Adirondack Audacity (42 page)

Night passes in bouts of fitful sleep; exhaustion
fueled by terror pushes my body to survival mode. Easier
to succumb to sleep then the horror of reality, so
unbelievably, I slept.

Dinner, a bottle of water and two stale granola bars.
Not having eaten all day, I devoured them like a starving
animal. Trying to sleep with my legs and arms bound by
strips of duct tape is agony. Movement brings on spasms
of muscle pain, lying still, a torment of numbness and
shooting pain. Screaming or crying, a waste of effort,
another strip of tape stretches across my mouth,
preventing any sound from escaping. Awake, I lay with
ears straining for any sound of rescue, hearing only the
silent forest. There’s nothing to do but wait and hope. I
lost count of how many times I recited the rosary in my
head, using pressure on my fingertips as counting beads.
The fingers of my one hand throb with pain, I think I
broke them falling against the hearth. Praying the
mindless manta of Hail Marys helps sooth my frayed
nerves and offers a glimmer of hope.

He sleeps in a tattered recliner next to the fireplace,
pieces of stuffing fall out of holes in the worn corduroy.
His snores echo in the still of the cabin, he sleeps secure
in the knowledge I have no chance of escape. In addition
to the duct tape bonds, I’m tied to the bed frame. The
threadbare quilt covering me provides little warmth. I’m
freezing. The night passes in a misery of dreams, and the
dreams distort into nightmares.

“Get up, you lazy bitch.”
The quilt snatched away, as
a rough hand jerks my body upright. The stench of evil
called Jolib Freeport wakes me, bringing harsh reality, a
wash of pain, hunger and cold. Consciousness comes in a
welter of confusion. Angry cramped muscles screamed
for relief and I needed to use the bathroom…now!

A slight graying in the east separates the trees from an
overcast sky as feeble morning light filters through the
windows. The morning chorus of songbirds announces a
new day, a new chance at life. Will I survive this day? Fear
engulfs me.

Twenty minutes later he rudely thrusts me out the
cabin door, the cold morning air snaps my senses awake.
Parked next to the dilapidated cabin sits a new white
panel van; tires sunk in muddy tracks. The van stands in
sharp contrast to the squalor of the yard strewn with
rusted lawn furniture, old appliances and bags of trash
piled against a woodshed.

“Stand still.”
He orders pushing me against the side
of the van. My arms cruelly yanked behind my back and
tied again. A red handkerchief is tied across my eyes,
followed by the ripping sound of another piece of duct
tape to silence me.

Through the night, my clamoring mind pieced
together a plan, shaky at best, but having few other
options, there is little I can do. On a map, I pointed out
the trailhead for Blue Mountain, refusing to give him
more information until we reached this destination.
Claiming not to remember all the details of the trail, I
assured him once there it would all come back to me.
Realizing by holding back information, giving only bits
and pieces at a time, I increase my chances of survival.
My hope is someone will see us at the trailhead, I can
scream for help or escape. If I go up the trail with him,
locate the brooch and in his eagerness to have it in his
possession, the distraction may give me an opportunity to
shove him over the edge and escape. Maybe….God… I
don’t want to die.

Lying on the floor of the van, I feel every bump and
jar of the rough road. The drive takes about 40 minutes,
twenty minutes on a dirt road and another twenty on the
highway, then a left turn. A left turn onto Route 28?
Where in God’s name were we?

The van tires crunch to a stop on a gravel drive of
some sort, the engine idles then stills, the only sound is
his labored breathing. He must have some kind of
respiratory ailment; I’ve seen him use a medication
inhaler of some sort. This could work to my advantage,
I’m in good shape, a strenuous uphill hike over rough
terrain, and maybe I can out run him.

I hear the click of his seat belt release; he stumbles
back to where I lie on the floor of the van. I feel
something hard, metallic and cold press into my back.
It……can’t….be….but I know it is…….a gun. How can
I out run a gun?

“Listen, and listen good
,” he grabs my hair and pulls
me into a sitting position. “We’re at the trail head for
Blue Mountain. It’s early I don’t see anyone around. The
only other cars here are probably hikers in the back
country.”

