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 9

He had duct tape over his eyes and over his mouth, making it difficult to breathe. They had him in a little stuffy room that smelled of grain or hay - he wasn't quite sure which; he just knew it smelled like one of his barns at home. His wrists were taped to the arms of a chair, his ankles to the chair legs, although he had been testing the strength of those bonds for the last little bit, managing to get his right ankle a bit looser. If he rocked his whole body, the chair would move, but it made more noise than he thought was safe, so he had only tried that once.

He had no idea how much time had elapsed since the chaotic events of the morning. It could be afternoon; it could be a whole other day. He wasn't sure. Two vans had crowded the limo off the road. His driver had rolled down the window and shouted at them, but four big men in ski masks had yanked open the driver's door and promptly knocked the man out with a sap, at which point he knew he was in trouble.

He had no weapon of any kind, but he did have a pen and his script on his lap. And, luckily, he thought he recognized the voice of the man who seemed to be the leader. While they were ordering him to unlock the passenger compartment doors, he quickly scrawled something on the script cover, hoping they wouldn't notice it. He didn't get to finish before he was dragged out of the back seat by two of the men. He did not go quietly, and in the ensuing melee as he was removed by main force, he managed to leave the script behind on the floor of the limo. A sharp sting in his shoulder had brought sudden darkness and an end to his resistance.
 

His stomach roiled uncomfortably and he fought it. With his mouth taped, vomiting would be not only difficult but possibly fatal. The thought of strangling on it was distinctly unpleasant. He hunched over, trying to take deep breaths until the nausea passed. The deep breathing helped and he sat up, leaning his head back against the chair. Damn, what a bollocks of a situation to be in! Lynn would be frantic.

A door opened and someone came over to him, then fingers touched his face and the tape over his mouth was roughly pulled off, taking beard and skin with it. "Fuck," he protested hoarsely, and received a back-handed blow across his face for his trouble.

"Keep yer mouth shut unless we tell ya to talk, got it?"

He nodded, coldly furious, knowing it wouldn't do him any good if they knocked him around because he couldn't resist telling them what he thought of them. He was loosed from the chair, dragged to his feet, and kicked into another room. This one smelled of horses, and he tried to listen and see if he could hear any familiar sounds, anything that might be a hint of where he was. Before he could do that, however, a phone was shoved up against his face and he was told what to say.

He had to speak to Lynn - God, she sounded upset! It just about killed him to only say what he was told to say, then he was dragged back to the other room, shoved into the chair, and re-taped. When his captor went to apply tape to his mouth again, he took a chance and whispered, "Mate, please don't do that."

The guy stopped. "Why shouldn't I?"

It was that voice he thought he recognized. It took all his mental discipline not to blurt out the name. Instead he said, "That stuff you gave me made me sick. If you tape me again, and I have to throw up - "

There was a grunt of understanding, and - miracle of miracles! - his mouth was left uncovered. "Thanks, mate," he murmured. He got a whack on the side of the head that left his brain reeling. What a bloody bugger of a day. The door shut and he was alone again. After a while, he began testing the strength of the tape on his wrists and ankles.

*****************************
It had been hours. His legs were a mass of pins and needles from sitting without being able to move more than fractions of an inch. He was hungry, thirsty and, dammit, he had to piss like a race horse. He tried yelling, figuring at least he would get somebody's attention long enough to maybe get taken to a bathroom before they knocked him silly for making noise. "Hey, gimme a break, would ya? I need to take a leak!"

The door banged open and a different voice barked, "Shut the fuck up! I should just let you piss yourself, you prick." But the tape was taken off his arms and ankles and he was yanked to his feet, shoved forward on tingling legs that didn't want to work right, and taken to yet another room that he supposed was the loo. "There, now take yer fuckin' leak and be damned to ya."

His wrists were taped together and he was in the buckskin trousers that buttoned, impossible to undo as he was. "Mate, if you'd undo my hands, I could do this," he explained, about to burst.

