Christie Road

Vann was just getting out of his car, juggling his keys, a cup of coffee and a weatherbeaten North Face backpack, when Billie swung the old Ford into the parking lot. He lifted a hand in greeting, but the confusion on his face showed clearly, even in the dim dawn light.

"Hey, man, what's up?" he asked, bending to peer into the driver's window. He glanced quickly down at his watch.

"I know it's crazy early, but I need your help," Billie said grimly. "Jazz isn't--well, there was kind of a scene last night at Gilman with an ex of mine, and now I can't find her."

Vann set down the backpack, and his forehead creased in concern. "She's not at home?"

"I went by there last night, not long after she took off, but there was no answer. There was a light on, but I don't think she was there. What really worries me is that she got in a car with somebody, and I have no idea who it was. I don't think she did, either."

"Not good," Vann said, shaking his head. "I kept telling her that girls shouldn't hitchhike. It's just too dangerous."

"That's what's bothering me," Billie replied. "There's no chance she could have come here, is there?"

"Hang on a minute and I'll unlock and check." He disappeared into the office and returned a moment later, lifting his hands in apology. "Doesn't look like she's been here--all her stuff's where she left it on Friday. Isn't she answering her phone?"

Billie shook his head, his lips thin and drawn. "You've got my number, right?"

"Yeah, it's in my contacts."

"Call me if you hear anything, okay? I mean anything at all--I don't give a shit if she's pissed off at me, I just need to know she's alright." He was already shifting into reverse, anxious to get back on the road, get moving, to be doing something instead of just worrying himself sick.

"Will do," Vann called as he pulled the big car out onto the street.

His mind was working frantically, despite the thick fog of fatigue that made his eyes ache and his tongue thick. Over and over he retraced his steps from the night before, trying to see if there was anything he might have overlooked.

The light in the window. That was what kept nagging at him, tugging at the back of his brain like a kitten with ball of yarn. She was so frugal, so careful about her bills, that she was always going around turning off lights when they weren't being used. To leave one burning when she knew she would be out most of the night...

He had to go back. Turning back north toward the street that led to her apartment, he found himself whispering it like a mantra under his breath. She'll be there, he thought. She has to be there.

The street lights flickered off just as he turned the corner to her street, and he parked right beside the steps, not caring in the least about a parking ticket. Shivering in the cold morning air, he ran up the steps two at a time, and when he reached her door, something made him stop and press his ear to it before he knocked.

There were voices, faint as if from the back rooms. Not just hers, but another, distinctly male.

His stomach plummeted. Had it been another girl, Lani perhaps, he might have entertained the possibility that she had invited someone back to her apartment, perhaps even to spend the night. But this was Jazz, and he knew, as well as he knew himself, that she would never do that.

His hand still curled into a fist, poised to knock, he hesitated. The jade plant on the brass stand by the door was beginning to wither a bit, in need of water, and the soil around the roots was dry and crumbly. He dug two fingers in just inside the pot, and found the spare key that she had left there for him. Whenever you want, she had told him. You're always welcome.

Brushing the dirt away, he slid the key into the lock as quietly as possible. He grasped the knob, and before he could turn it, his glance fell on the front window. It was open, just a couple of inches, but it was the red flag that confirmed his fear that something was indeed wrong.

He knew he should call the police, but the sound of his voice would give his presence away, and he had no idea if that might put her in more danger than she already was. So he steeled himself, trying to steady his trembling hands, and twisted the doorknob slowly, carefully.

**************************

"Here's the rules," he said, as though he were teaching her to play backgammon. "I tell you what I want you to do, and you say 'Yes, Donnie.' Nothing else, just that. Then you do exactly what I tell you. Got it so far?"

He had tied another bandanna, reeking of old sweat and something else, something coppery that she didn't want to think about, around her eyes. She couldn't see whether he still held the knife or not, so she nodded haltingly. Then, remembering the sting of his pinch, she caught herself.

"Yes, Donnie," she whispered.

"What's that, sweetheart? You'll have to speak up, I can't hear you."

"Yes, Donnie," she said, a little louder this time.

"Good. You're a quick learner. Now the first game we're going to play is Truth. I ask you a question, and you tell me the truth. If I think you're lying, then I give you your punishment."

Oh God, she thought, fighting tears. Please, please don't let him use the knife. I don't think I can--

The crack of his palm snapped her head sideways, an explosion of fireworks cascading behind her eyelids. "I told you how to answer me, didn't I?" he bellowed.

The sobs wracked her, a hurricane of fear and pain. "Y-yes, Donnie," she wept, and in her mind she began saying goodbye, to Billie, to her mother, to the few friends she had made in her vagabond life. She wondered if her father would be there waiting for her in whatever passed for an afterlife, to make eternity the same hell. Maybe it was all she was meant to be, a target for some man's unjust anger.

