False Regret: Pikorua - Book 1
Read False Regret: Pikorua - Book 1 Online
Authors: Angela Reid
False Regret
Pikorua - Book I
When
I opened my eye, the other too swollen to pry apart, the first thing I noticed was
the pain. A hot current ran through many irritated nerves along my skin, but especially
my face. The cold and wet, unforgiving pavement beneath my prone body seemed to
seep into the depths of my aching bones. The shivering caused the tender places
to throb as if a drum line had taken up residence inside of me. Moisture clung
to my snug black jogging shorts and old U of M T-shirt, dropping my body
temperature lower. After I awoke, several minutes passed before I could remember
what happened.
I’d
gotten home from work that evening, nothing significant on my mind except what
I might make for dinner that night. Not a single thing sounded appetizing in
the moment, and I hated eating alone, anyway. Instead of slaving away in the
kitchen, preparing a microwavable meal for one, I went outside to burn off the
day’s stress. Running cleansed me and helped me shed my troubles. The local
park where I liked to jog was not brimming with gangsters, drug dealers, or
even angry teenagers, so I never gave my safety a second thought. I believed I
was invincible in a town with little to no crime. I didn’t see the need to
strap on a gun or carry a can of pepper spray every time I left the house.
Paranoia didn’t shroud me the way it should have, something my father, a police
officer, had always chided me for when I was younger. I knew he’d still be
harping had we continued our relationship much past that of a few short
conversations on the phone during holiday seasons or birthdays.
My
waking nightmare gained shape as the fuzzy memory came into view. I had rounded
the curve on the path at the park. The bend took me across an old foot bridge that
creaked as my soles slapped the planks, and the sound echoed over the slow stream
below it. I jogged to a tree lined hill where the smell of pine trees filled my
nose and made me think of Christmas. As I sniffed the air, with my eyes almost
closed, someone seized me. The man, dressed in darkness, stepped out of nowhere
and subdued me. His callused hand fell heavy over my mouth to suppress any
ensuing screams as his other arm gripped my waist and held me against him. My
own hands grabbed at his forearm to wrestle him from my face. He was strong and
muscular as my nails dug into his ropey sinew. His body felt like unrelenting
marble as he restrained me against him and dragged my writhing form to a white,
windowless work van parked a few feet away. I fought with my entire five-foot-four
inch frame, using my Nike running shoes to kick him in his shins and my fingers
to claw at his ski-mask. Oddly, my abductor was not rough with me, even though
his flesh lodged under my fingernails as I scraped them along his arm skin. He
put his palm between my head and the roof of the van to protect me from
thrashing myself unconscious. He used his weight, but not all of it, to fold me
into a comfortable position just before he shut the door, locking me inside the
dim space.
The
van reeked of oil and reminded me of the quick lube where I’d gotten the lubricant
changed in the Focus the week prior. Another man took over the abduction as
soon as the door shut. He wasted no time in restraining me, using his body like
a battering ram, crushing me into the metal ridges of the van’s floor. The
brute shoved a dirty cloth into my mouth and taped it in place, causing me to
gag and choke for air, before I realized I could breathe through my nose.
Abductor
number-two wore a camouflage ski cap and matching jacket. I watched as he
pulled a burlap bag from the ripped pocket of his grimy coat. He jammed the sack
over my head, blocking my vision and giving me instant claustrophobia. It had
the stink of death, as if road kill had once inhabited it, but my thoughts
turned to something darker, more sinister. What if these men had killed someone
else? Maybe it was that poor victim’s stench roiling into my nostrils, which were
filling with mucus as the reality of my fate sank into my brain. Violent
shivers gripped me as I panicked, smudging out all common sense. Adrenaline
fueled my fight-or-flight instinct, and my body thrashed and fought until the
man close-fist punched me in the cheek. I stopped fighting, briefly, and he
seized the momentary lapse of movement to restrain me. He flipped me onto my
stomach, so hard it knocked the wind from my strained lungs. He used a rough
rope to secure my hands behind my back. The pain of the heavy twine ripping
into skin was fleeting as my vessels constricted. Sensation, beyond the prickly
numbness from lack of blood flow, ceased in my appendages. He then tied my
feet, eliminating my ability to kick him again.
