Cargo: an edge of your seat thriller Page 7

  Susan whimpered again and bowed her head.

  “Do you need anything else?” he asked.

  Susan scoffed, in spite of herself. “What difference does it make if you’re going to kill me anyway?”

  “Tell me what you need, and I will make that decision.”

  “I need to get up,” she said, after thinking about it.

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “No, I need…” she thought about the best phrasing before saying, “I need to…to pee,” in a demure whisper.

  The man paused for a moment. “That, I can arrange,” he said.

  “What?” Susan was surprised. “That makes a difference?”

  “Yes,” the evil man responded. “The difference is why. You gave me a good reason.”

  “Well, that’s kind of you,” she said, halfway between sarcasm and genuine gratitude.

  There was a rustling behind her before the man said calmly, “Now I’m going to put this over your head. It’s a ski mask. I’m putting it on you backwards. You will be able to see some light, shapes and shadows, but you won’t be able to make anything else out through the fabric. That’ll be enough to get you to the head and back.”

  As the rough hands did just what the man said, she asked “I’m going alone?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” came the response. The man didn’t laugh.

  “Oh, you’re going to watch me?” Susan said, again with sarcasm, but this time mixed with fear.

  There was a long pause before the man said, “Nah. Not me. How’s this feel.”

  He changed the subject so quickly she almost couldn’t keep up. “Do you care?”

  “Bitch, answer the question, or you get nothing else.”

  “I can’t really breathe,” she said quickly, so as to not anger him further.

  “All right,” he said and rolled the bottom of the mask up over her nose. “There?”

  “Better,” she said.

  “One moment.”

  She heard his heavy boots walk across the floor and saw his shadow envelop her. The man was huge. That’s all she knew. She could hear some low murmurs from the hallway, and the door reopened. The sound of two pairs of boots followed.

  “I’m going to release your feet,” the man said and worked on the knots around her ankles. He paused for a moment and seemed to touch her left foot almost tenderly. She wore open-toed sandals, and her toes were hurt and probably bleeding from trying to kick the inside of the box they dragged her here in. If there was any tenderness in the action, it ceased quickly as the man continued.

  “Kick me, and I cut one of your feet off. The arms stay bound. This isn’t a charity. When I tell you to, you stand straight up, and the arms will clear the back of the chair. Got it?”

  Susan nodded with an “Mmmm-Hmmm.”

  “Good,” he continued. “Now, she’s going to take you to the latrine. It’s indoors. And don’t make the mistake of thinking that because she’s a woman she’s going to help you. She’s getting paid. She doesn’t ask questions. Neither do the rest of us, so don’t go asking her any questions. We don’t care. We’re doing our job only. You two are not going to make friends or share nail polish tips or chat about your favorite daytime soaps. Don’t plead with her. You got that?”

  Susan nodded again with another agreeable noise.

  “Good,” the hard man went on. “We’re only doing this because none of us wants to smell your piss and shit. We sure as hell don’t want to have to touch it when we move you around. This isn’t an act of kindness, it’s an act of selfishness. If you make us regret it, no amount of millions are going to keep us from butchering you as slowly and painfully as possible. Any escape attempt, any noise, any disagreeable movements and you are dying today. This is the last time I ask if you’ve got that.”

  “I’ve got it,” she said, trying to sound agreeable, but feeling completely defeated.

  “Good. Now stand up vertically, and I’ll help you get…”

  She had to pull her feet back under her hips to push up as he had instructed, but she did it, and he helped.

  “Ugh!” she moaned at the soreness.

  “There you go,” he said. “Now, you keep being this good of a girl, and you’ll be treated every bit as badly as you have been. Disobey and things are going to get a hell of a lot worse for you. Now, she’s taking you from here. Don’t even thank her. Don’t speak at all. She’s not your friend.”

  Susan nodded as she was guided out of the room.

