Two-Rest Stop
Finally, finally, after what felt like an eternity, they stopped. She didn't know what to expect. She hoped they would let her out of this trunk, at least, but soon that hope faded when she heard them distinctly walking away. She panicked briefly--were they just going to leave her here? It had happened many times in the movies. People who take hostages just dumping them in the middle of nowhere. She kicked at the trunk beneath her feet and was satisfied to hear it give a little. Although, even if it did give, it would do her no damn good, as she couldn't turn around, and doubted she could kick a big enough hole to slide through. Although, if no one came for her in a while, it might be worth trying. It was better to try than to just die in here, either from lack of air, food, water, whatever. At least she had her most comfortable outfit on. It was a small consolation.
She rested her head under her arm, wondering how long she'd been in the trunk. She'd never had a good internal sense of time. Five minutes could feel like five hours at times, and then a whole day could pass her before she knew it. She didn't even know if the sun was still up in the sky.
Her eyes drifted shut. The anxiety was just too much. She'd read somewhere that some people dealt with extreme stress by falling asleep. Maybe it was also why people fainted. She'd never been a fainter. And the thought of sleeping in this tomb was repulsive. But then, she heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel, getting closer. Only one set of feet--one person. Maybe it was someone just passing by. Maybe it was her only chance at help. She kicked at the side of the trunk again, and had the satisfaction of hearing the footsteps stop.
Then, to her terror, a key slid into the lock, and fresh air blasted into her lungs. It was night, and there were no lights, just the dazzling stars in the sky, and a shadow looming over her.
The one who had dragged her out of the bank by her hair. She didn't even know his name.
Quickly, so quickly that she didn't have time to fight, he seized her by her wrists and looped her over his shoulders. One shoulder caught her in the gut and squeezed the wind out of her, but soon she was on her feet again, inside a hotel room, whose door had only been a few feet away.
She stumbled and fell back. Her bottom landed on something elastic--a mattress, she realized. She looked around her and nearly gagged at the dismal colors of the hotel room they were in. Or was it a motel? She'd never stayed anywhere that didn't have at least two rooms and designer sheets on the bed. Motels were curiosities she saw along the sides of the road, from the windows of a limousine.
Her captor sat down in a chair a few feet from the bed, between her and the door. He watched her with a distinctly knowing air, as if waiting for her to speak and perfectly ready for whatever she had to say.
"Where are we?" she asked, keeping her voice small and cowed. Maybe that was what he expected.
"Somewhere safe," he said. "For us anyway."
She fidgeted. "What are you going to do with me?"
"Xanny," the man said, his smile nearly charming, "you really can drop the act now."
She frowned, shook her head. "I told you, my name isn't Xanny," she said calmly, reasonably. "You have mistaken me for someone else."
"Oh, right, Augusta." He chuckled in disdain. "Where the fuck did you come up with that one?"
She straightened her shoulders, indignant. "It's the name I was born with," she said. "My grandmother's name, if you must know. And Charlene is for my grandfather, Charles."
"So people actually call you Augusta?" the man mocked. "And you don't want to punch their teeth out for it?"
She looked disgusted. "What a vulgar idea," she murmured.
He tossed his head back and laughed. "My God!" he roared. "You really have turned into quite an actress."
She sighed. Real frustration knit her brow into a thick crease on her forehead. Weariness made her shoulders slump. He wouldn't believe her, anything she said, any form of denial. Whoever this Xanny was, she must certainly look like her enough to entirely bewitch this man. "What do you want with me?" she asked, tired and not containing as much of her fear from her voice as she would have liked.
He rested his cheek on his hand. "It's been a long time," he said, his voice low. "I thought maybe you wouldn't mind a little reunion."
She glanced around, not liking the look in his eyes. "Where is your partner?" she asked.
"He's out, getting us some food," the man said calmly. "I didn't want to leave him here alone with you, although I'm sure you could rip his tongue out if he tried anything."
She seemed surprised by the idea. "This Xanny must be a very tough person. If I were her, would it have been so easy to kidnap me?"
Obviously, this thought hadn't occurred to him. He looked away, as if he was just now considering it. As he did so, she finally had the chance to consider him.
