WP

Chapter 11 – From Bad to Worse

A/N: Many, many thanks for your reviews and comments.

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

Monday, April 14, 2014, morning

Carlos eased his gun out of his jacket, and Charlie swallowed. At that moment, his nose caught the faint whiff of food, and his stomach contracted almost painfully. It was odd, he thought detachedly, that he was about to be shot, and all he could think about was food.

Juan wrinkled his nose. "He smells bad."

"That's the bucket," said Carlos. He re-holstered his pistol, grabbed the plastic pail and stepped out of the room, and reappeared a few moments later, the bucket empty, rinsed, and dripping with water. Charlie watched a drop land on the floor, and unconsciously licked his cracked lips.

"You were right," said Juan. "It was the bucket. We should prob'ly get his jacket off, though, an' hang it on a chair so it doesn't get too wrinkled." He reached into a duffel bag and handed Charlie a bottle of water, and Charlie stared at it, mesmerized for an instant, before grabbing it and quickly twisting off the lid. The water tasted so good it almost brought tears to his eyes, and might have, if they weren't so dry.

"Better take it easy," advised Carlos. "You'll puke it back up." As if he hadn't spoken to Charlie, he continued his conversation with Juan. Charlie was only half listening, immersed in the sensation of cool liquid sliding down his throat. "He'll need a shave, too."

That sentence got Charlie's attention, and he began to drink more slowly, trying to listen. Why would they care how he looked? Juan held out his hand. "Put your hands out. We're gonna take the cuffs off, but don't try anything." Carlos took out his pistol again, for emphasis.

Charlie drained the last drops of water before complying, and Juan grinned as he unlocked the cuffs. "Good, huh? If you do what we ask, you'll get more, and you'll get some food."

Carlos was frowning. "His wrists look bad." Charlie looked down; his wrists were red-purple, bruised and raw from the metal cuffs. Carlos spoke gruffly. "Stand up."

Charlie complied without question – to stand up without having to drag a chain up a post, to stand straight and put his shoulders back – it was something he'd longed to do for the last – how many hours? He surreptitiously glanced at his watch as he stood; it displayed the date and time. Monday? It was Monday? Ten-fifteen. AM or PM? AM. He'd been a captive for roughly forty hours. He remembered statistics stating that most missing persons who were gone greater than forty-eight hours were usually not found alive. He didn't have much more time to reflect on that fact, because by that time he'd reached his feet, and a huge, unexpected wave of dizziness washed over him. He sensed the room receding and two powerful sets of hands on his arms, then he was stumbling for the table, supported by the hands, and set down firmly in a chair. He leaned forward on the table, his forehead on crossed arms, breathed until the room stopped spinning, and then slowly sat up, feeling queasy. It had been over two days since he'd eaten anything, and the lack of food was having an effect.

Carlos had taken a chair across from him and he rested his gun on the table, and leaned forward. "You tol' us you had an appointment at the bank tomorrow, to get a new ATM card. You're gonna keep that appointment, and Juan here is gonna go with you. You can tell them Juan is your brother. He'll have a gun – if you try anything, you'll be shot, and so will the people around you. You're gonna reactivate your accounts or whatever it is that you have to do, then you're gonna pull out as much cash as they'll let you take in one shot. Then you'll walk out of there with Juan. You got it?"

Charlie stared at him. "I don't know if that's a good idea." His voice sounded rusty, huskier than usual, and he cleared his throat. "What if word is out that I'm missing? Won't the person I'm meeting with be suspicious if we show up?"

Carlos shook his head. "I ain't seen the news, but someone tol' us that you were on it – that the cops are looking for you. That's why you're gonna call the bank, an' tell 'em it was all a big mistake – you jus' went away for the weekend, and you plan to keep your appointment tomorrow. Tell 'em to keep it quiet – that you don' need any more press than you already got. You make that call, clean up a little, and we'll give you more water and some food."

Charlie's heart quickened. The call would be an opportunity to let someone know he was still alive. Carlos held out a 'burner' – a prepaid cell phone, used on the streets because it was hard to trace – and Charlie took it, trying not to appear too eager. Carlos pushed a piece of paper with a list of phone numbers toward him – the various branches of West Federal Savings. "Call the branch where you have the appointment," said Carlos. "No tricks. You try to screw around; we'll shoot you on the spot. After you dial, put the phone on speaker. We're gonna listen in."

Charlie nodded and dialed the number for the Pasadena branch, then hit the speaker button. His mind was racing. Could he somehow let them know he was in trouble, without alerting his captors?

"West Federal Savings, Pasadena branch. How can I help you?" said a pleasant voice.

"I need to speak to someone concerning an account reactivation," said Charlie.

"One moment, please."

Music came on the line, briefly, then a cheerful female voice drifted from the phone. "This is Sheri, in accounts. How can I help you?"

"I just need to verify an appointment for tomorrow to reactivate some accounts," said Charlie. "Charles Eppes."