  The man called after her, “And don’t go getting Stockholm Syndrome either, Patty Hearst. This isn’t kindness. Remember that. You have no friends here.”

  Tears came then. She tried to remain silent, but she felt the backwards ski mask soaking with tears of fear and frustration.

  She was brought into a cramped bathroom, had her pants taken down by the silent woman who was guarding her (they had not unbound her arms from behind her back) and was watched the whole time. She wanted to thank the woman, but obeyed and remained silent as she was cleaned up with wet wipes. The woman also stayed silent, except for a few annoyed grunts.

  Had this been a movie, this would be where she made her great escape. It wasn’t. She was just going to obey and hope against hope that Anthony came through for her. For both of them.

  She was dressed and guided through the halls again. The sounds around her felt intentionally muted. As if there was a lot going on, but they had to remain quiet while she was close enough to hear.

  She kept her head bowed, though the tears had stopped.

  “Good girl,” the cold-voiced man said.

  “I didn’t sign up for this,” came the voice of the woman. It struck Susan as strange that during that whole intimate procedure, the woman had not spoken once. She had the voice of a soldier. Stern and serious and without compassion. “Any more cleanup duty, and I’d better get the full ten million myself.”

  The woman helped her sit again, sliding the back of the chair through her bound arms then left the room, clicking her tongue in frustration.

  The man knelt down to bind her ankles again, saying, “Remember, kick me and you get hurt.”

  “I won’t.”

  “How’s your vision?”

  She paused to think and said, “Like you said, only shadows, but it’s better than that blindfold. That thing hurt like hell.”

  The cold-voiced man paused to think for the moment, then said, “All right. I’ll leave you the mask, then. Now, tell me, do I need to tape your mouth shut again?”

  “No!”

  “Why?”

  “Why?”

  “Why makes all the difference. Why?”

  “Because I don’t want you to have to hear me. I’ll be quiet and good.”

  “Nice answer,” he said and stood up.

  “Can I ask why you’re doing this?”

  “I told you already you can’t ask me anything and expect an answer.”

  “But you said the difference is why!”

  He chuckled. “Smart little lady, aren’t you? Well, you won’t like my answer. I’m doing it for the money. That’s all that matters to me. You’re nothing more to me than a few numbers in a spreadsheet. Now, again, do I have to tape your mouth shut, or are you going to be good?”

  “I’ll be good,” Susan whined.

  “Like I said…smart lady. Now…I’m going to put this bag over your head. It’s burlap. Plenty of air will get in, though it might not smell the best. That’s not my concern.”

  “Then why–”

  “Because it keeps you from rubbing your head against your shoulder to get the ski mask off, and it further impairs your vision. You’d be surprised what some people see by just peeking through the tiniest of holes.”

  “I won’t get any ideas,” she said, trying to sound reassuring.

  “Don’t,” he said and started to walk out without a closing greeting.

  “Wait!” Susan called, “How will I call you if I need something?”

 
“That’s easy,” he said, as cold as ever. “You don’t. This isn’t a hotel, and I’m not your concierge. If you’re lucky, one of us might decide to come and check on you again before the end. If you’re extremely lucky, your asshole husband might come through after all, and you might get out of this before we cut you to pieces.”

  She gave that muffled gasp-scream again and then whimpered, “Sir? Sir, I…how could you do this? How could you be a part of this?”

  “I told you, no questions,” the voice came from the far part of the small room as if he was just about to leave.

  “But don’t you have a family?”

  She expected the big man to growl at her again, telling her to stop asking questions, but instead, she got only silence. He must have left, she thought.

  Then, his voice came again and cut through the velvet darkness like a blade of ice. “No. I don’t. Not anymore. The last person I cared about…died…several months ago. There’s not a person alive who matters to me anymore, except me.”

  “Oh, sir, I really–”

  He chuckled again mirthlessly. “No, no, no, lady, don’t you try to bond with me. Me having nobody doesn’t make things better for you. It makes them worse. I don’t have a damn thing to lose. I’ve done a thousand other jobs like this, and I don’t remember a single name of a single one of you. You will never matter to me.”