He was of average high and a slim build, made hard and muscular by the rigors of his life, no doubt. He had very dark, short-cut hair, almost black, and it had spiked out from his head more than once, but was now smoothed down. He wore black from head to toe--shoes, pants, jacket (which bore more than a passing resemblance to a sports jacket) and even a black shirt underneath. And what she had seen before and thought she must have mistaken for a patch of dirt was in fact a tattoo, climbing out of the collar of his shirt and crawling up his neck in black sweeping lines. His face had a boyish quality, especially when he smiled, but there was meanness lurking underneath, an ugliness that she was sure could leap out at any time. When his face fell and he considered her seriously, the malice was almost tangible. Then, quickly, he was smiling again, not widely, but it tugged at the corners of his lips and made his eyes dance as he stood up and swung himself around to sit beside her on the bed.
Quickly she scooted away.
"You know, I'm getting a little tired of this act," he said in a low voice, that malice from before slinking out. He raised a hand and rested it on her shoulder. His finger traced the line of her jaw, then down lower to her neck. "You know I'd never hurt you."
"The throbbing bruise on my skull says otherwise," she snapped.
"That wasn't intentional," he said, his hand going to her hair. "Where is it? Let me take a look."
"That isn't necessary, it's fine," she said, scooting farther away.
He let out an exasperated sigh. "All right, Xanny, what the fuck is going on? Did you hit your head or something? Do you have amnesia?"
She shook her head. "I was born Augusta Charlene Baxton. My friends have always called me Charlie. I don't know who this Xanny person is, I swear to God---I don't even know who you are."
He stared at her for a very long moment. She wondered if maybe, just maybe, he would decide to believe her. His hand fell away and rested on his lap, his fingers twitching slightly, probably in irritation. Then he stood up and faced her squarely, pulling his handgun from where he had stowed it somewhere on his person.
"All right then, if that's the way you insist on playing it. Here are the rules. Rule number one, no questions. You ask a question, and Mr. Forty- Five will answer it." He showed her the gun, his dark eyes glittering with suppressed anger. "Rule number two, no noise. You make a noise, Mr. Forty- Five will make a noise. And Rule number three--"he cocked the gun and pointed it at her forehead.
She stared up at him, too shocked to recoil, too numb with fear to react.
"Rule number three is that you don't run. You run and Mr. Forty-Five will be the one who chases you. And Mr. Forty-Five is much faster than you."
He paused, waiting.
"Do you understand the rules, Miss Baxton?"
She nodded. He nodded back, put the gun away (after uncocking it), and sat down in the chair. Resolutely, he turned to the television and flipped it on, saying nothing more to her for a good portion of the evening.
%%%%%%%%%%
Xanny Wallace, a name she still went by, sat in her apartment, eating a bowl of soup. Soup was cheap, and she liked soup, but it was starting to get to her.
She glanced around. It wasn't such a bad place, for the money. Sure, the ceiling had more cracks in it than a back alley, and the plumbing was horseshit, but she'd dealt with worse, and it was hers. She was safe here. She had locks on the doors, could actually let herself fall into a deep sleep at night, and she had a job with which to keep it all paid for. She'd just earned enough to get herself one of those cheap satellite dishes that would give her more than the basic channels. Although she'd always had good antennae reception and had never had a reason to complain about the lack of programs to watch. There was always some bullshit on to amuse her on any given evening, which she always enjoyed spending at home. One of her neighbors had taken pity on her and given her a couch that wasn't half-bad, having gotten themselves a very nice, plush, brand-new one and having no use for the old. She didn't even need a bed now-she'd been sleeping on the floor, and the couch was much more comfortable.
Life as an ex-con, for her, didn't suck. She was lucky. Damn lucky. Or maybe damn wasn't the word to use-actually, the opposite was more likely true. She was blessed.
She had never even used the word blessed before in casual conversation. She smirked at the change.
It was nine forty-five. Almost time for the news. She liked watching the news-it was a habit she'd gotten into in prison, and found that the world had much worse people in it than her pathetic self.
"Tonight, an armed robbery at the downtown branch of First National results in the death of three guards and the kidnapping of a young woman, details at ten."
Fifteen minutes later, and the only thought in Xanny's mind was: Oh bloody hell.
%%%%%%%%%%
"Carl, I think we've got a problem."
She was on the telephone, talking to her boss. He'd hired her six months ago, and since that time she had made him a lot of money. After all, who better than an ex-con artist and thief to sniff out other con-artists and thieves? While Carl wasn't the most brilliant detective, he was rather well connected, and had reluctantly agreed to give her a chance simply because she was the only other Alexandra in the world who had ever gone by the nickname Xanny, other than his dear departed mother, whom he'd loved and compared every woman in his life to since. She'd proven herself well worth her salt within a single month, and he was talking about making her a detective in her own right, she just needed more experience. In other words, she needed to stop getting her own hands dirty all the time and let someone else do the rougher work-but as he didn't have anyone else on his payroll that was capable, for the time being she was stuck in her station.
