Chapter 7a
Tommy – Slow Torture
I felt the gun jump as it fired
three bullets straight up into the air.
The guard struggled to stay on his feet as I tried to pry the gun from
his hand. He managed to regain his
footing and push me off balance. I kept
my hands on the gun and pulled it out of his hands as I fell to the
ground. Out of the corner of my eye, I
saw more guards leaving the fortress, shouting as they approached. The guard I had just disarmed tried to step
away from me, but tripped on my foot. I
crawled over to Sergeant McAlister and tried to pick him back up. Dust flew up and hit my face as a bullet hit
the ground. I dropped my gun and moved
away from Sergeant McAlister. The other
guards all had their guns trained on me as I knelt in the dirt with my hands
above my head.
A couple of the guards went off
behind me with their guns drawn. I heard
them rustling around in the long grass, looking for Dicky. I closed my eyes tight, hoping beyond hope that
he got away. I thought about his bare
feet and how incredibly slow his top speed was.
He might trip on something and make a loud noise. How I wished that I could be with him,
encouraging him along, dragging him, or even carrying him away from these
people. I felt rough hands on my
shoulders as the henchmen lifted me to my feet.
I opened my eyes and saw that we were headed back into the
fortress. A deep voice crackled over
their walkie-talkies as they led me back through the dusty courtyard. We entered the opposite side of the house
into a living room area decorated with ivory-colored furniture and gold
trimming. They dragged Sergeant
McAlister in behind me, careful to keep his bloody head off the creamy white
carpet.
A tall man stood up out of a chair
facing the glass doors that opened onto yet another courtyard, small with a
splashing fountain and colored lights. I
knew in an instant that I was standing face to face with The Horrible himself
because he looked a lot like his brother, the doctor who had tried to help us
escape. He was like a taller, darker,
and more sinister version of his handsome brother. He looked very angry, not a flaring anger,
and his deep voice was soft as he spoke to his henchmen. It was an icy anger that his men were very
much afraid of. At his words, his
henchmen jumped to follow his orders as quickly as possible. The two who were holding me let go and
stepped back. With a smooth, powerful
wave of his hand, they all left the room taking the still unconscious cop with
them.
His forbidding eyes watched them as
they hurried out. Then he turned to me,
his face changing to a kind of sarcastic politeness. He motioned toward one of the crisp cream
couches, “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Other?”
I moved toward the seat, not daring
to take my eyes off him. He was quite
intimidating and I half expected him to suddenly turn into a ravenous monster
and gobble me up.
“You are a rather slippery fellow,
Mr. Other.” He moved over to a table
against the wall filled with glasses and various bottles. “Brandy?”
Unable to reply verbally, I stiffly
shook my head.
He poured himself a drink and sat
across from me, swishing the contents of his glass. “I feel sorry for any babysitters who would
have had to take care of you.”
“You’ll never get away with this,”
I suddenly blurted out. “The police will
find out what you’re up to and then they’ll come and arrest you.”
He laughed, “What, do you think
your brother will get away and tell them?
It’s not as if they know already.
Your parents are already starting to consider paying me the ransom
money.”
I gulped. He could have been right, but I didn’t want
him to know how scared I was. “How much
are we worth to you anyway?”
“You, son, are worth nothing to
me. You see, your brilliantly idiotic
relative, Jean L’Autre, was my secretary.
He stole billions of dollars worth from me and I simply would like your
family to give me back what is rightfully mine.”
“Well I sure hope you don’t get it
back.”
He slowly got back on his feet,
setting his glass down on the coffee table between us. “You are an imbecile.” He walked around the table and picked me up
by my collar. “I hope that wound of
yours gets infected and you die a slow and painful death. By the time your parents buy you back, there
will be nothing they can do to save you from death.”
“I-I’m not s-scared of you.”
He tossed me down onto the
floor. “Ah well, maybe you’re not scared
for yourself, but I bet…” An evil smile
crept onto his face, and he got right down into my face. “My guards are catching up to your brother as
we speak. They are ruthless men. You had better hope that he is a strong
little man, because when they are done with him…” He laughed again and this time it sent chills
up and down my body.
“No, you’re wrong!” I shouted,
turning away from him. “He’s going to
make it, they’re going to rescue us!”
“Actually,” he whispered, “you’re
wrong, Thomas. No one is coming to
rescue you. Your brother will get
himself killed running from my men.”