Instead, to his surprise and dismay, his captor undid the buttons, took matters into his own hands and ordered him, "Do it! Do it now or I'll just let ya piss yerself back in that chair."

He wanted to kill the bastard, but his bladder had other ideas and once he got started nothing short of death was going to stop him, so he exerted what mental control he could, blanked out everything but the relief, and did as he was ordered. Bugger it, the asshole even shook it when he was finished, then stuffed him back into his trousers, buttoned them up and commented, "This yer costume? Bloody stupid, if ya ask me."

"I didn't," he couldn't resist retorting, and immediately regretted it as he was punched several times, most notably in the groin. He doubled up, retching while the guy and one of his pals dragged him back to the chair, slammed him down in it, and taped his arms and ankles so tightly he couldn't move an inch. When he had enough breath, he asked - as politely as he could, given that he wanted to kill - "May I have some water, please?"

"No, you get nothing." They left, shut the door, and he was alone again.

He managed to wipe his face on his shirt by bending forward and twisting against his upper arm. The tape over his eyes came loose, sticking to the linen shirt, and he was able to see a tiny bit of light in the lower right corner, but nothing further. He concentrated on that - trying to loosen the blindfold on the other side, trying to loosen the tape on his wrists, wishing for anything, even a bent paperclip, that he could use as a weapon. He really wished he could have had a drink of water.

*********************************
He had been dozing without realizing it. He woke with a start, his body aching from being forced into the same position without moving for so long. His feet seemed to be numb and his hands weren't much better, though he had managed to stretch the tape bindings a small amount. His mouth was swollen from a punch he had taken in the bathroom earlier, and he was so thirsty he would have given just about anything for a sip of water. As he was assessing his physical state, the door crashed open, startling him.

They repeated the untaping routine, having to drag him into the other room because his legs wouldn't hold him up because they had been taped so tightly. The phone was shoved against his face and the familiar voice ordered, "Say hello to your wife - tell her you're all right."

"Lynn?" All he could manage was a croak, his throat was so dry. He coughed and tried again, "Lynn? It's me."

"Russell!" God, she sounded frantic. He fought anger and dismay, wanting to soothe her somehow.

The holder of the phone barked, "Tell her again - tell her you're fine and to pay the money."

"Lynnie - Lynn - I'm fine. He says 'pay the money.' Lynn?" She was babbling - crying into the phone. He didn't think they were going to let him talk much longer, so he took a chance, "Lynn, sometimes things don't go according to the script, y'know?" That got him nowhere because the phone was pulled away from his face and somebody else began hitting him, cursing at him for ad-libbing. He could hear the first guy talking to Lynn as they dragged him away.

"Hear that, lady? That's your sweet husband getting the shit kicked out of him for not being a good boy. Now pay the money or we're going to start sending him back to you a piece at a time."

He could hear Lynn screaming into the phone, then he was propelled forward onto the floor of the room with the chair. He knew that because he crashed into the chair on his way to the cement floor. He landed awkwardly, pain flaring in his left shoulder, but as he rolled onto his back, still fighting them, a blow to his head sent him plunging into darkness.

*******************
He came to sometime later, grateful at least that he wasn't fastened to the fucking chair. He rolled onto his back, aching all over, and wondered dully what time it was. He could see nothing, even through the little pried-up area of the tape over his eyes, so he figured it must be night. He twisted so he could reach the blind fold and worked it loose with fingers that didn't want to cooperate. His wrists were taped together and his fingers were cold, but he managed to get a bit more of the tape loose, only to realize it was dark as pitch in the room. He stopped at that, reasoning that if his captors came to get him for something and saw that he had the tape pried off his eyes, it would probably only get him a further beating and more tape. He decided to take advantage of being on the floor instead of bound to the chair, and began crawling around the room, feeling his way, checking for anything he could use to his advantage.

