A/N: These temperatures are driving me nuts! It was below zero every morning this week.
Trying to keep warm by living off soup, LOL
Sorry this chapter's a bit short but the next slew of updates will be powder kegs, PROMISE!
Having no clock or anything down here was maddening, so Traylor had to start working once his footsteps had ceased and the car pulled away.
The son of a bitch bound her hands with cuffs but careful use of her tongue got the damn gag out of her mouth. The moist sock landing on the floor before he had even left. She prayed Hal didn't check up on her once more time, or he would put it back.
Now that she had that thing out of her mouth, Traylor could focus.
Apart from the cuffs, she was affixed to a wooden chair with a ratchet strap like people use for oversized loads on their pickups. The strap barely gave her enough room to breathe. Traylor exhaled and knew her only way out was going to begin with breaking this chair. She didn't know a cheap piece of shit from an antique, either way she hoped the thing didn't have the integrity to survive a fall with her on it.
Traylor eyed an old steamer trunk.
(Bet that thing weighs sixty pounds when its empty!)
No doubt the black box with brass hinges and handles was filled with junk, at least enough to make it to immovable object she needed. Traylor started planting her feet firmly on the basement floor and put all of her weight on the concrete to instigate the chair to scoot.
Slowly but surely, Traylor was within arm's length of the trunk. She only had one shot at this, so she needed to make it count! It sucked but it was the only was to ensure her fall would inflict the most damage on her wooden prison. Traylor breathed in deeply and released it before rocking the chair back and forth. It took several attempts until she had built up enough momentum to make it tip backwards.
Back when she was younger, Traylor had the habit of leaning back on her chair. Nothing gave her mother a heart attack more than coming into the kitchen and seeing her daughter teetering on two legs. She warned Traylor that one of these days, if she wasn't careful, she was going to fall backward. Since you couldn't see nor have use of your hands, her mom was convinced that a backward fall would crack your head open and kill you. Every time!
And here she was...
(This is gonna fucking suck!)
Traylor went down in her chair with the violence of a tree cut by a lumberjack.
She landed hard, unable to let out an audible cry of pain. The chair landed on top of the steamer trunk as promised, but it broke into pieces almost immediately. This meant Traylor took some of that impact on her back.
Without anything solid to wrap around, the ratchet strap was loose, sliding down her back. Her hands were still behind her back though. Despite feeling sore, Traylor rolled onto her knees. This was the best way for her to get up with her hands bound. She just needed to keep her balance.
"You can do this...1...2...3..."
Traylor grunted, sweat making her emerald and ebony locks stick to her face. The room was heating up thanks to her heavy physical activity. She glanced up at the steps and huffed.
"Okay...part two."
Back at hospital, Andre was discussing matters with his fellow officers.
Through the corner of his eye, he saw one strolling up to him. He knew from far away that he was a beat cop based on the uniform.
"Detective Harris?" the taller one asked.
"What's the story..." he squinted to check the name on the badge. "Van Cleef?"
"Couldn't find the car you guys described," the officer told him.
Andre was momentarily distracted by the untamed hair begging to come out of his policeman's cap.
"Thanks for looking and keep your eyes open."
Van Cleef nodded and walked away almost soldier-like. Andre watched him for a second before calling out to him.
"Hey, buddy? What's your first name?"
He smiled back at the detective and tipped his hat.
"Sinjin, sir!"
Without anything else to add, he pivoted and marched out of the lobby.
"Sinjin Van Cleef..." Andre whispered to himself. "There's a name."
"ANDRE!"
He turned to see Beck booking it toward him.
"Hey, man!" he sighed, patting the long-haired guy on the shoulder. "Where's Tori?"
"Getting cleaned up," Beck replied.
Andre made a face.
"That bad, huh?"
Having gotten a much-needed shower, Tori was able to focus on trying to recollect that license plate she was chasing.
Her memory was pretty keen on average but right now, she was struggling. At the scene, when she was discovered by Beck, the Latina pressured him for a pen, and he gave it to her. Without looking for paper, Tori just jotted down the plate on her arm, being careful with the ballpoint tip.
Numbers came easy to her. Tori would never forget their configuration: 8311. But she was having difficulty with the letters.
Letters normally represented words, or abbreviations for larger concepts. In the case of plates, unless you registered a custom one, it was a regurgitation of the alphabet that made little to no sense!
(Was it ADT? NO! Um...maybe APT?)
She was almost positive that the first letter was an A.
(Wasn't it?)
Now she was beginning to doubt herself, staring down at her spiral book with nearly fifty possible combinations for those three letters before the hyphen. Even with the confidence that it began with "A" you had a lot of choices. Not being sure anymore made it a thousand times worse!
Tori's fists pressed against her temples like a vise.
"Come on, Vega! You can do this!"
Traylor swallowed, finally ascending the top of the stairs.
She looked down at the doorknob. Likely unlocked, not that it mattered. Her hands were still behind her back.