There was a clink, a metallic sound like steel, and her blood ran cold.

"First question," he said in an oily voice. "Are you a virgin?"

Her cheeks began to burn. The humiliation of being laid bare under the scrutiny of his brutish eyes was bad enough, but to allow him into the most private of her thoughts was anguish. She weighed the danger of defying him, remembering the vicious sting of his fingers on tender flesh.

"Yes, I am--Donnie," she whispered, her face blazing with shame. The last was almost an afterthought. Maybe if she pretended to cooperate with him, he might let his guard down, perhaps even take pity on her and loosen her bonds, even for just a second.

He chuckled softly, making her stomach roll uneasily. "Well, that's a pleasant surprise. Girl like you, I figured you'd had boyfriends by now. Whassa matter, you scared of guys?"

"No, Donnie." She didn't elaborate. If she focused on yes and no answers, maybe she could hope to hide the terror in her voice.

"You scared of me?" It was the voice of a cobra, coiled to strike.

She had to make him think he was in control, and if he thought she was afraid, he'd just try that much harder to restrain her so she wouldn't bolt and run.

"N-no, Donnie," she whimpered, cursing the waver in her voice.

"I don't believe you," he snarled, and a stab of pain just beside her navel made her scream. A warm trickle wound its way down her side toward the small of her back.

"Yes, I'm afraid of you!" she heard herself sob, and now all she could think was that she hoped it would be quick, whatever he did.

"Sshhh, sshhh," he whispered now, one hand touching the other side of her belly, caressing it in slow circles. "That's better. Just tell me the truth, and you'll be fine. See?" The mattress shifted as he leaned over her, one knee resting on the bed, and his hands worked at the cord around her wrists until she felt one side loosen.

"If you try anything, anything at all, I'll kill you," he said simply, and she had no doubt that he meant exactly that. He lifted her hand free, and pinned it under his knee as he retightened the cord around her other wrist. Then he took her hand, pulling it toward him, and suddenly she felt fabric, a zipper, and beneath it...

He was rock-hard, and his breath came faster and heavier as he pressed her hand against him. The gorge rose in her throat, and she fought the urge to vomit. He moved her hand up and down his length, a low, satisfied moan breaking the silence.

"Do you want that inside you?" he whispered huskily, his hips undulating against her palm. "Do you want me to fuck you?"

The revulsion was like tar, pulling her down, filling her lungs so she could hardly breathe. And yet the ember of pain still burned brightly on her belly, reminding her that he would be true to his promise. If she lied, he would kill her, and if she told the truth, he would rape her.

Somewhere inside Jazz, something primal awoke, a rising rage that clawed its way through the fear and agony to the surface of her mind. He would not kill her, or rape her. She would not allow it. She had survived everything else that her life had thrown at her, and she'd be damned if she was going to show weakness now. If he killed her, then so be it, but she would go down fighting. Billie would never doubt that she had given it everything she had.

"Yes, Donnie," she said, and now her voice was stronger. "But first I want to touch you. I want to see it before you put it inside me." The stranger that spoke from inside her was neither Jazz nor Jasmine, but some cold, indifferent creature she didn't recognize.

The grunt was porcine, followed by a chuckle. He reached up and pulled the bandana from her eyes, and slowly lowered the tab of his zipper, moving his hips closer to her face. The knife dangled from his other hand, flashing in the lamplight.

"Why don't you give it a kiss, baby?" he smirked, reaching down to free himself from his jeans. He caressed her cheek, his grimy fingers making her shudder inside. "You have such pretty eyes. Look up at me while you do it."

She forced a smile, and it felt as though her face would crack. Without taking her eyes from his, she slid her hand underneath his scrotum, and curled her fingers around it. With every ounce of strength she possessed, she squeezed, crushing his testicles, feeling something burst underneath the skin, and he bellowed in agony as he dropped to his knees. There was only a split second, and she had no time even to pray as her hand shot toward the knife.

As her fingers closed around the blade, she felt it slice into the flesh between her knuckles, but she held on tightly, bringing it up and onto the bed. The blood made the handle slippery, but she cut through the cord binding her other wrist and then bent toward her numb ankles, slicing through the bandannas and freeing her legs. Pulling the sheet with her, she staggered off the bed to run for safety.

A retching sound made her turn toward him, and as he clutched his mangled crotch, he vomited onto the rug, coughing and choking. She stopped, realizing she couldn't feel her body, her skin had turned to air, to ashes, and none of this was real, it was all just a nightmare, so it wouldn't matter if she brought the knife down, the blade whispering through the air like some deadly fang...

It stopped in its descent, and she stared in confusion at the hand that held her stinging wrist.

"Jazz!" a voice cried, and she looked up into green eyes and fell forward into his arms.