He bumped into the corner fairly quickly. All right, the room was small, no more than four or five feet along one wall. He crawled along the second wall, quickly coming to the end of that. Okay. It was roughly the same distance, so he now knew he was in a kind of closet or storage room, maybe five feet square, and the only thing in it besides himself was the chair, now tipped on its side from when he had crashed into it earlier. Then his knee crunched over something sharp on the floor. He cursed under his breath, moved carefully back off the object and felt around with his hands until he touched it.

"Ouch, damn it!" he muttered. It was a piece of glass. From the feel of it, it was a piece of flat glass like from a picture frame or a window pane, about two inches wide on one end, maybe five inches long, narrowing almost to a point on the other end. And it was sharp. He cut his fingers measuring it. Sharp. And it was a weapon. Now for a chance to use it without getting himself into further trouble.

He didn't like the idea that he was being held for money, but worse than that, he didn't much care for the idea of that "we'll send him back to you in pieces" shit either. He was not going to give up without a fight. He crawled back to the corner, stashed his piece of glass behind him on the floor where he could reach it, and concentrated on keeping his mind alert and his limbs mobile.

"Lynn," he thought, "if I get out of this - when I get out of this - I'm never leaving the farm or you again." Now, let them come in and try knocking him around again - he had a bit of a surprise for them.

They wanted ten million dollars for Russell's safe return.

The amount staggered me, although the nice man from Scotland Yard said it was actually less than they had expected it to be. "Really?" I asked, still unable to take it all in. It was almost 36 hours since Russell had gone missing, and I had hardly slept at all. They had made me lie down, but I bounced up again at the first opportunity, just too scared and agitated to sleep more than an hour or so at a time.

"You're going to do harm to yourself or the baby," Kate told me, her words echoed by Dan Burton and a female Scotland Yard officer. I humored them by lying down on the sofa in the hotel suite, but every time I closed my eyes, they would snap open again as I worried about Russell, wondered what he was going through, and obsessed about getting him back safely.

The lead detective on the case, a kidnap for ransom specialist named Michael Harding, had taken control of everything as soon as the first demand for money came through. He was the one who clamped a lid on press coverage so that, aside from that initial blurb on BBC radio about someone from the "Botany Bay" shoot being kidnapped, nothing whatsoever had leaked. Furthermore, when reporters tried to follow up on that initial story, they were told it was false, that the set was closed for filming some difficult scenes. Nobody was allowed onto the Pinewood grounds without going through a gauntlet of security checks.

Michael, as he had asked us to call him, reminded me a lot of a character Russell had played in a film some years back, except he wasn't as imposing physically as Russell had been playing Terry Thorne. "It's kind of ironic, isn't it, Mrs. Crowe?" he had said when we were first introduced. "I mean, your husband was pretty convincing in that movie, and here he is needing that guy to come get him out."

"If only," I had said, then apologized, thinking that might be taken as an insult when it hadn't been intended as such.

He had laughed and brushed it off, quickly establishing control over everything, and making me feel quite a bit more calm, although I still wanted to just run through the streets, screaming Russell's name until he answered.

The phone rang. I tensed up, waited until Michael and his technician manning the recorders gestured for me to answer it, and then I picked it up. "Hello?"

It was a mechanical voice. They told me that the caller was obviously using a kind of electronic device that distorted the normal human voice until it sounded like a robot. Whatever it was, it was eerie and gave me a shiver every time I heard it. "Mrs. Crowe - do you have my ten million?"

"Yes," I answered, as instructed. "Tell me where to meet you."

"Not so fast lady. First I want to warn you again - no funny stuff. I want you and you alone to bring the money in an unmarked van, park it where I tell you, then get out and walk away from it, leaving the keys on the seat. I want you to call a number I will give you, tell me you've complied with my instructions, and I will then tell you where to find your husband."

"I understand that. But what guarantee to I have that you'll do as you say and release him unharmed?"