"What do you mean 'we,' Xan?" came Carl's sleepy voice.
"This guy, Seth Gecko, I know him. He and his brother Ritchie, both."
"Oh, the two lunatics who held up that First National, huh?" He sounded only vaguely interested.
"Those two dangerous lunatics," she reminded him, although her voice lacked any real excitement. Saying Seth and Ritchie were dangerous was like saying the sun was hot.
"What about them? What's that got to do with us? You don't run with him anymore. The cops won't be comin' after you."
"No, but did you get a look at the girl they took hostage?"
"Oh, yeah, that Augusta Baxton woman. Man, she was a good steal for them, wasn't she? Be they're get a load offa her for ransom."
Xanny sighed. Sometimes Carl was so thick. "No, did you get a LOOK at her?" she growled. "Did she look like anybody you know?"
He paused. Slowly, the wheels turned. It took a few flicks of the switch, but finally the lights came on. "Looked like you, didn't she? Minus the blue hair."
"Yeah, exactly." Xanny forced her heartbeat to slow down for the fifteenth time. Yeah, Seth had been very pissed at her last time for walking out on him, even though she'd left him the money, hadn't taken a damn thing from him. "What if that's why he took her?" Xanny suggested calmly.
Carl was silent for a long moment. Then, he let out a great big guffaw. "Oh hell, baby! That's brilliant!"
"What's brilliant?" Although she had a sneaky feeling what he was talking about.
"We can offer our services to those Baxton people," Carl explained, in a fit of glee. "You know Seth, we can track him and charge them a fortune! Good thinking girl!"
Xanny hitched. "Uh, yeah, I know, isn't it?" Better to play along. Wouldn't want Carl to think she was going soft in the head. "But," she added, her conscience pricking her, "isn't that a little low? To use my likeness and all of that to scam these people?"
"We ain't gonna scam 'em, Xan," Carl assured her. "But you have to admit it gives us a big edge."
"I'm not sure..."
"Xan," Carl said, "you do this, and I'll make you a partner."
"You're going to make me a partner for this?" Xan echoed, incredulous.
"For the money we're gonna charge 'em, baby, I just may be able to retire!"
Finally, finally, after what felt like an eternity, they stopped. She didn't know what to expect. She hoped they would let her out of this trunk, at least, but soon that hope faded when she heard them distinctly walking away. She panicked briefly--were they just going to leave her here? It had happened many times in the movies. People who take hostages just dumping them in the middle of nowhere. She kicked at the trunk beneath her feet and was satisfied to hear it give a little. Although, even if it did give, it would do her no damn good, as she couldn't turn around, and doubted she could kick a big enough hole to slide through. Although, if no one came for her in a while, it might be worth trying. It was better to try than to just die in here, either from lack of air, food, water, whatever. At least she had her most comfortable outfit on. It was a small consolation.
She rested her head under her arm, wondering how long she'd been in the trunk. She'd never had a good internal sense of time. Five minutes could feel like five hours at times, and then a whole day could pass her before she knew it. She didn't even know if the sun was still up in the sky.
Her eyes drifted shut. The anxiety was just too much. She'd read somewhere that some people dealt with extreme stress by falling asleep. Maybe it was also why people fainted. She'd never been a fainter. And the thought of sleeping in this tomb was repulsive. But then, she heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel, getting closer. Only one set of feet--one person. Maybe it was someone just passing by. Maybe it was her only chance at help. She kicked at the side of the trunk again, and had the satisfaction of hearing the footsteps stop.
Then, to her terror, a key slid into the lock, and fresh air blasted into her lungs. It was night, and there were no lights, just the dazzling stars in the sky, and a shadow looming over her.
The one who had dragged her out of the bank by her hair. She didn't even know his name.
Quickly, so quickly that she didn't have time to fight, he seized her by her wrists and looped her over his shoulders. One shoulder caught her in the gut and squeezed the wind out of her, but soon she was on her feet again, inside a hotel room, whose door had only been a few feet away.
She stumbled and fell back. Her bottom landed on something elastic--a mattress, she realized. She looked around her and nearly gagged at the dismal colors of the hotel room they were in. Or was it a motel? She'd never stayed anywhere that didn't have at least two rooms and designer sheets on the bed. Motels were curiosities she saw along the sides of the road, from the windows of a limousine.
Her captor sat down in a chair a few feet from the bed, between her and the door. He watched her with a distinctly knowing air, as if waiting for her to speak and perfectly ready for whatever she had to say.