I couldn’t stop the tears from
streaming out of my eyes. I believed
him. My head ached. Nothing I had done to escape had helped. I sobbed uncontrollably. The Horrible had won.
Chapter 7b
Dicky – Fast Cars
Ricardo
flipped on the light and it flickered on, revealing the flashy gleam of sports
cars in various stages of repair. We
walked past numerous tool cases that lined the concrete walls until we reached
the far end of the room.
“Este es el Porsche Carrera GT.
Tuvo un pequeño accidente, pero me he hecho tan buena como nueva. Sólo un genio sería capaz de decirle lo que
había sido destruido,” he smiled and gestured to a shimmering
chrome-colored sports car. The top was
open and it was sleek and aerodynamic.
“Is this what we’re taking?” I
asked, aghast.
He stepped over to it and opened up
the passenger door. I admit that I was
maybe overly excited but it was a pretty cool car. I sat down in the seat and buckled in while
he revved up the powerful engine. He
opened the garage door and we drove out onto the road. The sun was shining and our speed made a cool
wind blow across my face. We zoomed
along and he talked to me in Spanish, but I wasn’t listening. I could see the sea to our right and
mountains rose in front of us. Soon we
were in France, and we were winding up the coast as the mountains rose taller
by the road.
Some time went by before Ricardo
suddenly stopped talking. He slowed down
and pushed me down in the seat. He
pulled a ragged blanket that smelled of grease over my head and set a toolbox
heavily on top of me.
“Ow! That’s my head.”
“Shh! Es la policía.”
“Did you say police? Aren’t we…”
“Shhh!!”
I stopped trying to argue with him
and listened. We had pulled off the
road. “Hola, official,” Ricardo said in Spanish.
“Je savais que c’était vous, Ricardo,” the cop replied in French, “Et je ne vous aurais pas tiré sur, vous ne
devions vingt-cinq kilomètres au-dessus de la limite de cette instance, mais j’ai
été chargé de tirer sur tout traffic suspect. Avez-vous vu ce garçon?”
“No, Bernardo, nunca lo he visto antes.”
“Ensuite, vous ne m’en voudrez pas si je vérifier votre voiture?”
Ricardo leaned over me and opened
the passenger door. “Vea usted mismo.”
Suddenly, Ricardo threw the car
into reverse and then swerved out and back onto the road. The car shot forward and the door slammed
beside me. I struggled free of my
disguise and looked back. The cop, far
in the distance already, was still getting into his car.
“¡Aférrate a tu desayuno! Nos estamos alejando de este tipo.” Ricardo flew around a slight bend in the road
and then veered off onto a small road.
The speedometer read 200 kph. We
barely slowed down for the hairpin turns up the mountainside. Trees and vineyards flew by. I felt rather sick by the time we reached the
top and began going down the other side. We finally skidded around the last
turn at the base of the mountain, slowing down to go around a traffic circle
and join the main road again.
Ricardo let out an excited yell, “¡Eso fue hermoso!”
I felt lucky to be in one piece
when we finally reached the parking lot across from the police station in
Gruissan. It was calm and peaceful
compared to the ride I had just experienced and the salty breeze helped to
soothe my carsickness. It was a
beautiful, modern police station and Ricardo got us inside quickly. He greeted his friend with a hug and a kiss
on both cheeks, then he introduced me.
“Hello, American!” he reached out
with both hands and grasped my shoulders.
He was not much taller than I was, had trim features, and a moustache to
match. I scrunched up my face, dreading
a French greeting. He noticed and held
out his right hand. “I am Chief Abraham Cuire of the Gruissan police. Ricardo’s sister called ahead and told us a
little of your very interesting story.
We have been looking for someone with evidence on L’Horrible for a long
time. I cannot wait to hear straight
from the horse’s mouth.”
He opened a door that led to a sort
of officer’s lounge. I hesitated. “Can I call my parents?”
“Oh, but of course! I should have
thought you would like to. There is a
phone in the salon. Take as long as you please,” He smiled as he
held the door open. I started to walk
in, but then he stopped me. “Richard,
I’d like to warn you. You need to bring
out much patience for this catching of L’Horrible. It will take maybe a longer time than you will
be comfortable with.”
“It doesn’t matter how long it
takes, I just want this guy behind bars.”
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