A Long Way From Home

Chapter 4: In which the three strands become a braid

Moving Van: South Elmwood Avenue, New York—Thursday, 2:00 am


When Layla woke up, she found herself surrounded in burlap again. Her captor hadn’t been too pleased with what had gone down that afternoon. By the time she’d calmed herself, he’d come back, a fire in his eyes and the grill lid in his hand. The next thing she knew, she was duct-taped to a chair as the man stood above her, some kind of drink in his hand. He pinched her nose shut, and when her mouth flew open to breathe, he forced her to drink the concoction. And now…she sat up suddenly, only to fall again as the ground beneath her jumped. Was she high? She paused, listening to the familiar growl of a car engine.


Her wrists were duct-taped together behind her back, her ankles crossed and taped in an even more uncomfortable position. She tried to shift a bit, to understand exactly where she was. The engine finally shut down and she heard a door open. Strong hands gripped her arms and hoisted her out of the vehicle.


“So I’ll pick her up across the border, then, right?” She heard her captor say. There was a grunt as the arms that held her shifted. She struggled to break free, screaming against her tape silencer, only to hear a low gruff chuckle.


Her captor joined in, but only half-heartedly. “Be careful. She chops things.” The chuckle stopped, and an enormous head leaned close to her shoulder.


“I chop things, too. So make it easy for me and I’ll make it easy for you. I don’t like hitting girls, but if you resist, I won’t have a choice. Understand?” Layla stopped struggling. She had to get out of here. But how? If only she had some way of contacting her parents…


Suddenly, she thought back to the cell-phone stuffed in her bra. She’d just have to get her hands free and she could call for help! She tried to be as cooperative as possible for the next few minutes, despite the fact that her heart was beating out of her chest.


She was tossed into yet another vehicle: one that rocked back and forth. A boat? As soon as the engine started, she began working away at the duct-tape, but it was impossible to rip. It kept bending and twisting. Finally, in a desperate attempt, she tried using a different tactic.


Her hands were taped together, wrists crossed, with the palms of her hands facing outwards. She bent her fingers so they reached the edge of the tape and began stroking quickly at the edge, trying to get it to move down her wrist. Slowly, slowly, slowly she began to make progress. The hairs on her arm stung from the ripping tape, but Layla just gritted her teeth from behind duct-taped lips and kept going. Finally, it was loose enough that she could wiggle her wrists a bit. Finally, she was out. A hand shot down her bra and pulled up the cell-phone: slightly moist, but still functional. She held the glowing display close to her chest , pulling it back only long enough to punch in the three numbers: 9, 1, 1. Hurriedly, she ripped the tape off her mouth and placed the phone by her ear.


There was a silence. Not even a dial tone. In panic, Layla glanced down at the phone. How could she have no bars? Suddenly, the burlap sack was thrown off her, a large, muscular figure blocking the sunlight.


Moving Van: Queen Elizabeth Way, Canada—Thursday, 2:40am


“Did you have any trouble?” Frank asked the man before him. Tattoos rippled on his thick neck as he laughed.


“Had a cell-phone, that kid. Honestly, what kind of kidnapper are you?” He shook his head. “I don’t know what you’ve got planned, but don’t be sloppy. You’ll end up in jail.” His eyes zoomed in on Frank’s missing finger. The novice kidnapper shoved the hand in question into his pocket, a bead of sweat dripping down his brow.


“What happened to the cell phone?” He asked nervously. The tattooed man shrugged.


“You can’t get reception once you’ve crossed the border. You’re lucky, though. Five minutes earlier and you would’ve been toast.” He held out a clear ziplock bag filled with circuitry.


“I’m takin’ the remains with me. It’ll be a good story for the boys.” There was a brief exchange of money and Frank was on his way, an unusually quiet sack of flesh in the back seat. He reached for one of his pills, then put it back. The plan was going perfectly.


They’d crossed the Canadian border, so now all he had to do was spend the next few days in a quieter suburb outside Toronto, then begin their journey west. He’d notify the next link in the chain and the girl would be on the next plane to Russia. And he’d be $40,000 richer. It was simple.


When they’d finally reached the small cottage he’d rented, Frank was exhausted. The journey had been tiring, but he had to take care of the chick first. He turned to look at the lump on the back seat. Suddenly, it occurred to him that he hadn’t heard a single noise in the hour since they’d passed Toronto. What had happened to her? He climbed over the seat at breakneck speed and threw the burlap sack off the girl. His forty thousand!


A fist flew out of nowhere, pounding against the bridge of his nose. Stunned senseless for a moment, Frank was helpless as he felt, rather than saw, the girl throw open the car door and begin running.


Lakeside Park: Clarington, Canada—Friday, 10:00am


It was a quiet, peaceful morning as Viktor drove down to the lake. When you had something important to think about, it was nice to just look at the water for a while. He smiled, thinking of how happy Clarice had been when he brought her here. It was one of the best dates they’d ever had: his special spot was far from the prying eyes of the paparazzi, and they’d had a carefree and relaxing picnic lunch.


To stay or go…that was the question. There was always the option of asking Clarice to go with him, but he knew she wouldn’t come. She had her own life here: she was currently studying to be a school teacher at the Village at York University and was holding down a couple part-time jobs as well. He couldn’t ask her to leave everything behind. Still, it was an option. And if there was anything Viktor had learned about his girlfriend, it was that she hated him making decisions about both of them sans her input.


He pulled into the parking lot and shifted the gear to park. Pulling a baseball-call cap over his eyes and slipping on his aviators, he stepped out into the frigid morning air, turning up the collar of his coat as he walked, a bag of goodies in one hand.


There, behind the bushes, was an edge of the lake completely his own. He smiled peacefully, popping open a can of beer. It had been a good 24 hours since Clarice had told him to stay, but the memory still made Viktor smile. Despite his fear of commitment, despite everything, she loved him. She really loved him.


He took a glug of beer and deep breath. “She loves me!” He called out to the lake before him. A smile of pure joy spread over his face. “She really loves me!” He leaned back against a tree, his mind clouding at the thought of what lay before him. He couldn’t go, but he couldn’t refuse the management, either. Was there some way to change their mind? What if he became even less popular than he was now? The very idea made Viktor laugh. Less popular? Was that even possible? He had the same sized fan-base as an Indie band, which tended to range from, what?, a couple people to a couple dozen people. He sighed, bringing the can to his lips. What the hell, might as well go for a swim to clear his mind.


Leaving his shirt behind with the beer, Viktor walked down to the edge of the lake, shivering in the cold air. His eyes followed the waves as they washed back and forth over the sand, betraying the contours of rocks, the occasional tire and…a body? He ran over to the sopping wet figure face-up in the water. The low waves only covered part of the face, leaving the nose and mouth exposed at all times. The face was bruised and broken, an enormous egg-shaped bump protruding from a mass of tangled brown hair. Everything from the jeans to the olive-green jacket was sopping wet, and puffy eyes betrayed hours of crying.


“Miss? Are you okay?” He asked, grabbing an arm. The girl cried out suddenly, but sunk back into unconsciousness. He gingerly rolled up a sleeve, revealing an enormous hand-shaped bruise. Before he knew what he was doing, he’d lifted the girl in his arms and was running back to the car, stopping only momentarily to grab his beer.