Faint of Heart (7 page)

He looked at the driver's license, appeared momentarily confused, then slid them both back to her. "Uh-uh. No way."

"I just want to make my purchases, please," she said, putting the driver's license back in her pocket.

"You could be an undercover cop."

"I'm not, I swear."

"What seems to be the problem?" asked the manager, stepping over to the counter.

"No I.D.," said the cashier.

The manager looked Rebecca over carefully. "Sorry, ma'am. No identification, no alcohol. It's the law."

What was she supposed to say? That they absolutely, positively had to sell her this beer because her husband's life was at stake?

Maybe a new tactic was in order. "I'm old enough by seven years," she said. "You know it and I know it, it's just some stupid formality. Are you really going to make me drive all the way home to get my license? Because if you do, I'm certainly not going to stop here on the way back. You're not the only place that sells beer."

"We apologize for the inconvenience, but unfortunately there are no exceptions to our policy," said the manager. "Will you still be purchasing the other items?"

She shrugged. "I need to fill my tank. Unleaded, please."

"That will have to be pre-pay," the manager told her.

She set a twenty on the counter and turned and walked out of the store. Though her life had taken some odd twists and turns over the years, she never would have guessed that she'd be involved in a life or death struggle to buy some goddamn beer without proper identification.

A new approach sprung to mind as she pumped the gas, one that would only work if the manager left again. Well, it probably wouldn't work even then, but she had to give it a shot. After all, she might not be a movie star type, but she certainly wasn't a bad-looking woman.

The manager was nowhere in sight as she returned.

"Ring up the other stuff, too," she said. Rebecca considered batting her eyelashes but quickly decided that she'd just look ridiculous. "You know, if you bought the beer for me, we could share it."

"Really?"

"When do you get off?"

"Not until four."

"Do you get a lunch break?"

"Noon."

"Would you like to have some beer for lunch?"

"Aren't you married?" he asked, glancing at her ring.

"I won't tell if you won't."

"All right, sounds good. Come back around noon and I'll have the beer waiting."

"Wouldn't you rather I got a head start?"

The cashier suddenly burst out laughing. "Lady, it's just some beer! Jeez, did your sorority threaten to kick you out if you didn't bring it back for a party or something?"

"No, I just want to be able to buy what I came here for. I made a special trip."

"Here's a suggestion. Make a special trip over to Alcoholics Anonymous. Get on a twelve-step program. Do something, because you're just plain scary."

"Fine." She picked up two of the twelve-packs. "I'll put them back."

"Don't worry about it, I'll take care of it."

"No, no, I wouldn't want you to have to get up."

She considered making a run for it, but that would be a terrible idea.

Would Stephen and Alan
really
know if she didn't get the beer?

She slid open the cooler, replaced the Budweiser, and almost cried out with joy as she saw the solution to her problems.

Non-alcoholic beer.

O'Douls was technically beer, wasn't it? And the shopping list hadn't specified which brand to purchase. This wouldn't be a violation of the rules, or at least not one where she couldn't argue her case.
   

She picked up two twelve-packs and brought them up to the front. Before the cashier could respond, she grabbed the other two twelve-packs of Budweiser, brought them back to the cooler, and exchanged them as well.

"You know," said the cashier as she returned, "really I'm not even supposed to...never mind, you look twenty-one."

"Thank you," she said as he rung up the purchase. Then she remembered something. "Also one hot dog."

They looked more like beef jerky tubes than hot dogs by this point, but eating something gross was the least of her problems. The cashier placed it in a bun and handed it to her.

She thanked him and walked to where the condiments were kept. She added squirt after squirt of mustard to the hot dog until, as per the instructions, nothing was visible but a yellow pond.

"Mind if I eat it here?"

"Do whatever you want, lady."

* * *

Rebecca set the two grocery bags on the passenger seat, opened the glove compartment, and removed the second envelope.

It was a good thing she liked mustard, but if she'd had this much trouble with a simple shopping list, she was horrified to think what the next step might involve.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The second envelope contained a map, or at least a torn piece of one. There was a red circle around the town of Bleser. Aside from that, the envelope was empty.

So Gary had made it that far, at least.

