Helpless (32 page)

“Do you think you’ll go there?” Jill asked.

Lindsey kept her eyes fixed on the poster and didn’t turn her head to look at Jill. “I don’t know,” Lindsey said. “I’d like to. Remember that guy who came to speak to our class about colleges? He had tape on his glasses.”

Jill laughed and pulled herself up to a seated position. She turned her head to look down at Lindsey, who was still lying on her back. “Yeah. Like from eighth grade. So?”

“So, that’s the reason I’ve had this poster hanging here for—oh, I don’t know. Since then, I guess. That guy said that something like eighty percent of the kids who hang up the poster of where they want to go college end up going to that school.”

Jill nodded. “Yeah, I think I remember hearing him saying that.”

“My father wants me to go there,” Lindsey said. “Doubt I can get a soccer scholarship now. I doubt I’ll be able to get in anyplace with this nightmare following me around.”

Jill had been gazing up at the poster with a look of hope on her face. In a second, that hopeful look turned into one of despair.

“Want to see what one of the witches texted me?” Jill asked.

Lindsey nodded. Jill handed Lindsey her cell phone. Lindsey read the messages and covered her mouth to show her disgust.

“Did you let Principal Osborne read these? They could get expelled for that.”

“Are you kidding? No. Best way to handle the witches is to ignore them. It’ll blow over.”

“Well, why do you think I got a new cell phone?” Lindsey said. “Too many nasty text messages. No more Facebook for me, either. People were posting the most horrible things.”

“They’re all just a bunch of bitches,” Jill said.

“Big, bitchy witches,” Lindsey agreed.

The girls shared a laugh. Then the mood turned serious again.

“Jill, I’m glad that you believe me,” Lindsey said. “I’m glad you don’t think I did what they’re saying.”

“That FBI lady convinced me. Now I know that it’s possible to make it look like you had,” said Jill.

“Who do you think sent around those Facebook friend requests?”

“You mean, Fidelius Charm? Who knows. But I bet it’s the same person who wrote the blog posts.”

“Has it been weird not living at home?” Lindsey asked.

Jill shrugged. “It’s been fun living with Flo and Irena, I guess. They’ve been cool to me. But I miss my home. I miss my bed. I’m thinking about going back there. I mean, what if my dad’s been set up, too? I know I’ve told you, like, a million times all the things my mom said about him, but I never got creepy, evil vibes from him. I mean, child pornography? That’s so sick.”

“But why are they setting me up?” Lindsey asked. “Who are they trying to ruin—me or him?”

Jill glanced down at her fingernails and began to nervously chip away at the red polish there. “You know how I’ve been hanging around with Mitchell Boyd?” Jill said. Lindsey shot Jill a look that said, “I’m your best friend, stupid,” as she pushed herself up and off the bed. “I’m wondering if Mitchell is somehow involved.”

Lindsey whirled around to look at Jill. “Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know,” Jill said. “He started acting nice to me right after my dad got in trouble. And then my dad had that major freak-out at the Spot. He told me that he and Mr. Boyd had some sort of falling-out and that I wasn’t allowed to see Mitchell anymore.”

“What do you think it could be?” said Lindsey.

“I dunno,” Jill said.

“You think Mitchell is somehow helping out his father?”

Jill thought a moment and nodded. “I mean, Mitchell’s dad is unbelievably rich, but Mitchell is always complaining his father won’t give him anything. He says he has to earn it, because that’s what his dad did. Maybe Mitchell’s dad is paying him, and that’s how Mitchell got that Mustang. Everybody’s been wondering where he came up with the cash for the car.”

“Mitchell’s not that smart with computers. Is he?”

“I’ve been to his computer room before,” Jill said. “He’s got, like, three computers in there. A bunch of monitors, too. He definitely knows something.”

Lindsey curled her upper lip in a snarl. “You think Mitchell got paid by his dad to set up your father?” Lindsey said. Jill thought about it and nodded again. Lindsey said, “Why would he pick me? He hardly knows me.”

“I don’t know, Lin. I’m just thinking, that’s all.” Jill noticed Lindsey’s expression darken. “What? What is it?” she asked.

“I haven’t been completely honest with you,” Lindsey said.

Jill’s body tensed, and Lindsey sat back down on the bed beside her.

Lindsey told Jill about how she’d met Agent Rainy Miles before the student assembly. How the FBI had come to her house with pictures that Lindsey had taken with her cell phone camera. Naked pictures of herself that she’d sent to Tanner Farnsworth.