A harsh laugh, then, "Mrs. Crowe, let me get something straight with you: we have your husband. He's not the nicest of gents when he's unhappy, so we're not best pleased about this going on any longer than necessary. My advice to you is to cut the shit, pay us, and you'll get him back in one piece. Alive. If you don't cooperate, things will get - unpleasant."

"I'll cooperate!" I said quickly, ignoring a frown from Michael. "But I want to speak to my husband now or there's no deal."

Sounds of conversation in the background, scraping noises, then a voice I barely recognized said, "Lynnie?"

"Oh, Russell. . ." I started crying into the phone, thoroughly peeved that I couldn't control my emotions, although I don't know how I expected to given the situation and my lack of rest. "Are you okay?"

"I'll make it," he rasped. "I'm worried about you, Lynn."

"Don't be, I'm fine. Really. I'm going to get you out of there, I promise."

Dry chuckles that I recognized, then he whispered, "Just follow the script, Lynn, and remember that I love you."

The metallic voice came back, "All right Mrs. Crowe, no more delaying tactics. I'll call you in two hours with the instructions for delivering the money." And they hung up.

I sank back in my chair, shaking. Michael was giving me the thumbs up signal, while the technician was shaking his head, indicating that once again, he hadn't been able trace the source of the call beyond that it was from a cellular phone somewhere in the vicinity of Heathrow Airport. "A large area," Michael said unnecessarily.

I closed my eyes, replaying the conversation in my head. A bell was going off, there was something that I was missing, something Russell had said both times I had spoken to him that didn't quite make sense. I sat up suddenly. "Michael, remember you told me Russell's script was found on the floor of the limousine?"

"Yeah, we've got it. But it's just a script - pages in a cardboard cover. We've looked it over from front to back and there's nothing more to it."

"Well, both times I've spoken to him he's mentioned that word, 'script'. It's not something he would normally say to me, 'follow the script'." He was still looking dubious, but humoring me. "And the first time, he said 'things don't always go according to the script'. Doesn't that strike you as odd?"

He closed his eyes, rubbing his face with his knuckles. "All right, let's say he's trying to get a message across to you. What do you think it could be?"

"Well, that's not exactly my job, is it?" I asked sarcastically. When he just looked at me, I apologized and went on, "Well, I'm not sure. Could I see the script he left in the car?"

"Sure," he gestured at the technician, who called someone on their private phone and the script was shortly brought to us. It was in a plastic zip lock bag, but Michael took it out and handed it to me. "It's already been fingerprinted - just your husband's prints are on it."

I looked at the cardboard cover. It was creased and bent from endless opening and closing, and there were notes written on it in several places - Russell's initials - directions to a restaurant we had liked - nothing really stood out. I sighed. I had been so sure something would leap out at me that the others had missed because they didn't know Russell like I did. "Damn it."

I flopped it onto the table upside down and noticed something on the back cover that I had missed - a streak of Sharpie marker and some letters. I pulled it closer and studied it. "This is odd," I said.

Michael came around to where I was sitting and looked over my shoulder. "Show me," he said.

I pointed, "See - right here by this streak of ink? That's from a Sharpie - celebrities use those to sign autographs and photos because they're permanent ink and they won't smear or fade. Russell always has at least one of those with him because he gets asked to sign stuff all the time."

"All right, so it's from a Sharpie, what makes you think that's really important?"

"Well," I said, pointing at the letters, if that's what they were - they were distorted, like he'd scrawled them in a hurry, "it's green. He just bought the green one the other day, the night before they took him, in fact. So that has to be new writing."

Michael uttered what I can only call a triumphant laugh and got a magnifying glass so we could see the scrawl more clearly. "I see some numbers and letters," I said. He agreed. "Could it be a license plate?"
"I don't know," Michael finally admitted, "if it is, it's not like anything I've seen. I mean, I don't know of any kind of tag that starts with the letters 'I-R-T-R'. That sounds more like he was writing initials or a name."