"Oh! Mr. Eppes!" Sheri sounded surprised and flustered. "I – we – well, it's been all over the news that you were missing. Are you - okay?"

Charlie tried to sound embarrassed, selecting his words carefully, praying that she would read between the lines. "Uh, yeah, I'm fine. It was all a big misunderstanding." He glanced uncertainly at Carlos, who moved his hand in a rolling motion as if to say, 'Come on, spit it out.'

Charlie continued. "If you don't mind, please don't make a big deal out of this – in fact, if you could keep it quiet, I'd appreciate it. It's, uh, rather embarrassing. In light of all the press, I just wanted to let you know that I'll be keeping my appointment."

Sheri' voice went from bewildered to relieved. "Oh, certainly Mr. – or, it's 'doctor,' isn't it? Dr. Eppes. I'm looking forward to meeting you. We'll see you tomorrow at ten a.m. Thanks for calling, and I'm glad everything is okay."

"Thank you," said Charlie, feeling suddenly deflated as he disconnected. It sounded as though Sheri had bought his explanation without reservation, which meant that she probably wouldn't alert anyone, wouldn't ask any questions, wouldn't call LAPD or the FBI…

Carlos was nodding at him, satisfied, and he took the phone away, while Juan set another bottle of water on the table, and then helped Charlie out of his jacket, draping it neatly on the back of the chair. Carlos handed him a battery operated razor, and had him shave. When he was done, Carlos surveyed him for a moment, then nodded. "He'll look okay. He'll need to shave again before he goes, and we'll need to bring some deodorant."

Then Juan set down a fast food sack. The burger inside was lukewarm and the bun starting to dry on the edges, but Charlie didn't hesitate, - he unwrapped it and bit in, and it tasted like the best thing he had ever eaten. Even the act of eating was demoralizing, however. He was doing everything they wanted him to do, completely under their control. The sense of powerlessness was starting to eat away at his resolve, at his sense of self.

He chided himself mentally for the thought – he was doing what he had to, to survive, he told himself. That wasn't weakness; it was strength. Still, when they led him back to the post, putting the cuffs around one ankle this time and locking the other half to the chain around the post in order to spare his wrists, he felt completely and utterly helpless. They left him with his bucket and two bottles of water and departed, shutting out the light, immersing him once more in darkness, and he sent a whispered plea to Sheri, whoever she was. "Please figure it out – please call someone, anyone…" The words floated off into a void, and left him sitting alone in the blackness.

Alan sat at the kitchen table and sighed, his coffee untouched, staring sadly at the two binders in front of him. Larry had been kind enough to get him copies of Charlie's papers, the ones that were causing the stir, and Alan had tried his best to read them. He could follow the gist of the text, thanks to Larry's summary, but the equations were well beyond him, even with his engineering background. "It seems ironic," he said heavily, "that Charlie finally achieved what we all expected him to do, and he's not here to see it."

Joanie reached across the kitchen table and patted his hand. "Don't you give up on him – not now – not after holding out hope for him for all these years," she admonished. "He's out there somewhere – you have to believe that. They'll find him."

Alan's eyes lifted to hers, and then strayed back to the cover of one binder, his gaze fixing on the line of letters that formed his youngest son's name. "I hope you're right," he said softly. "I hope you're right."

The phone rang, and he reached abruptly across the table to grab the handset, almost upsetting his coffee cup in the process. "Hello."

"Dad."

Don's voice came over the line, and Alan swallowed hard and hit the speaker button. "Yes – what is it? Did you find him?" Joanie's eyes widened and she reached across the table again and grasped his hand.

"No – but his bank called. Charlie tried to take money out of an ATM late Saturday night – they have video footage."

Alan stared at Joanie for a moment before he could find his voice. "He looked okay?"

"Yeah, he seemed fine, but -,"

"But what?"

"Dad, we think it's possible that he's being held by the ATM Killer, or someone like him."

Alan was stricken silent, and Don's voice continued, miserably. "We don't know for sure, and the bank isn't supposed to say anything, but I know how these things work sometimes, and in case word gets out, I didn't want you to hear it on the news."

"I understand," said Alan, and his voice sounded foreign, even to himself. "Thanks for letting us know."

"Us?"

"Joanie's here with me."

"Oh, that's good, Dad. I'm glad she is. Take care. I'll keep you posted if anything changes."

They exchanged good-byes, and Alan, filled with new dread, disconnected the call almost absently, his eyes fixed again on the cover of the binder, as if the mere sight of his son's name would prove that he still existed, as if it would bring him back.

Ramon Jimenez, Frankie's right hand man, sat behind the wheel of his car, his short, thick, muscular body nearly completely filling the space between the steering wheel and the driver's seat. Pick Cordera, so nicknamed because he was rumored to have once killed a man with an ice pick, spoke up from the passenger seat, as their eyes tracked the movements of two men. Carlos Abrego and Juan Laguna were leaving the building – an old warehouse, which looked abandoned. "Waddya think they were doin' in there?" asked Pick.