“Fucking
bitch,” he said, and I was sure he was removing his ski cap as he yelled. My
heart pounded inside my chest, like a jack hammer slamming into concrete. My
eyes watered up from the bash to my face, and the mucus was building in my nose
at an alarming rate. With my mouth closed off by the disgusting old material
that sucked all the moisture from my oral cavity, I found it increasingly more
difficult to breathe. The tickling of the rag on my uvula sent my gag reflex
into over-drive. The need to vomit combined with the inability to get air, put my
brain into complete overload. I struggled to free myself from the confines
until another punch, this one to the rib cage, quieted me, the blow making it
even harder to receive oxygen.
Stop
Ellia,
I told myself.
Calm down. You can breathe, just
slow down, slow down, don’t think about anything but your breathing. You will
get through this. Get focused. Think clear. What questions would dad be asking?
Why would they take you? You are a sales rep for a pharmaceutical company
hawking allergy drugs with no access to anything of any value. Is this about rape?
Are they going to rape me? Oh, shit, I hope they don’t rape me. Are these guys
sadistic serial killers? God, I hope they don’t torture me first.
The
thoughts, worries, and unanswered questions roamed around my mind, looking for
the door with the answers. But the answers would not reveal themselves until
these men were ready to explain their motives.
The
endless drive rambled on as the uncountable minutes ticked away in the darkness.
With great concentration, I got my breathing under control. The snot drained
out of my nose and into the cloth bag, leaving a wet spot on my cheek,
disgusting under different circumstances. Air was all that mattered. My hands
were slick as I twisted them in the rope, looking for leverage, and I knew I was
bleeding. The road changed abruptly as the van took a sharp turn, becoming
bumpy, and my small frame bounced around the back of the vehicle. The pavement
had turned to dirt. I figured I should make a mental note of that, but I wasn’t
sure of the significance since I had no clue what direction we were going. My
head rebounded off the floor more than once, but I stayed quiet to avoid
another beat-down to my face. I searched for my courage as I lay still to circumvent
another hit from the camouflaged monster holding me captive.
The
driver got out when the van stopped moving. The side door slid open and Camo-man
picked me up by my restrained arms, making me scream out a muffled protest, as
my joints felt ripped out of their sockets. A free fall came over me as the sadistic
bastard threw me out of the vehicle, and I braced for the landing on the hard
ground with no way to break my descent. The other man caught me before impact.
“Get
the bitch inside,” said Camo-man. “Dacks wants to have a chat with her right
away.” I heard him dialing a cell phone as the muscular guy carried me inside.
He placed me gently in a wooden chair, as if handling a small child, and then
he untied my hands. With deftness, he massaged the blood back into my disabled
fists, and the feeling returned like a thousand bee stings. Satisfied the
circulation was adequate, he re-tied my hands but more comfortably, the biting
ropes no longer gnawing at my tender skin. He also undid the rope at my feet,
allowing me to sit less awkwardly. When he spoke, his voice was smooth and not
what I expected, a contrast to Camo-man’s deep, gravelly timbre.
“I
will remove the hood and take the tape off of your mouth, Ellia, if you promise
you will not scream. You do not want my comrade coming in here to silence you.”
I
nodded, baffled he knew my name. This was not a random abduction; they wanted
something from me. My mind scrambled for an answer, but it came up short. The man
removed the hood and took my chin in his hand to examine my bruised cheek. He
shook his head and exhaled in disgust before releasing me.
“Just
tell them what they want to know, Ellia, and this ordeal will be much easier on
you.” He removed the tape, pulling it off slow, so as not to take off my skin
with it, and then he pulled the brown dirty cloth from my mouth. I took a big
gasp of air, filling my lungs to capacity. The man in front of me was still
wearing a black ski mask, and the rest of his attire matched. He stood looking
at me as if trying to decide something. His posture straightened like an
exclamation point, as if he had to force himself to stick with the preconceived
plan. Since I wasn’t able see his face, I studied his eyes, knowing there was
something familiar in their gray-green hue. I could not place it in my mind’s
stressed state. He looked away as if he sensed recognition sat on the periphery
of my cortex. The clarity couldn’t form. Afraid to ask questions, I remained
silent.