  She bowed her head and tried to think of something sweet to say, but there was nothing left.

  “Now not another sound, or you get the tape,” he said, opening the door with a creak.

  Before he was gone, Susan let out a meek, quiet, “Thank you.”

  The big, cold man scoffed as he left. “Fucking thanking me,” he muttered.

  And Susan was alone again in the darkness, surrounded by muffled sounds. And Susan Peterson was very, very terrified.

  11

  Dead Man Talking 4:44 AM

  Anthony Peterson tried to force himself not to pace about his confined space to preserve the air, but he found suppressing that urge to be difficult. He hated waiting. When he sat against the wall, he found himself banging his head again, so he tried lying down to see if it would calm him.

  That hadn’t worked either.

  He idly wished for a ball to bounce across the eight-foot span. He considered throwing the phone but decided against it, no matter what the stupid commercial claimed.

  Instead, he just stood there with the phone hanging by his side and thought. And he thought. And thought.

  So many things had led him to this specific juncture in his life. This unpredictable fucking mess where he was (and he still could not believe this) trapped in a metal cargo container, being extorted by these kidnappers, with his wife God knew where, enduring God knew what.

  He sighed. He wondered silently how many single little events in life might have been changed to lead him to another path…with any destination but this one.

  The phone rang again, and Peterson looked down at it. It must have been having problems as the screen remained black. Cheap phone. His little lifeline had better not be breaking on him.

  He hit the spot on the screen where the talk button had been and it worked, thankfully. He hoped this was a fluke and would not recur.

  “Hello?” he answered, warily, not sure who it was. The line remained silent. Maybe the phone was broken after all or maybe it was just randomly ringing.

  To Peterson, however, it sounded like there might have been someone on the line.

  “Hello?” he said again.

  “Hello, Anthony,” came the voice. It was an older man’s voice. Accomplished, wise and dignified, yet somehow it sounded sinister…and maybe a little bit familiar.

  “Who is this?” Peterson asked, suspiciously.

  “It’s so good to talk to you after all these years. I’m glad to hear your voice,” the man said back.

  “Who are you?” he asked, more forcefully.

  “Oh, I think you know exactly who this is, Anthony,” the other man said, patiently.

  “The hell I do. Who the hell is this?”

  The man seemed to chuckle a little and said, “All right, if you want to play it that way…it’s me.”

  “You?”

  “Me.” He laughed. “Oh, come on, it’s me, your oldest friend!”

  Anthony was silent as his jaw worked, searching for the right words to say.

  “Your mentor.”

  Anthony couldn’t speak. This was impossible.

  “Aw, come on! Your idol? Your hero?”

  Peterson was not amused. “You certainly have a very high opinion of yourself.”

  The voice sighed and said, “Anthony, it’s Sully!”

  Peterson immediately felt rage again. Was it Sully this whole time? Was he behind all of this? “Sully? What the–? You think this is funny?” he stammered in anger. “You think…you think this is fucking funny?”

  “Now calm down, calm down,” the all-too-familiar voice said soothingly. “I just want to talk, that’s all.”

  Peterson bit back his words and shook as he listened.

  “How are you?” Sully’s voice asked. “How have you been? Long time, no talk.”

  Peterson pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed. He leaned against the wall and slid down to the floor. “No,” he said. “No, no, no. No, this isn’t Sully.”

  “Oh, but it is.” Sully laughed.

  “No, no,” Peterson responded, exasperated. “That’s not true. That’s impossible.”

  “And why is that, Anthony? What makes this impossible?”

  Peterson sighed, composed himself and finally said, “Because Sully has been dead almost two years.”

  “That’s right,” Sully’s voice responded as if just remembering that crucial little fact was true. He then added with menace, “Thanks to you.”