Jimenez grunted. "I'll tell you what they were doin'. I'll bet you any money they got the professor in there."

Pick shifted in his seat. "So mebbe we should ask 'em, huh?" He had thin, liver colored lips, and they split his face in a hideous smile.

"No, you dumb ass," retorted Ramon. "We don't need trouble. Let 'em go. We'll go in and look after they're gone." A smile played about his own lips; it was a much more attractive smile than Pick's, but the look in his eyes turned it ugly. "If we find him, we'll jus' take him, and bring him to Frankie. Carlos and Juan won't know who took him, or where he went, an' they'll be afraid to ask around."

They waited until Carlos' van pulled out and away, got out of the car, and headed for the warehouse.

Carlos dropped Juan Laguna off at his apartment, and Juan bounded up the stairs, his movements filled with a mixture of wild anticipation and nervous energy. Carmen, his girlfriend, could hear him coming, and was waiting as he pushed through the door. He strode over to her, swept her into a big hug, and spun her around.

"What are you doin'?" she sputtered, laughing, coming awkwardly out of the turn.

"Baby, we're gonna be rich!" crowed Juan. "After tomorrow, we're gonna be rich. We're gonna blow this town, go down to Durango, live in style."

Carmen leaned forward into him, resting her arms on his shoulders and looking into his face. She smiled, but her eyes were wary. "That's great, hon, but where we gonna get the rest of the money?"

Juan looked over his shoulder, a reflexive gesture, because no one was there to hear him. Still, he dropped his voice. "Look, you know I tol' you that Carlos and I had some bizness ventures. We been saving up."

"Yeah." She nodded, but her expression was still doubtful. "You said it would take you a few more months to save up enough to move." In truth, although Juan hadn't given her the particulars about his and Carlos' 'business ventures' she had her own suspicions – the fact that most of their business was carried out in the middle of the night made her doubt that it was legitimate. She loved Juan, though, loved their dream – to make it big in American dollars, and to move back to Mexico with enough to live on for the rest of their lives, on Mexico's lower cost of living. That was the plan – they would move to her family's town of Durango… it was enough to make her push any doubts about what Juan was doing into the back of her mind, enough to keep her from asking questions.

"I know," said Juan. "But we got an opportunity to finish this off – tomorrow." His eyes gleamed with excitement. "Listen, baby, you can't tell this to anyone, but we stumbled on this guy – he has a ton of money. We – uh – convinced him that he needs to come with us tomorrow and pull some out of his account at the bank."

She stared at him, her smile faltering. "Convinced him – how?"

Juan lowered his voice even further, grinning with excitement. "You know that professor dude? Someone said he's been on the news. Well, me and Carlos picked him up."

Her face dropped. "What?"

He looked annoyed. "Oh, come on, babe, you gotta know we ain't been workin' at a gas station for this money. You didn't care before."

She held up a hand. "I didn't know what you were doin' and didn't wanna know. I thought you were workin' on strippin' cars or somethin'. You been robbin' people all this time?"

He hesitated, and she saw something dark in his eyes – something she hadn't seen before, at least when he was talking to her. Then his expression changed, and a wheedling tone crept into his voice. "Come on, we ain't gonna hurt him, ain't even gonna put a dent in all the money this guy's gotta have. He won't even miss it. An' we'll be done – I won't have to do it no more."

She held up both hands this time and turned her face away, her mouth tight. "Don't even tell me – why are you tellin' me this? I don't wanna know. Jus' do your thing an' keep me out of it."

He grabbed her hands and grinned, then kissed her. "Okay – you just start packin.' We're leavin' day after tomorrow."

Charlie sat in the darkness for only moments, when he heard voices again – then footsteps. He frowned, wondering what Carlos and Juan were doing back so soon. Had they changed their minds? The voices and footsteps came closer, then receded, then approached again, and Charlie's frown deepened. It sounded almost as if they were searching for something…

A voice spoke, just outside the door. "Maybe he's in here." The voice sounded different, and Charlie's heart jumped – they were not Juan or Carlos – and they were looking for him. It had to be LAPD – or FBI – who else would it be?

"In here!" he yelled, his heart pounding. "I'm in here!"

There was a bang and a rattle, the sound of a foot against the flimsy office door. Someone kicked again; it flew open, and Charlie clambered awkwardly to his feet as the light was switched on. He squinted against it, trying to make out the figures that were moving toward him, and as he took in their appearance, his heart thumped faster, and his head spun with confusion. They didn't look like police or agents, unless they were undercover.

The squat stocky man grinned at him, showing a gold incisor. "Professor Eppes. Last time I saw you, I was shootin' at you." The other man laughed, baring an expanse of gums behind thin lips.

Charlie's heart lurched, and he took an involuntary step backward.

The stocky man's grin broadened. "Five years is a long time, but as I recall, I think I hit you." He stepped closer and put his broad face in Charlie's, backing him up until he couldn't go any further, his hot breath in Charlie's face. "I always wanted to know – did it hurt?"

End, Chapter 11