When Lindsey finished, Jill threw her hands into the air and shouted, “Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because I was embarrassed,” Lindsey said.

Jill looked at Lindsey in a way that reassured her. She more than understood.

“I didn’t want anybody to know,” Lindsey added, then shook her head, disgusted with herself. “After you left Principal Osborne’s office, I told the FBI agent the truth. I told her that I’d sent the pictures to Tanner. Maybe Tanner showed them to Mitchell. They’ve been friends since grade school. Maybe ... I don’t know, maybe, somehow that’s why Mitchell picked me.”

Jill got up from the bed, crossed the room, and sat herself down on the corner of Lindsey’s desk. Jill looked her friend in the eyes. “Mitchell texted me. He said he’s bummed we’re not hanging out anymore. He invited me to come over to his house tomorrow night,” Jill said.

“So?”

“So, if I’m alone in Mitchell’s bedroom, where Mitchell keeps his computers, maybe there’s a way I can find out.”

Chapter 49

T
om could feel the ground beneath him. His fingers dug at the dirt. Grass tickled his face. Jagged rocks pressed uncomfortably against his legs and arms. Tom thought he’d opened his eyes, but still couldn’t see. That was when he knew he’d been blindfolded
.
He listened for any recognizable sounds. But the only noise was a steady buzz that could have been insects or just his own drugged mind.

The ground beneath him seemed to be spinning. Each revolution came faster, turned tighter. He tried to swallow but gagged instead. His mouth had gone completely dry, beyond anything he imagined possible, as if every drop of moisture was being sucked up by an invisible sponge.

Someone pulled on his shirt. He felt himself dragged across the rocky ground and slammed up against the side of a car. He sat slumped on the ground, the car keeping him upright.

“Where are my drugs?”

Tom recognized the voice. His monotonous speech and raspy tenor were unmistakable.

Lange.

Tom labored to work his jaw, mouth, and swollen tongue to form his words. “What ... drugs?” he managed to say.

“Not the ones I gave you, dumb ass,” Lange said to him. “You know what drugs I’m talking about. Look, Tom, you’re helpless out here. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

Tom heard a car approach and could tell by the sound of its tires that it had pulled to a stop close by.

Someone else is here.

Tom heard a car door open, then slam shut. He heard heavy footsteps crunching across the ground. He struggled to stand, but rough hands pushed him back down.

“Is he talking yet?” Tom heard a man say. He thought he knew that voice. Deeper than Lange’s. Gruff. But from where?

“Not yet,” Lange said.

“Tie his hands,” said the other man.

“Why? This guy is drugged out of his gourd.”

“No unnecessary chances. Remember?”

“Well, I can’t really see out here.”

“I’ll turn on his headlights.”

Moments later, Tom felt himself being thrown to the ground. He was again facedown in the dirt. Somebody wrenched his arms behind his back. The drugs made it impossible to resist. The rope wrapped around his wrists several times. Tom could tell it was made from nylon. He pushed against the rope as it was being secured, enough to hold his wrists slightly apart. It wasn’t a conscious act, so much as a reflex, his training kicking in, even though his thoughts were far from lucid. The spacing Tom created was slight, hardly enough for his captors to have noticed. They pushed him back up against the car.

“I’m going to ask you again,” Lange said. “And then we’re going to hurt you. Where. Are. My. Drugs?”

“What drugs?”

Tom couldn’t see the punch coming. He made no move to avoid it. A nanosecond passed between the moment Tom knew he’d been hit in the face and the first eye-stabbing jolt of pain. He felt his skin tear and knew the wetness dripping down his cheek was blood.

“Douche bag, I asked you a question. Where are my drugs? Where did you hide them?”

“Destroyed them ... burned them up.”

“Bad answer,” Lange said.

The second blow struck Tom on the face, in the exact same spot as before. The pain doubled in intensity. Oddly enough, it gave Tom a little spark of awareness. He felt a tick or two stronger. He worked discreetly to loosen the rope binding his wrists and tried to conceal his panic when it seemed the space he had created might not be large enough. Tom knew he needed to buy himself more time. Lange and Mr. Mighty Punch had no intention of letting Tom live, even if he gave up the drugs’ hidden location.

“Can’t talk,” Tom croaked out. “Need water. Mouth too dry.”