Hope was there, dangling in front of her like a carrot to a horse.
She made it this far and was now faced with the undisputed truth of her situation. Traylor just wanted to cry but it felt like she had run out of tears.
(That's it. No way out.)
(I'm going to die down here...)
"No!" she whispered to herself.
She had to try. She had to keep going.
Traylor turned around and felt her way to the knob. She bit her lip, doing her best to work the brass object and turn it just right to undo the latch bolt keeping the wooden door shut.
"Come on Come on Come on..."
Suddenly, the knob turned, and she fell backward just as hard as when freeing herself from the chair. And it didn't hurt any less.
Her eyes blinked rapidly, realizing what she had done. The ceiling of the dining room! She turned her head and there was that ugly table they shared many a meal.
Traylor couldn't believe it! She made it!
This time, she had the benefit of the nearby furniture for support. She did a short wiggle worm to the sturdy chair and pulled herself up with it. Once she obtained enough verticality, she rested her weary form on the big table. Traylor just stayed there for a couple of minutes, collecting her strength and her sanity.
The woman's heart dropped when she heard the unmistakable sound of tires riding over the gravel driveway.
(NO-NO-NO-NO-HE'S BACK ALREADY!)
Hal was a mess of twisted nerves when he returned home.
The first thing he did after unloading the car was parking it in the unattached garage.
He wasn't trying to do anything to complicate matters. He was supposed to run to the store and come back!
The large man felt so stupid, why did he need to speed on the main drag like that? He hit that man, and the cops will probably be on his ass.
Things have definitely gone from bad to worse...
He was so consumed by his frenetic worry that he neglected the precious cargo in his cellar.
Turning the key, he opened the front door, and the house was its typical eerie silence. Well, eerie to a well-adjusted person. To him, this was normal. Plenty of people preferred a quiet environment but a mausoleum was livelier than Hal Bircham's abode.
He wandered into the dining room with his bags, glancing over to see...
The door to the cellar still closed.
Hal blinked and proceeded into the kitchen to unpack his provisions and put them away.
Traylor was in the foyer closet, holding her breath.
She had just enough time to close the basement door behind her and get into the closet, closing that door as well. Had she hesitated a second, made the tiniest noise, he would have caught wise to what she was up to.
(Okay, girl...what's the plan now?)
Every few minutes, the paranoid man kept glancing outside through a small opening in the blinds to see a cop car coming down the road.
"What's Doug gonna say?" he muttered out loud. "He can't know...Never..."
A banging sound made him look toward the front door, but it wasn't somebody outside. It was coming from...The Closet.
He opened the door and was bemused by the sight of Traylor, still in handcuffs, cowering in the corner amidst the hanging coats.
She yelped and trembled at the sight of him.
Hal's face was one of quiet surprise and suppressed rage.
Then he did something Traylor never anticipated. He picked her up, draping her form over his shoulder like he had done countless time, and planted her on the living room couch.
They just stared at each other for an unsettling five minutes. Both were breathing heavily between her exhaustive escape attempt and his burst of adrenaline coming off of committing (as far as he knew) vehicular manslaughter.
The quiet was driving her batty and in a Twilight Zone moment, Traylor wished the son of a bitch would say something.
"I'm not even mad that you tried to leave, Traylor..." he admitted. "I know you don't like it here."
(NO SHIT!)
"I'm just glad I found you!"
"What. Is. Your. Deal?"
Hal gave a tilt of the head like an inquisitive dog. He acted like he didn't understand.
"Am I your prisoner, or am I your fucking pet?"
The man rubbed his thinning hair.
"Traylor, listen to me, I don't like using force, but you don't understand...it's dangerous out there! He's out there!"
"Who?"
Hal drew in a deep breath and held it before answering.
"Doug," he replied.
"Who is Doug, Hal?"
"I hope you never find out!" her captor admitted. "All I can say is...he wants you, just like the others, and... and... I WON'T LET HIM HAVE YOU!"
This was getting stranger and stranger. And Traylor was at her wit's end.
"You want to do the right thing, Hal? Go to the police!"
He shook his head ferociously and stood up with a growl.
"I CAN'T! DOUG WILL TALK!" Hal started pacing around the room. "I'm not going to jail!"
Traylor looked at him. The massive brute looked like he was coming apart. She had no idea what was swirling around in that collection of cotton, hay and rags he calls a brain. All she could tell was from his actions. Piecing together the story through his inconsistent ramblings was yielding zero results!
He looked down at her. Almost through her. The wheels were turning but where was the car going?
"What did you do?" she finally asked.
Hal sighed, shutting his eyes. He made his way back down to sit opposite her.
He would then proceed to weave a tale that grabbed her spine and squeezed it and didn't let go. Every night spent here was a plague of bad dreams. But after Hal was through with his yarn, Traylor wouldn't sleep at all tonight.
A/N: Poor Traylor! She's a survivor but the odds are not in her favor. The police need to work fast!