By Bill Guttentag
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She had timed it perfectly—the Beetle was just passing by. But it drove on. 9 Dennis had her arms tied up to the bed frame. A rag was stuffed in her mouth and another was tied tight around her face, stopping her from screaming or even talking. The street outside was quiet; it had to be the middle of the night. Her eyes were open, but she knew they should be shut. What did she want to see for? She watched in frozen terror as Dennis sat on the bed, and without a word pulled off his boots. She tried to yell, but with the rags stifling her, all that came was a groan, full of pain, like a dying animal.
Where was anyone? Morning came. She never thought it would, but it did. Her hands were still bound and the only thing she had on was her T-shirt. There was wet blood on the mattress. Dennis wasn’t there. She had to get out. How? This was the most horrible place she had ever been. It was the most pain she ever felt. She shut her eyes and tried to think of something—anything—that would chase away the pain. Come up with a good memory—the greatest thing she ever did … when she was seven, in the first month when she and her mom were on their own, her mother would blast Van Morrison singing Brown-Eyed Girl.
But what choice did she have? A BMW pulled to the curb in front of her. Casey glanced towards Dennis. He lifted up his bottle and tilted it towards her, like he was saluting her with it. She turned back to the car. Inside was a guy in his thirties in a suit. He looked like the kind of person who worked at a bank or something. He could be a junior high principal, or the guy in charge of the movie theaters in the mall. It was too weird. Too sick. ” He could be a doctor. A lawyer. ” he asked again.