This story is for readers over the age of 18 only, and contains explicit sexual situations and adult language. The writer is not responsible for any "discomfort" caused to the reader by this language and these situations.

©2001 by WILDBEARIES

 

 

Future Perfect - Section 10

Something was up. He could tell from the amount of activity going on outside the little room where they kept him. He sat in the back corner, the long sliver of glass near to hand in case he needed it or could find a use for it, thanking his lucky stars they hadn't noticed it any of the times they had come into the room after him. He sighed, trying to concentrate on anything but how hungry and thirsty he was. For some reason, they had decided not to feed him or give him water - probably because Ira hadn't planned that far ahead, he thought in disgust. The bastard was useless, not even bothering to disguise his voice.

Damn, he was thirsty! He rubbed his face, telling himself not to think about it, but he kept thinking about a clear, cool mountain stream or the lake on his farm at home. Hell, even the ocean was starting to sound delicious! He laughed softly at himself. What he really wanted was a slab of Victoria Bitter, nicely chilled, the moisture just beading up on the outside of the green bottles. Stop it right now! He leaned his head back against the cement block wall.

That was odd. He turned around and felt of the wall. The block had moved when his head touched it. He ran his fingertips along the seam between the blocks, probing, and found that the whole block was loose. He could probably just push it right through into the other room. He wondered how much noise that would make. He also wondered if any other blocks were loose, and set about finding out.

He had the tape loosened enough that he could see pretty well, only flattening it back over his eyes when he heard them coming toward the room. As kidnappers went, this group was singularly inept. He imagined he was their first victim, and judging from the "expertise" of their leader - Ira the Idiot, as he had christened him - they weren't destined for great success at it. He found four more loose blocks, all in the same area. The mortar had apparently dried out long ago and nobody had ever noticed. Five blocks left a big enough opening that he could get through. Of course, he could be going through into another room just like this one, also with a lock on it. That would not be good. On the other hand, it could lead outside, which would be infinitely better than sitting in this room waiting for God knows what to happen.

"Unless they have someone outside," he muttered to himself. If they did, that bloke was probably as incompetent as the rest of them. He decided to wait until things quieted down, which he had noticed they did whenever the group ate. They would leave the building and go somewhere else. It was so quiet then, he was sure they didn't leave anyone behind to watch him, trusting that the locked door was enough to keep him in place. Maybe he'd give them a surprise on that subject.

Waiting was not his strong suit. He sat with his knees drawn up, arms resting on them, forehead on his fists, thinking. He pictured himself shoving the blocks out, crawling through into a cool, dark London night, and sprinting to safety. Maybe if he pictured that enough times, it would actually happen. He tried not to think about Lynn - that only made him crazy and crazy was not going to get him anyplace in this particular situation.

Eventually, after a flurry of activity, someone checked the lock on his door, rattled the latch a few times, then apparently decided it was secure. He heard them all troop outside, car engines starting, then nothing. He counted to one hundred twice, listening intently. Nothing. Okay, in for a penny in for a pound, he shoved on the loose blocks, stopping to rip the fucking tape off completely first.

The first block was relatively easy, and he mentally crossed his fingers as he gave it what would be the final push to get it out. Fresh air flowed in, tinged with the distant scent of horses, exhaust fumes and a damp English night. "All right!" he exulted, his voice all but gone from lack of moisture. He hoped there was a water tap outside, he was going to stick his whole face under it and just let it run over him and into his mouth - thump! A second block came loose and followed the first one onto the ground outside.

He listened carefully. There was no alarm, no footsteps of a curious guard, no nothing in fact except the distant sounds of traffic on a road, and some noise that he recognized as airplanes taking off. Heathrow, maybe. He wasn't sure, they could have been anywhere, he only knew it was near London because they had a television set tuned to the local news every hour and he recognized the London station. It was odd, he hadn't heard a mention of his kidnapping either, come to think of it. Maybe Scotland Yard had put the kibosh on press coverage.