That is, Gary had made it that far if she could trust that Stephen and Alan were playing the game fairly. If they weren't, Gary could be in pieces in the trunk right now.

God, Rebecca, why do you do things like that to yourself? He's not in the trunk! He's alive and waiting for you to get over your pity-me attitude and rescue him!

She got out of the car and checked the trunk.

Of course, he wasn't in there, but she knew that if she hadn't looked, the thought of Gary chopped-up back there never would have left her mind.

It probably still wouldn't.

She got back in the car and began her road trip.

* * *

After about five miles, she turned on the radio. Being alone with her thoughts was infinitely more distracting than listening to some music. She quickly flipped through the stations until she found some mellow, relaxing music.

She wondered if she and Gary were being mentioned on any of the radio stations, and if anybody was searching for them. After all, they hadn't shown up for work, nor had Scott and Doug returned home to their families. She had to make sure she didn't speed or break any other traffic laws, and hope that there wasn't an APB out for Gary's car.

What if she was better off having a cop pull her over? Maybe by playing their game and following their rules, she was guaranteeing that Gary would end up dead. Maybe the best way to get out of this would be to floor the gas pedal, weave from lane to lane, and balance an open can of beer on her nose.

No, she'd already been over that. She needed to obey the kidnappers' instructions. She'd get to talk to Gary shortly--receive proof that he was alive, anyway--and then decide where to go from there.

* * *

Try as she might, Rebecca couldn't keep an endless stream of grotesque images from tearing through her brain as she drove. Gary being chopped to bits. Gary drowning in blood. Gary being fed his own...she needed to stop thinking about this, or she'd go catatonic.

* * *

Rebecca yawned as she passed the sign that informed her there were only seven miles left to Bleser. She really needed caffeine and she also needed a nice, clean restroom, but she didn't want to deviate from the schedule.

She wasn't exactly sure when she was allowed to open the third envelope, so she waited until she passed the faded "Welcome to Bleser!" sign and pulled into the parking lot of a McDonald's.

She took the envelope out of the glove compartment and tore it open. The first piece of paper inside read:

You've come a long way, this I know.

But try to be strong, you've a long way to go.

You'll find a small bar on the outskirts of town.

Drive over there now, and try not to frown.

Before I explain what to do, my comely young lass.

Know that writing in rhyme is a pain in the ass.

So enough of that bullshit. Find the bar. Have a drink if you want. All you have to do is start a fight with one of the patrons over a football game. A fistfight. One that you'll lose. It doesn't have to be a long, extended combat, but at least one punch needs to knock you to the floor. When you're done, check the trunk for further instructions. Good luck.

She couldn't believe this. A fistfight? Her? She'd never been in a fight in her entire life. And the most she knew about football was that all the best commercials played during the Super Bowl.

It didn't make sense. Gary wasn't the type to get involved in bar fights. He was rowdier around his friends, sure, but even at his most obnoxious he was never violent. And he liked football as much as any guy, but didn't take it nearly seriously enough to pick a fight over it.

The kidnappers were cheating. If Gary
had
been in a bar fight about a football game, he definitely hadn't started it. Either some drunken moron had put him in a situation where he was forced to fight, or she was also playing Scott or Doug's parts.

And Scott and Doug were dead, weren't they?

She didn't know that. And to keep herself as sane as possible, she'd go with the "drunken moron" theory for now.

* * *

The second item in the envelope was another small map, which led her all the way through Bleser to a road way out in the boondocks. When she finally reached the bar, she figured it had been at least five miles since she passed the last human-made structure.

She pulled into the parking lot next to three other cars. The bar didn't even have a name, at least not one that was displayed, though the numerous neon beer logos in the windows clarified the purpose of this establishment. The place looked like the last touch-up had been done shortly after the Gold Rush.

It was barely after nine on a Monday morning. What were
any
cars doing here?
 
   

She shut off the engine and walked inside. The bartender looked up as she entered, as did the two other patrons, who sat at separate tables, watching ESPN on a television mounted over a door. One of them was a big guy with a beard that severely needed trimming and a huge gut, the other was an older man, maybe in his sixties, wearing a red ball cap and smoking a cigarette.