They’d
taken me to what appeared to be a hunting cabin made of huge cedar logs, having
a small kitchen and living-room combination in the main space. Two interior
pine doors led to what I assumed was a bathroom and probably a bedroom .The
floor was concrete slab that appeared to hold moisture, giving the place a
musty smell. The cabin was small, by anyone’s standards, with a wooden, four-person
table on the kitchen side of the box and a broken-in, green sofa on the other.
A ratty brown recliner sat in the corner and looked as if a large butt had left
a permanent imprint in the seat. I wondered what the stains on it might be.
Blood?
The thought made my body shake as fear consumed me again. The Man-in-black
opened a cabinet in the scullery. He pulled out a glass and filled it with
water. With two short strides, he was back by my side. He held the tumbler to
my lips.
“Drink,”
he commanded, though not harshly. He must’ve sensed how parched my mouth had
become from being stuffed with the rancid fabric. I swallowed a small amount before
turning away. Though I could’ve gulped the entire contents, I worried he’d
slipped something in it. Man-in-black set the cup on the table, refusing to
meet my eyes again.
He
walked over and peered out the window of the stifling hot cabin. Darkness had
settled upon us, and I wondered what he was looking at. I watched condensation
drops slide down the inside of the pane, keeping time with the sweat pouring
down my back and pooling in my shorts near my waistband. The man had to be
sweltering under his ski cap and inside his long sleeved jacket. It was autumn,
but the day had been one of those wonderful Indian summer days, where the
temperatures had soared to the seventies when the forties were the normal for
that time of year in Michigan. As if reading my mind, he removed the coat,
leaving the mask in place. He wore a tight black T-shirt, and my first assessment
was correct. The guy was into conditioning, and every muscle group, I saw,
appeared defined and solid. A gun rested in a shoulder harness, much like the
one my dad used to wear under his suits. I studied the tattoos peeking out of
his sleeves, for future reference. His cotton shirt came down to mid bicep. The
artwork I was privy to, extended to his elbows, and looked tribal with swirling
shapes and sharp angles, all woven together in dark ink with skillful shading
to add a three-dimensional effect. I wondered what the significance might be.
The thought brought another spark of recognition, but before I could turn it
around to view its face, the other man stormed through the door. He was no
longer wearing a mask or his jacket. He had no visible tattoos but sported a
long jagged scar down the side of his leathered cheek. Slicked back, grayish
hair, covered his head, and I guessed him late forties to early fifties.
“Goddammit,
why did you take her hood off?” He turned around and replaced his mask. “I
won’t sweat my fucking balls off for this cunt, just so she can be
comfortable.” With the knit cap in place, he headed towards me. I cowered like
an abused puppy. It was obvious he was the one I needed to fear. He put the bag
back over my head, and the stench filled my nostrils again. I gagged as I heard
him remove his ski cap with an exaggerated grunt as he exhaled in relief from
the extreme heat. It was too late; I already saw Camo-man when he came in the
first time, and I committed his features to memory. I doubted I’d ever get to
use the information, though. The recollection of his face would die with me.
“Dacks
is on his way,” Camo-man said to his partner. “Did you tell her anything?”
“No,
just to cooperate,” Man-in-black replied.
I
heard Man-in-black moving behind me and hoped that if Camo-man hit me again, he
would stop him. I would tell them whatever they needed to know--I had no secrets.
There was no useful information about anything which I could impart to them. I
racked my brain, trying to remember if I knew something about the company where
I worked. Maybe there was some new amazing allergy drug on the horizon, and
they wanted the formula. But that seemed ludicrous. I was not a chemist,
anyway, so I’d be of little help to them. My job was to deliver samples and
vouchers while talking up the miracle benefits of a medication and downplaying
all the disastrous side effects. My knowledge extended no further than the
package insert, available to anyone.