He shoved the third and fourth blocks through with a bit more struggle, but he had enough room now to get out if he wiggled just right. Should he try to shove another one out or just run for it now? He opted for now and fast. He slid the piece of glass into his pocket in case he needed it and wriggled through the opening in the wall.

He was out! He looked up at a starry sky, grinning, and took several breaths of air that wasn't thick with horse feed dust and hay pollen. Ambrosia! Now to find some water before he dried up and blew away. That didn't take long, there were taps all along the outside wall. He saw now that he was in a large stable area with rows of stalls, wide dirt walkways, and open shed walls on one side. Some kind of horse track, maybe? At any rate, the faucets worked and he soon was able to drink his fill of water out of his cupped hands. Damn, if water tasted this good, a bottle of chilled VB was going to be damn near orgasmic!

He turned off the water and stood up, trying to get his bearings. He walked stealthily, keeping in the shadows. He went around the building he had just exited and found himself in a gravel car park area. Just his luck there were no cars sitting conveniently unlocked, keys in the ignition. He sighed and kept walking, keeping to the shadows, headed down the road out of the parking area that seemed to be an exit. After a short walk, he came to a faded billboard that read "Oldham Racecourse" with a large red-lettered notice tacked up over it that said the track was closed indefinitely. That explained the lack of current equine occupants, although he wouldn't have minded riding a horse, it was preferable to walking when one was hungry and tired.

Car headlights coming down the road! He flung himself off to one side, into a ditch, rolling in the dirt. They went on past. Apparently this was a service road that had access to other areas than just the race course. He waited for his breathing to return to normal, climbed to his feet and stopped dead, listening.

There it came again. Decidedly horse and decidedly nearby. He whistled softly and was rewarded by a low nicker and the sound of hooves on soft earth. "Here boy," he tried, and was almost knocked flat by a large muzzle shoving into his chest. "Whoa, hello there, mate, where'd you come from?" He felt along the soft, warm muzzle until he found the leather straps of a halter. "Shhh now, you're all right, I won't hurt you, I like horses." He bent and yanked up some grass, offering it. Delicate equine lips on his palm, then the grass was snatched up and chomped by the large equine teeth. He chuckled and stroked the muscular neck, working his way back along the body of the animal, hoping it wasn't some demon horse that nobody could handle and they had thus abandoned it here when the track closed.

The horse seemed to be in prime condition, with a silky coat and nice manner. Okay, somebody's pet then, or maybe a security guard rode it, who knows. For tonight, for now, it was his horse. He wished he had a bridle, then remembered a length of rope lying over the wall of the shed row. He went back for it, leading the horse by the halter. It followed nicely, obviously well-trained. He knotted the rope into the halter under the horse's chin, then climbed on, his bruises and scrapes protesting. Ignoring that, he walked the horse back along the exit road, then sped up to a trot once he was out onto the grassy berm of the access road. He wasn't sure where he was going, but he was going, and that was the best news he'd had in hours, days maybe. The wind was cool in his hair, and he laughed, exulting in his freedom after being cooped up in the little dark room.

Now, to find a policeman or a phone booth - that was his first priority, after making sure nobody was following him. He pulled up and listened. Nothing. "Let's go, mate," he urged the horse, and cantered off down the one lane road towards the lights of the city.

He was so tired. He slowed the horse to a walk after half an hour or so. He wasn't sure exactly where he was; it was some suburb of London with little dark streets and very few signs. The horse's hooves clip-clopped along. He rode on grass when it was there, on pavement the rest of the time, staying on by force of will. Finally, rather than fall off, he slid down and tried to get his bearings.