  “Thanks to me?” Peterson scoffed. “I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Oh, I know all about what you had to do with, buddy. I’m your oldest friend. I knew everything about you, Anthony. Hell, I still do. I’ve been watching you ever since then.”

  Peterson scoffed and paused. “Are you trying to tell me…that Sully didn’t die?”

  Another chuckle. “Oh, Sully died all right. You saw to that.”

  Peterson shouted into the phone, “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  “Why of course you know,” Sully said. “You know and I know.”

  “Who the fuck is this?”

  “Sully.”

  “No, no, no, you’re…you’re some imposter hired to fuck with me.” He stood up again and paced, involuntarily, nervously. “What are you-? Working with the kidnappers to drive me crazy?”

  “Oh, Anthony…do you even realize you’re talking to a dead phone right now?” Sully said, and Peterson jerked.

  He looked down at the phone and saw the screen was still blank. What the fuck kind of trick was this? How did they do that?

  “Anthony?”

  “Yeah?”

  “The phone didn’t even ring. I never called you. It’s all in your head.”

  Peterson recognized the tone of Sully’s voice. It was the same tone Peterson himself had used with Tom while patronizing the idiot. That’s what Sully was doing just then…patronizing Peterson as if he were a small, dull child.

  He pulled the phone back and tapped the power button. The goddam thing was in sleep mode. Shit. He really was cracking up, wasn’t he?

  “Well, then if you’re not real, then you can just fuck off! I haven’t got time for this bullshit!” he shouted and let the phone drop to his side limply. “You’re not real,” he said to nobody. “You’re not real.”

  He sweated and thought deeply. Either he was going insane or he was in hell.

  The phone rang again, and he jerked it to his face. It was still black. “What?” he demanded impatiently.

  “Hello-o!” Sully giggled in his singsong voice. “Dead man talk-ing!”

  Peterson brooded “What the fuck do
you want from me…whoever you are?”

  Sully paused and then asked, “You’ve stopped taking your medication, haven’t you?” Sully taunted him in his cruel, joking way.

  What medication? Peterson was scared. He felt the color drain from his face. He must have been losing his mind. What other explanation could there be?

  Could Sully have survived? Was he the one behind all of this? It would be a hell of a revenge if so.

  “You’re not really there. You’re not real, you’re not real,” he said. But at this point, Peterson was unsure whether he truly believed that or not.

  “Oh, I’m real all right,” Sully chuckled. “I’m as real as you. As real as the smile you show the world. That ‘tapestry’ as you call it. As real as that little voice that pops up in your head when things really start to head south.”

  South again? Anthony thought.

  “No…you’re dead.”

  “Thaaaaaaat’s right,” Sully confirmed almost soothingly. “Courtesy of Anthony Peterson himself. One of the many. Now, what would you want to go and do a thing like that for, huh? After all I’ve done for you?”

  Peterson shook his fist and growled, “I don’t…know…what you’re talking about!”

  “That’s the old Anthony Peterson defense mechanism right there. Always a rationalization for everything, no matter how serious. You buy into your own bullshit. You’re still doing it. It’s gotten so bad that you even fool yourself.”

  Peterson ground his teeth together. Who the fuck was this guy, and what right did he have to fuck with Anthony Peterson? And if this was Sully, Peterson was the one who should be angry, not him. “You want to know what I believe?” he demanded through clenched teeth and curled lips. “I believe I remember you having an affair with my wife, Sully!”

  Sully laughed again. It was the laugh of a man who held all the cards. “Oh, ho, ho, Anthony. Is that what this is all about? Me fuckin’ your wife? Well, hell, brother, somebody sure had to. You certainly couldn’t be bothered for most of your marriage. At least the last half of it. And then, after everything, you left the poor gal on her deathbed. Oh, A.P.”

  “Because you took her away from me. Of course I left her, goddamn it. You did that… You…you were a piece of shit!”