The Release

Spencer narrowed his eyes. “No, my creativity is limited. I want this to be challenging. I want to be surprised.”

The girl in the black leggings laughed. “I could pull out my gun and shoot you before you even knew I had moved a muscle,” she said with a smile. “Let’s remember something and be real clear about it. I’d much rather kill you and get on with my life.”

“Is that a threat?”

The girl dropped her voice down to a whisper. “A threat? Oh no, Spencer…it’s a promise.”

She even spoke in clichés and sound bites. Lucy watched wide-eyed.

Spencer was quick and he swung the rifle he had been holding a few minutes before off the table and into his hands—but the girl didn’t move and she didn’t reach for her gun, didn’t aim it at his head, and didn’t do anything. Instead, she took her right hand and lowered the gun to the floor.

“You want to keep her?” She asked.

“No. But you want her and that makes her worth more than my usual assortment of loot.”

“Your lack of imagination is hindering my ability to fully comprehend what you think I can get for you…”

He took a step forward, his breath, hot and reeking of alcohol. Lucy watched as he extended his hand and swiftly tucked a long lock of the girl’s hair behind her ear.

“I do have an active imagination after all,” he whispered. “I can think of a few things.”

The woman took a deep breath, but she remained frozen and unfazed by his closeness. “Don’t touch me ever again,” she whispered in a soothing voice. Then she leaned in, her lips a half an inch away from Spencer’s scruffy cheek. “Or I will blow your brains out.” She made the sound of a gun exploding.

Lucy rattled her handcuff against the table, a

“It doesn’t matter what you give this man because I’m not for sale,” Lucy interjected, but she sounded insecure and frightened. The woman turned her gaze downward and narrowed her eyes as if she was noticing this human for the first time. She looked disgusted at Lucy’s timidity.

“Do me a favor,” the woman said, turning her attention back to Spencer. “Give me another day. Same time. I think I have something that might interest you.”

She then bent down and examined Lucy, pulling on the handcuffs, patting her down for weapons. When she saw the gash on Lucy’s head, she shot Spencer a frustrated look.

“I need her compliant. And in good condition. Handcuffs, good, fine, whatever. Violence, bad. Are we clear?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Spencer pointed to the door. “Tomorrow. And I better not be disappointed.”

“That’s entirely up to you,” she replied. “But what I’m prepared to offer you is so rare it has no value. It might be the single most important item left on our Godforsaken earth. And you’ll take it. Eagerly. Then I get the girl in excellent condition. I mean…for the love Spencer…fix her a decent breakfast, share your deodorant.” Then she turned to Lucy, looked her up and down one last time. “Tomorrow.” She started to walk away.

Spencer followed her back out to the doors, his rifle raised again. He started to punch in the code to slide the metal locks apart.

“Who are you?” Lucy cried out after the stranger, her voice full of anguish and fear.

The girl spun. She paused as if debating whether or not she would answer. “I’m Darla,” she called and then disappeared back outside.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Six days after The Release

Lucy wasn’t able to sleep that night. Her mind kept spi

Her hand ached above her head and she could not find an ounce of comfort. Occasionally she dozed, but when her body pulled on the chain, she would jerk awake to the sound of metal rattling on metal. All through the night, her anger and pain increased, but Lucy didn’t cry. Five days ago, she wouldn’t have stopped crying, but she could not find it in herself to shed tears. Spencer watched her like a caged pet—balancing his interest with both fascination and indifference.

When Spencer attempted conversation with her, Lucy turned her face away from his and stared off at the beige office walls where pictures of former students had been taped up in equally numbered columns and rows. Tiny squares of smiling faces, painted and plucked, wearing brand new outfits, without a hair out of place. Lucy’s own senior photos were sitting at home, already distributed to her mother’s friends and distant relatives.

Spencer never wanted to talk about anything that made sense. Instead it seemed that he was excited just to hear himself talk to a human being at all, even if that person was his prisoner. He held court in front of her and recounted movie plots and stories of crazy students and he told her the details of teacher scandals—all of which might have interested her a few days ago, but not anymore.

After he realized it would be a perpetual one-way conversation, Spencer retreated to his office with his bottles and his pills. In no time at all, he was snoring. His rattling breath kept Lucy wide-eyed and awake until the wee hours of the morning.

When Spencer rose with the sun, he was slow, grumpy and suddenly silent, but otherwise fine. He fixed them both a breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage patties, and French toast sticks drowned in maple syrup from a collection of tiny plastic packets, which he opened for Lucy without so much as a good morning.

But even if he handled himself in virtual silence, Spencer abandoned his antagonistic banter. He didn’t have to be nice to her, but somehow Darla’s instructions were weighed with authority. They spent the morning like awkward houseguests—one not sure what to do with the other—even though the reality of her situation was never far from Lucy’s mind.

After hours of waiting, Darla was back. Right on time. Her four short knocks, beat, two knocks. The song and dance of raised guns, sliding bolts, mutual distrust, locking doors. When she returned, he seemed jittery with excitement, like a child on Christmas morning. His morning moodiness was lifted.

“Easy, easy,” Darla said. Her messenger bag was empty and light. She set it down on the table slowly and then kicked out a chair and sat down. Plates with the remnants of their breakfast were beside her, and Darla took her pointer finger and made lazy circles with the leftover syrup. Then she brought her finger to her tongue and licked the syrup off with a deliberate smack. Lucy had left a bite of sausage and Darla ate that too. If it bothered Spencer, he didn’t say. Instead, he watched her curiously and anxiously as he leaned against one of the walls, his gun at his side.

After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Enough. I’m waiting.”

“I’m about to honor your request.”

“I hope so. Or why are you here?”

“An unobtainable, rare, valuable product. For your own personal use, if you desire. Or for sale. I don’t care what you do with it once it leaves my hands.”

“My curiosity is piqued.”

“Sure, sure,” Darla waved him away with disdain. “Let’s set the ground rules. First, let her out of the cuffs.”

Spencer blinked. “I don’t know. She’ll bolt.”

“Let her out of the damn cuffs.”

“Tell me what you brought for—”

Darla pulled her firearm out of its holster like lightning and pointed it at Spencer; only her hand and arm had moved—the rest of her body had remained positioned calmly in the chair. “You’ll want what I’m selling and if you don’t then you lose the product and the girl.”