“That’s a normal side effect of the drug,” Tom heard Lange say. “Get him something to drink.”

“He’s got water in his car.”

Tom heard footsteps crunching over dirt. Tom kept twisting his wrists, trying to work the rope free. He had more mobility than before.

“I can’t kill you,” Lange said to him. “I don’t want to hurt you to the point where you can’t talk, either. No use putting you in the hospital. So let me tell you what’s about to happen. Are you listening?”

Tom turned his head in Lange’s direction. “I’m sorry.... Were you talking to me?”

Lange laughed.

“Cute. Keep up the humor. You’re going to need it when I tell you that I’m about to leave you with my friend here and go get your daughter. She’s over at Lindsey’s house. Right? Studying for a chem test in the morning.”

Tom struggled again to free himself. He felt the rope starting to give. The buzzing in his head grew louder, like static from the radio blasting in both his ears.

“I’ll tell you... . I’ll tell you... .”

“Good.”

“Just need water.”

Tom heard footsteps returning. Strong fingers pressed against his skull and pulled his head backward. Tom could smell the sour breath of whoever bent down to give him a drink. A plastic bottle touched against his mouth. Tom’s tongue slid out from between his cracked lips. Tom pushed his head away.

“What is it?” asked Tom.

“Water. Drink up,” the gruff-sounding man said.

Tom had wanted him to speak. Unable to see his target, Tom needed a sound cue to pinpoint his strike area. The man’s displeasing breath helped him lock on a target even more. With his wrists now free from the restraints, Tom swung his arms out from behind his back, hoping that he guessed the right level to grab hold of the man’s head.

Tom felt his hands grip a thick, round head.

Pay dirt.

Tom didn’t hesitate.
The first rule of an attack is to keep on attacking
.

Tom squeezed the man’s ears hard, as if they were a horse’s reins. He snapped his head forward, using the hairline area of his forehead as the striking surface. He aimed where he envisioned the man’s nose to be, heard a satisfying crunch, and felt the cartilage give way. The man didn’t scream, but Tom heard him fall.

Next, Tom ripped the blindfold from his eyes. His vision blurred by drugs and not yet adjusted to the light, he could see only Lange’s silhouette closing in fast. Maybe he was reaching for a gun, but Tom couldn’t tell. Falling to the ground, Tom slithered his body underneath the car and emerged on the other side. He used the car’s door handle for leverage to stand but still stumbled getting back to his feet. Tom noticed bright headlights to his right. They were shining on him.

He remembered they had used a car’s headlamp to illuminate his wrists when they bound them. The driver-side door looked open. Tom staggered toward the car. A gunshot rang out, but Tom didn’t turn to see what direction it came from. Instead, he jumped into the car, fumbled for the ignition, found the key, and fired up the engine.

Tom pressed down on the gas, and the car lunged forward, wheels bouncing into potholes and over rocks. He made four quick observations. First, they’d brought him to a clearing in the woods. He could see trees all around him. Second, there didn’t appear to be any other roads around, so the way in must also be the way out. Third, he’d actually taken his own car in the escape. He was driving the Taurus. Lange must have brought him to the clearing in the Impala, and the other guy had driven his car to the rendezvous spot. Maybe they were going to ditch the Taurus after Tom told them what they wanted to know.

The fourth observation was the only one that really mattered.

Lange was driving right behind him.

Glaring white lights from Lange’s Impala made it difficult for Tom to see the road ahead. A powerful jolt jarred his whole body. Lange had slammed Tom’s car from behind.

Here we go. Ford versus Chevy,
thought Tom.

His heart raced and sputtered. His skin felt afire, but scratching didn’t abate the sensation. He wondered how long the drug would stay in his system. Lange bumped his car again. Tom kept driving, decelerating when he thought he saw traffic moving up ahead. He glanced down at the speedometer. Couldn’t read a single number.

The dirt road seemed to be ending. Tom jerked the steering wheel hard right and skidded onto a paved road. He heard Lange’s tires screech against the same asphalt not more than a hundred feet behind him.

The red taillights from the cars up ahead blurred together to form a single long and wavy neon light that danced before Tom’s eyes. Tom found his way into the center lane of a wide three-lane road. Cars were on every side of him. He could no longer see the road’s white-painted dividing lines. He didn’t know Lange was behind him until he felt another bump, this one hard enough to snap his head forward. The Taurus fishtailed several times, but Tom managed to straighten it out.