, bestrewn bushes, and unkempt foliage rippled like waves at a shore. The crisp leaves crepitated with the gust, crackling with the moldering branches. The occasional woodland critter scampered about, searching for food and shelter. The area was seemingly normal, deserted and tranquil.

  Nathan peered out the passenger window as the vehicle rolled to a stop. He carefully examined the woodland for a single abnormality – a shed hidden within the verdurous forest. Through the sloppily written directions and map, he knew the compact shed awaited the pair's arrival only a few meters away. He couldn't see it from the path, but he knew Tiffany would not lie.

  Wayne gazed out the passenger seat window and said, “It should be just past these trees. Grab two flashlights from the glove box and hop out. We can't just sit here all day. Come on.”

  Wayne exited the vehicle, then he walked towards the front of the sedan. Like an obedient underling, Nathan nodded and followed his instructions. He grabbed two flashlights from the glove box. Although he was curious about the case, he didn't bother to pry into the letter and files within the storage department. He wasn't willing to strain their relationship any further.

  As he handed Wayne a torch, Nathan asked, “You think we're going to find her in there?”

  Wayne gave off an insouciant shrug, then he said, “I don't know. We'll have to wait and see.”

  Nathan asked, “You... You think she might be dead?” Mystified by the blunt question, Wayne furrowed his brow and stared at his temporary partner. Nathan clarified, “I'm sorry. It's just... I just don't want to see her like that. I watched that little girl grow up, Wayne, I can't watch her die. I just can't do that.”

  “Yeah, well, that gives us more reason to stop wasting time. Every second is vital in cases like this. A second can be the difference between life and death, success and failure. Come on. Follow my lead.”