I whimper. My heart sinks at the news the parking lot
is deserted. I had hopes of making contact with someone
before heading into the woods with this madman. “I’m
going to take this gag off so you can tell me where we
have to go.” He shoves the gun into my ribs, I groan with
pain as a new bruise joins the kaleidoscope of red, green
and purple on my body. “Don’t think of screaming, there
is no one here, you scream or try to escape, you’ll be
sorry.”

Was it only yesterday I had a family who loved me, a
home? I was safe and secure, decisions no larger than
what to wear or cook for dinner. With his free hand, the
tape covering my mouth is ripped away.

The nausea from the bumpy ride comes flooding over
me, the gag reflex repressed for so long will not be
denied. My stomach heaves, I retch as I have never
retched before, rolling to my side in gut wrenching
spasms.

“Stop, what are you doing?”
He screams in alarm.
“Not in my van, for Christ sake!” Without thinking, he
flings open the door, and shoves my body onto the gravel
parking lot. Stones scrape my tender bruised skin and
vomit pools from the side of my mouth. There can be no
greater misery. When finished, he hauls me to my feet
and uses the pistol as a pivot, shoving me back into the
van. Removing the blindfold, he hisses, “What the hell
kind of stunt was that!”

“I couldn’t help it,” I rasp out
, trying to wipe my
mouth on the sleeve of my jacket. “Water, please!” He
cuts the duct tape away and using both hands, trembling,
I lift the water bottle to purge the taste from my mouth.

He looks out the front window, “I don’t see anyone,
you’re lucky.”
“Let’s go before someone comes,” he cuts the ties
binding my feet. “I’ll get out first. You don’t come until I
tell you.” He shoves the gun into my rib cage. “Got it?
No funny business.” I nod miserably.
The trees filter out the sunlight overhead as we head
up the trail made of hard packed-dirt and rock.
Barely able to walk, I push my bruised and beaten
body. Cramped muscles cry out in pain, and I feel faint
from lack of food and water. Yet, the haunting beauty of
the mountain morning touches my soul. If this is my last
morning, I’m glad it’s in the mountains. Stumbling on an
exposed tree root, I fall to my knees, only to have the
butt of the pistol thrust into my back as he hauls me to
my feet.
“Get up, thieving bitch.” He grunts. I hear his
labored breathing behind me. I feel a sense of
satisfaction, as much as I’m hurting, he’s struggling to
keep up. I hear him stop periodically to use his inhaler. In
hopes of exhausting him, I’ve taken the steeper longer
path, circling around to the top of the ledge instead of
heading directly there. He stops often to rest, his breath
coming in ragged gasps. “How much farther?” He
wheezes. “I’m starting to think you’re bluffing me.”
“It’s at the top of the ridge;; see those boulders to the
right.” I gesture frantically, bracing myself against the
bark of an old hemlock tree. I can feel the sticky pine sap
ooze onto my hands.
Wait….
is that my imagination, or
did I hear the crack of a tree branch?
“Get moving;; I’m losing patience.” He threatens,
pointing to the path with his gun.
Reaching the tree line, climbing over waist high
boulders, we scramble to the top. I hear his heavy
breathing and the sound of his boots slipping, as they fail
to find hold on the algae covered rock. I survey the rise
of the rocky contours, searching for the crevice I had dug
out a few years ago. I pause and listen, pretending I’m
searching for the hiding spot, and I think I hear another
muffled sound in the woods. Is it my imagination or is
someone out there? Stealthy creeping, following, waiting
for the opportunity to strike when Jolib’s not watching.
Can I dare hope? Over his labored breathing, he’ll never
hear the background noise. If I’m right, maybe I can help
by creating a diversion. The brooch; I have to find it. His
obsession will be his undoing.
“God damn it, where the fuck are you taking me?
You said it was here.” He demands, chest heaving.
“Give me a second to catch my breath and look
around.” I inhale and exhale loudly, mimicking his
labored breathing. Using the noise of our combined
breathing to cover the faint sounds I hear approaching,
moving behind the cover of the tree line. I have to act
quickly while he is winded. I hear the
hiss
of his inhaler.
Choosing a rock crevice where the brooch may have
been buried I reach up, closing my hand over a large
branch. My fingers pluck and poke though the soft place
on the rock ledge, creating a pile of loose dirt, grit and
stone. Finding a sizeable stone, I place it on top of the
pile. Digging deeper; reveals…
nothing
. My plan involved
finding the brooch and throwing at his face to distract
him.
Damn it…….where is it?
A glance over the side of the
ledge shows nothing. The faint noise I heard earlier must
have been the longings of my desperate imagination. I
have to act now, it’s my only chance.
“Here, I think I have it.” I position the branch near
the crevice opening, cradling the rock in one hand, while
taking a scoop of loose dirt in the other.
“Damn, about fucking time.” He leans over toward
me, excitement causing his voice to quaver. “Show me,
show me!”
Soon….a few seconds more, I tell myself. Having
him so fiendishly close makes the back of my neck
tighten, my whole body quivers in fear.
“Here it is.” I yell, tossing the large stone into the air.
He cries out and lunges, trying to grab the flying
object.
Quick as a snake I strike. Using the branch I swat at
the hand holding the gun and it goes off. My other hand
flings dirt and rock into his eyes. Jolib screams, clawing at
his eyes.
The sound of a gunshot deafens me. The shot from
Jolib’s gun went wild, but the bullet fired by the State
Trooper S.W.A.T. team hit its target. Jolib staggers,
shrieking obscenities, arms flailing as the force of the
bullet pushes him over the edge.
I crumble. Whatever courage and bravado I
possessed earlier, now spent, as I collapse in a shivering,
sobbing heap on the ground