The brightest lights seemed to be ahead and to his left. He imagined that was the city center, and he knew his best chance of finding someone to put him in touch with Lynn and anyone in authority would be to head toward that more crowded area. He just wasn't sure how long he could ride the horse, nor that he wouldn't get stopped for riding it in the city itself. This brought self-derisive laughter after he thought about it - after all, wasn't a policeman exactly the person who could help him? He stopped leading the horse, remounted, and continued toward the lights.

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

Lynn drove the van full of money sacks to the destination the kidnappers had given her. She parked it, got out, leaving the keys as they'd instructed her, then walked out of the parking area, calling them on her cellphone.

"Mrs. Crowe, right on time," the metallic voice answered. "Is our money there?"

"It's right where you told me to leave it, in the parking area. The keys are in the van."

"Good. Now I just have to go and check it, and I'll call you to let you know where to find your husband." He disconnected before Lynn could say another word, leaving her fuming.

Michael and some other Scotland Yard detectives drove up once they heard her phone click off. She was, of course, wearing a tiny microphone and transmitter and had never been far out of their sight throughout the whole drive and phone call. "Best to wait," he advised her. He offered her coffee from a thermos. She accepted it gratefully, almost exhausted, and sat on the bumper of the detectives' car, sipping it and warming her hands on the cup. "I can't stand much more of this," she told Michael.

"Not long now, we have the race course staked out. Any minute now my men will be searching the barns and I'm sure, if he's there, we'll find him."

Lynn's phone shrilled a few minutes later and she dropped the coffee cup onto the pavement, splashing the dregs on her feet. Heedless of that, she answered, "Yes?"

"You did very well, Mrs. Crowe. The money all seems to be there - there's quite a lot of it, isn't there? I never realized how many sacks ten million dollars in thousands and hundreds would fill."

"I'm sure you'll spend it wisely," she said, trying to curb her sarcasm. "Where is my husband?"

"Oldham Racecourse, Barn Seven, try the feed rooms. They're all locked, and I'm afraid we quite forgot to feed him or give him water, so you may want to pack a picnic. Thank you for the money, Mrs. Crowe, and have a nice day." He clicked off and Lynn flung the phone as far as she could, wishing she could hit the man right in his face with it. She looked up into Michael's sympathetic face, and grinned. "Oldham Racecourse, just like we thought," she said.

"Come on, let me tell my people where to look." She got in the car and they sped off in the direction of Heathrow Airport and a deserted - almost - race track. She wished they could go faster, but there were speed limits to observe and traffic signals. Even though it only took ten minutes, and even though Michael was talking by phone and radio to his officers the whole time, it seemed like an eternity until they drove in the gates of the track, past the billboard with the "closed" sign on it, and pulled up in the midst of a large group of both official and unmarked cars. Lynn flung the door open and jumped out, running up to the group of men wearing windbreakers marked "Scotland Yard" across the back.

"Where is he? Did you find Barn Seven yet?"

The man who seemed to be Michael's next in command looked over her shoulder, exchanging glances with his superior. Lynn stopped, her heart beating very hard. "No," she said, "don't tell me. . ."

"Mrs. Crowe, Mrs. Crowe," the officer apologized, chagrined, "It's not that. We just can't find anybody. Barn Seven is completely empty. We've opened up every feed room, tack room and stall in this whole bloody - excuse me! - in this whole damned place and there's nobody here. We found signs that people had been here, and there's blood on the floor in one of the rooms, but no sign of your husband."

Lynn wanted to smack the man, but realized she was overtired, overwrought, and, as they would have said in her native Indiana, slap wore out. "It's all right," she reassured him, "I'm sorry. I jumped to conclusions." She looked at Michael, "Now what?"

"We look at the feed rooms. I want to see what's what." He let her accompany him. Actually, he'd have had to cuff her in the car to keep her from it. They walked down the shed row of Barn Seven, looking into each tack room, feed storage room and stall. In the last feed room they found the spots of blood on the floor. Lynn crouched and touched the stains with shaking fingers. "Russell?" she whispered. But there was no way to tell if it was even human blood, or how old it was.