"Say that again!" I demanded, wondering if I was right.

"What? I-R-T-R?" I know he thought I was crazy.

"Ira Trenary!" I said. I stood up and grabbed him by both arms, shaking him, "Ira Trenary!"

"Fine. Who is that?"

Of course, he wouldn't know. "He used to work for Russell. He got fired for some things he did that Russell didn't like, oh, several years ago. I thought he was in Australia, but last year when I tried to find him to talk to him, nobody knew where he'd gone to." I left out the part about Russell pretending to be Ira, it would only have muddied the waters.

"So you think this guy held a grudge?"

"I know Russell didn't recommend him, in fact, he probably told a lot of people in the business that Ira wasn't trustworthy, and that's not what a prospective employer would want to hear when they're interviewing a security specialist."

"Okay, I'll grant you that." He turned to the techie and told him to look for anyone in the local directories named Trenary, Ira Trenary in particular, but anyone with that surname for starters. "So what do you think these other letters and numbers are?" he asked me.

I studied Russell's scribble. He'd obviously been very hurried - probably nervous or angry - all of which made his writing difficult to read. I spelled out, "V-N" and the numbers 1256629. "Is that a phone number?"

"Check it," Michael told the techie. "Okay, let's see what we can come up with."

An hour went by. I was lying on the couch, a cool compress folded across my eyes and forehead, trying not to get too excited. Half a dozen agents had been in and out of the room since we had first looked at the script and I thought I would go crazy with the tension of waiting. Michael was pacing back and forth, obviously excited, talking a mile a minute into his phone. He snapped it shut and grinned at me.

"Well?"

"Ira Trenary has been in the country for about six months now. He's a security guard at Oldham Race Course."

"Let's go find him then!" I got up, ready to run out the door.

He sat me back down, "Now, Lynn - Mrs. Crowe - you are not going anywhere. Just sit and listen. Oldham Race Course is closed, abandoned. The phone number 125-6629 is the number of the security firm that provides guards for it. It's painted on the side of every one of their vans. I think we've got our first real clue here."

I beamed at him, feeling like a Bond Girl or something. "What's next?" I asked. "Do I deliver the money?"

"Let's wait and see. Suppose you lie back down before you fall down, and let us do our work."

Reluctantly, I followed orders. Kate, who had been following the whole thing with excitement almost as great as mine, sat curled up in a chair by the couch. We talked in whispers, making grandiose rescue plans while the detectives worked. Another half hour crawled by, then Michael called me over.

"Okay, here's what's going to happen. We've got a plain, unmarked panel van - which is what they specified - and you're going to drive it to wherever they tell you and leave it, with the keys and the money sacks in it."

"So, I'm going to follow their plan? What are you going to be doing?"

"I think it's best that you don't know. That way, if they grill you, you don't know anything that can mess up the operation."

"Grill me!?!" It hadn't occurred to me that anything like that could happen. But then, it hadn't occurred to me that anything like this whole situation could happen, either. "Okay, I understand." We waited. The phone rang right on time.

"Okay, Mrs. Crowe. I want you to drive the van to a location I'm going to give you in a minute, park it in the first row on the left as you go into the car park, get out of it and leave the keys in it. The money is to be in the back, in plain canvas bags, unmarked. You are to take your cell phone with you and when you walk away from the van, I want you to call 541-7310. I'll answer. You are to tell me you've complied with my instructions, at which point we will check the van. If the money is there and everything is as it should be, I'll call you right back and tell you where to pick up your husband. Agreed?"

"Yes, I agree." He gave me the address and directions. He told me I had one hour to get there and not to be late or the whole deal was off.

"Oh, God…" I was so keyed up I wanted to explode. I washed my face, took a few deep breaths and went out to begin my adventure in K&R. Terry Thorne, I thought, where are you when I need you?

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