Jolib’s
death scream echoes across the ridge as his
body plunges over the cliff. My body folds in on itself
and I lay huddled like a limp rag doll, crying with heart
wrenching sobs. The sound of heavy boots comes
crashing through the underbrush. The vague impression
of men in khaki uniforms, their words drifting through
heavy layers of exhausted relief. The pain in my fingers
aches with a pulsing need for attention. I’m afraid to
move. Fear paralyzes me as I cling to the ledge where I’m
so precariously balanced.

From above, voices call, sounding so strained, so
sharp. A man kneels down beside me, his voice softening,
“Ellen, it’s over. I’m Officer McNeil.” He touches my
shoulder. “Mrs. O’Connor, we’re here to help you.
You’re going to be fine.”

Through the dull roar in my head his voice comes
again, but the words don’t make sense. Unable to
respond, my barely conscious mind wants to answer, but
I can’t find lucid words in the whirling haze of my dazed
brain.

He leans in, pulling my body away from the ledge to
rest against him. His hands are swift and efficient as he
reaches for a blanket to swaddle my quaking limbs.
Muscles shudder uncontrollably beneath his touch as he
swings me up in his arms, striding to a flat area of the
exposed mountaintop. With my head bobbing against his
shoulder, I catch a glimpse of camouflage men peering
over the edge into the abyss below.

Laying me gently on the g
round, “Ellen, does this
hurt?” he asks, competently running his hands over my
body assessing for injuries. I wince as he taps on my rib
cage. “Does this hurt? His hand slips under my shirt for
more careful examination. “I’m not sure about this rib.”
The probing causes me to moan. He’s saying something
important, something I should comprehend…if only I
could think straight. I feel the world whirl around me in
slow revolutions that leaves me nauseous. My good hand
clutches fistfuls of wool, searching for something solid,
an anchor. I lay atop the blanket, shivering in the
morning cold. The harsh fabric against my battered face
makes me cringe.

A voice I don
’t recognize as my own rasps, “Vic, my
children?” My throat parched, I can barely speak, but I
need to know where they are.

He hesitates a moment, then chuckles.
“Eh…that
would be Rambo II. I suspect he and your children are
crashing up the mountainside right now, heedless of a
trail or not when they saw the all clear flair go up.”

“Rambo II?” What is he
talking about? There is such
a pounding in my head, a steady roaring, drowning out
his words so that I only hear a few at a time.

“Your husband, boyfriend, whatever, has been over
the top frantic to find you. He insisted on joining us in
the apprehension of your kidnapper.” I nod wordlessly
imagining the scene Vic would have made in his panic to
find me.

“He claims he played a S.W.A.T. team member in one
of his movies. In fact, he spent actual time with the team
to prepare for his role, so therefore, that qualified him to
come along with us.” Officer McNeil chuckles as he
wipes fine beads of sweat from his brow, sitting back on
his heels to visually assess me. “I think one of your ribs
might be cracked. Does it hurt to breathe?”