“Don’t do that,” I said.
I wanted to strike back now that I had the chance, throw some snap kicks at these bastards and hurt them like I had promised I would with every passing mile. Only my legs were both stiff and weak as they unfolded under me; they weren’t strong enough to support my weight. I felt like every muscle and joint in my body was rusty. The kidnappers had to hold tight to keep me from falling.
“Look at this,” said the shorter kidnapper. “He pissed himself.”
“Well, duh,” said his partner.
I opened my eyes, closed them, opened them again and blinked against the sun. We were in an asphalt parking lot, white lines painted neatly on the pavement. It burned my bare feet, and I instinctively went up on my toes. There was a street, also asphalt, beyond the lot. Across the street was a bank. First Integrity State Bank of Libbie. A display flashed time and temperature. 2:33 PM. 97°F.
The kidnappers spun me around and dragged me toward the glass doors of a blond-stone building. There was a name spelled out in silver letters attached to the stone. city of libbie police department. The sight of it cheered me. I think I might even have smiled. I used to be a cop. I liked cops. Cops didn’t murder people. Except on TV and in the movies. And in New York and L.A.
Lord and Master muscled me through the doors. A wave of cold air immediately pummeled my body. The dull throb above my ears became a slicing pain that attacked my eyes. It had to be thirty degrees cooler inside than outside, but instead of making me feel better, the abrupt change in temperature increased my nausea. I gagged, nearly vomited. The kidnappers stared at me nervously as they brought my limp body to a waist-high counter. A uniformed officer stood behind it.
“Is that him?” he said.
“Yeah.”
“He don’t look too good.”
“He’s fine.”
“Put ’im in interrogation.”
I was now able to put weight on my legs; probably I could have walked without help. The kidnappers wouldn’t think of it. They half carried, half dragged me around the counter. They led me to a metal door, opened it, and pulled me inside as if they had been there many times before. The desk officer followed behind.
The room might have been used for interrogations, but the smell of fried chicken convinced me that it was also used as a lunchroom. It was probably the conference room as well. In the center of the room was a metal table that was secured to the concrete floor. There were several folding chairs around the table, plus one metal chair that was also bolted to the floor and facing a one-way mirror. The tall kidnapper dumped me into the metal chair while the officer pulled the other chairs away, folded them, and leaned them against the wall out of my reach.
Finished, he came over and gave the tall kidnapper a pair of handcuffs with a foot-long chain between them. “Here, use this,” he said. The kidnapper secured one cuff to a steel ring welded to the table. The other he wound around my right wrist. After that, he severed the nylon restrains with his cutter.
I pulled my arms out from behind my back with a mixture of pain and relief. I stretched as best I could against the chain. The effort both exhilarated and tired me. I slumped forward and rested my forehead against the tabletop. The metal felt cool against my skin. The pain in my head became less pointed and seemed to spread to the entire back of my skull.
“You sure that’s him?” the officer said. “He doesn’t look the same.”
“He’s been locked in a trunk for six hundred miles,” the tall kidnapper said. “What do you expect him to look like?”
“We should give him some water,” said the shorter kidnapper. “Do you have any water?”
“Hey,” the officer said. He nudged my bare foot with his shoe. “Hey. What’s your name?”
I answered, but apparently he didn’t hear me. He nudged me again. “What did you say?”
“Rushmore McKenzie,” I said.
“Told you it was him,” said the tall kidnapper.
“You got any water?” the shorter kidnapper repeated. “We should give ’im some water.”
“Yeah, I’ll get some,” the officer said.
“When are we gonna get our money?” the taller kidnapper said.
“Don’t ask me. Talk to old man Miller. He’s the one put the bounty out. Far as I know, the city hasn’t even charged McKenzie with a crime. The county, neither. I better make some calls.” The officer left the room. The two kidnappers followed him out.
“We should get ’im some water,” the shorter one said.