There were scrape marks on the floor and an overturned chair with bits of duct tape stuck on arms and legs. Michael examined it, his eyes following the scuffs on the floor. "Bloody hell," he exclaimed, "Didn't anyone notice the blocks out of the wall back here?" He was pointing into the back corner of the room, which was in the shadows and not easily seen from the doorway. Lynn ran over and stuck her head out before Michael even got there. "Mrs. Crowe, we talked about this," he chided her.

She pulled her head back in and got out of his way. "Yes, I'm sorry," she apologized. She stepped back and let the professionals work. She wandered outside and stood watching the sun color the eastern sky pink. It would be dawn soon. She couldn't remember when she had slept last, although she had eaten and had water. Russell had not. She wanted to kill Ira Trenary, if for nothing else, for that one unnecessary cruelty. The wind ruffled her hair and she shivered a little, zipping her running suit jacket against the chill.

Michael came charging out the front of the barn, grinning. "Lynn - Mrs. Crowe - there's been a development. Come with me." He rushed her over to his car, and, without waiting for his driver, got behind the wheel and sped out of the carpark and down the access road towards the city. Several other cars followed. "What's happened?" she demanded. "Tell me or I'm going to go crazy! You don't want a pregnant woman to go crazy in your car, do you?"

He laughed at her, "Mrs. Crowe, you wouldn't believe it, so you're just going to have to trust me. Oh, and they've rounded up Ira Trenary and his little band of inept kidnappers."

"Already?"

"Well, you know there was just enough gas in that van for them to get the engine started, but not enough to go anywhere. Once the dye packs in the money bags went off and the van filled with some pretty nasty fumes, they had to get out. Our men were right there and bundled them up, nice as you please."

Lynn laughed, delighted, picturing the bad guys covered in red dye, bumping into each other, out of gas and surrounded by police. "I hope he's very unhappy," she commented.

"Oh, not as unhappy as he's going to be, I can assure you." Michael looked ahead, his grin widening. He gestured out the front of the car. "There's a sight you don't see very often nowadays."

Lynn looked. "What, a horse in the middle of town?" She supposed that was true, unless you were watching the ceremonies at Buckingham Palace or something. She rubbed her eyes. There was something about the way the rider sat the horse. "Oh, my God," she said in disbelief. "Stop the car, stop it right now!" Michael held her in her seat until they were right by the horse, a big bay wearing only a halter with a rope knotted in it. He stopped the car. "Now you can go," he told her, but she was already out of the car and running.

There was a small group of photographers and news people - they had no doubt been listening to the police band and heard the call from a stunned policeman that there was a man riding a horse right up the road, bold as you please, no saddle or bridle. Furthermore, he was wearing the very dirty clothing of a man of the mid-1800's, and, under the accumulated dirt, dried blood and other un-named substances was the face of a very famous actor. Cameras were going off all around Lynn as she ran, but she could have cared less. "Russell!" she shouted, and grabbed hold of his leg, feeling him flinch. "Get down this instant so I can kiss you."

He looked down at her, infinitely weary, tired and dirty, bloodied and bruised, but his grin was intact. "Lynnie," he rasped in the remnants of the honeyed voice she loved, "I was just coming to find you." At which point, he closed his eyes and slid off the horse, landing in a heap on the grass at her feet. Later that day, photographs of her crouching over her husband, who had escaped from kidnappers and fled through the streets of suburban London on horseback, were on news broadcasts, in newspapers, magazines and tabloids all over the world. But for now, all Lynn cared about was Russell.

His lashes fluttered and he managed to open his eyes a bit, "I'm just so fuckin' tired," he murmured, but he did manage to return her kisses, and when an ambulance came to take him to a hospital to be checked, he held onto her hand and refused to go unless she rode right in the back with him. "No way, mates," he choked out, his voice a little restored from a very welcome drink of water. "I belong to this lady, I'm not going without her."