"Where are we?" she asked, keeping her voice small and cowed. Maybe that was what he expected.
"Somewhere safe," he said. "For us anyway."
She fidgeted. "What are you going to do with me?"
"Xanny," the man said, his smile nearly charming, "you really can drop the act now."
She frowned, shook her head. "I told you, my name isn't Xanny," she said calmly, reasonably. "You have mistaken me for someone else."
"Oh, right, Augusta." He chuckled in disdain. "Where the fuck did you come up with that one?"
She straightened her shoulders, indignant. "It's the name I was born with," she said. "My grandmother's name, if you must know. And Charlene is for my grandfather, Charles."
"So people actually call you Augusta?" the man mocked. "And you don't want to punch their teeth out for it?"
She looked disgusted. "What a vulgar idea," she murmured.
He tossed his head back and laughed. "My God!" he roared. "You really have turned into quite an actress."
She sighed. Real frustration knit her brow into a thick crease on her forehead. Weariness made her shoulders slump. He wouldn't believe her, anything she said, any form of denial. Whoever this Xanny was, she must certainly look like her enough to entirely bewitch this man. "What do you want with me?" she asked, tired and not containing as much of her fear from her voice as she would have liked.
He rested his cheek on his hand. "It's been a long time," he said, his voice low. "I thought maybe you wouldn't mind a little reunion."
She glanced around, not liking the look in his eyes. "Where is your partner?" she asked.
"He's out, getting us some food," the man said calmly. "I didn't want to leave him here alone with you, although I'm sure you could rip his tongue out if he tried anything."
She seemed surprised by the idea. "This Xanny must be a very tough person. If I were her, would it have been so easy to kidnap me?"
Obviously, this thought hadn't occurred to him. He looked away, as if he was just now considering it. As he did so, she finally had the chance to consider him.
He was of average high and a slim build, made hard and muscular by the rigors of his life, no doubt. He had very dark, short-cut hair, almost black, and it had spiked out from his head more than once, but was now smoothed down. He wore black from head to toe--shoes, pants, jacket (which bore more than a passing resemblance to a sports jacket) and even a black shirt underneath. And what she had seen before and thought she must have mistaken for a patch of dirt was in fact a tattoo, climbing out of the collar of his shirt and crawling up his neck in black sweeping lines. His face had a boyish quality, especially when he smiled, but there was meanness lurking underneath, an ugliness that she was sure could leap out at any time. When his face fell and he considered her seriously, the malice was almost tangible. Then, quickly, he was smiling again, not widely, but it tugged at the corners of his lips and made his eyes dance as he stood up and swung himself around to sit beside her on the bed.
Quickly she scooted away.
"You know, I'm getting a little tired of this act," he said in a low voice, that malice from before slinking out. He raised a hand and rested it on her shoulder. His finger traced the line of her jaw, then down lower to her neck. "You know I'd never hurt you."
"The throbbing bruise on my skull says otherwise," she snapped.
"That wasn't intentional," he said, his hand going to her hair. "Where is it? Let me take a look."
"That isn't necessary, it's fine," she said, scooting farther away.
He let out an exasperated sigh. "All right, Xanny, what the fuck is going on? Did you hit your head or something? Do you have amnesia?"
She shook her head. "I was born Augusta Charlene Baxton. My friends have always called me Charlie. I don't know who this Xanny person is, I swear to God---I don't even know who you are."
He stared at her for a very long moment. She wondered if maybe, just maybe, he would decide to believe her. His hand fell away and rested on his lap, his fingers twitching slightly, probably in irritation. Then he stood up and faced her squarely, pulling his handgun from where he had stowed it somewhere on his person.
"All right then, if that's the way you insist on playing it. Here are the rules. Rule number one, no questions. You ask a question, and Mr. Forty- Five will answer it." He showed her the gun, his dark eyes glittering with suppressed anger. "Rule number two, no noise. You make a noise, Mr. Forty- Five will make a noise. And Rule number three--"he cocked the gun and pointed it at her forehead.
She stared up at him, too shocked to recoil, too numb with fear to react.
"Rule number three is that you don't run. You run and Mr. Forty-Five will be the one who chases you. And Mr. Forty-Five is much faster than you."
He paused, waiting.
"Do you understand the rules, Miss Baxton?"
She nodded. He nodded back, put the gun away (after uncocking it), and sat down in the chair. Resolutely, he turned to the television and flipped it on, saying nothing more to her for a good portion of the evening.
%%%%%%%%%%
Xanny Wallace, a name she still went by, sat in her apartment, eating a bowl of soup. Soup was cheap, and she liked soup, but it was starting to get to her.
She glanced around. It wasn't such a bad place, for the money. Sure, the ceiling had more cracks in it than a back alley, and the plumbing was horseshit, but she'd dealt with worse, and it was hers. She was safe here. She had locks on the doors, could actually let herself fall into a deep sleep at night, and she had a job with which to keep it all paid for. She'd just earned enough to get herself one of those cheap satellite dishes that would give her more than the basic channels. Although she'd always had good antennae reception and had never had a reason to complain about the lack of programs to watch. There was always some bullshit on to amuse her on any given evening, which she always enjoyed spending at home. One of her neighbors had taken pity on her and given her a couch that wasn't half-bad, having gotten themselves a very nice, plush, brand-new one and having no use for the old. She didn't even need a bed now-she'd been sleeping on the floor, and the couch was much more comfortable.
Life as an ex-con, for her, didn't suck. She was lucky. Damn lucky. Or maybe damn wasn't the word to use-actually, the opposite was more likely true. She was blessed.
She had never even used the word blessed before in casual conversation. She smirked at the change.
It was nine forty-five. Almost time for the news. She liked watching the news-it was a habit she'd gotten into in prison, and found that the world had much worse people in it than her pathetic self.
"Tonight, an armed robbery at the downtown branch of First National results in the death of three guards and the kidnapping of a young woman, details at ten."
Fifteen minutes later, and the only thought in Xanny's mind was: Oh bloody hell.
%%%%%%%%%%
"Carl, I think we've got a problem."
She was on the telephone, talking to her boss. He'd hired her six months ago, and since that time she had made him a lot of money. After all, who better than an ex-con artist and thief to sniff out other con-artists and thieves? While Carl wasn't the most brilliant detective, he was rather well connected, and had reluctantly agreed to give her a chance simply because she was the only other Alexandra in the world who had ever gone by the nickname Xanny, other than his dear departed mother, whom he'd loved and compared every woman in his life to since. She'd proven herself well worth her salt within a single month, and he was talking about making her a detective in her own right, she just needed more experience. In other words, she needed to stop getting her own hands dirty all the time and let someone else do the rougher work-but as he didn't have anyone else on his payroll that was capable, for the time being she was stuck in her station.
"What do you mean 'we,' Xan?" came Carl's sleepy voice.
"This guy, Seth Gecko, I know him. He and his brother Ritchie, both."
"Oh, the two lunatics who held up that First National, huh?" He sounded only vaguely interested.
"Those two dangerous lunatics," she reminded him, although her voice lacked any real excitement. Saying Seth and Ritchie were dangerous was like saying the sun was hot.
"What about them? What's that got to do with us? You don't run with him anymore. The cops won't be comin' after you."
"No, but did you get a look at the girl they took hostage?"
"Oh, yeah, that Augusta Baxton woman. Man, she was a good steal for them, wasn't she? Be they're get a load offa her for ransom."
Xanny sighed. Sometimes Carl was so thick. "No, did you get a LOOK at her?" she growled. "Did she look like anybody you know?"
He paused. Slowly, the wheels turned. It took a few flicks of the switch, but finally the lights came on. "Looked like you, didn't she? Minus the blue hair."
"Yeah, exactly." Xanny forced her heartbeat to slow down for the fifteenth time. Yeah, Seth had been very pissed at her last time for walking out on him, even though she'd left him the money, hadn't taken a damn thing from him. "What if that's why he took her?" Xanny suggested calmly.
Carl was silent for a long moment. Then, he let out a great big guffaw. "Oh hell, baby! That's brilliant!"
"What's brilliant?" Although she had a sneaky feeling what he was talking about.
"We can offer our services to those Baxton people," Carl explained, in a fit of glee. "You know Seth, we can track him and charge them a fortune! Good thinking girl!"
Xanny hitched. "Uh, yeah, I know, isn't it?" Better to play along. Wouldn't want Carl to think she was going soft in the head. "But," she added, her conscience pricking her, "isn't that a little low? To use my likeness and all of that to scam these people?"
"We ain't gonna scam 'em, Xan," Carl assured her. "But you have to admit it gives us a big edge."
"I'm not sure..."
"Xan," Carl said, "you do this, and I'll make you a partner."
"You're going to make me a partner for this?" Xan echoed, incredulous.
"For the money we're gonna charge 'em, baby, I just may be able to retire!"