Reluctant Hero. Debra Regan
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she felt steadier she stood up again. Doing a slow three-sixty, she took in the rest of the room. The space was cleverly designed in a narrow rectangle with a refrigerator, microwave, small oven and sink making up a kitchenette at one end. On the opposite end of the long room was a single door and next to that a set of floor-to-ceiling doors. She walked closer and found a Murphy bed.
“I’ve been kidnapped by a tiny house architect,” she said aloud, imagining Bill’s laughter and snarky retort.
This was more luxurious than some of the movie trailers she’d seen while working on sets with her dad. She bounced a little, discovering the floor didn’t have any give the way a trailer floor often did. Another tremor slipped over her skin. A trailer could be moved anywhere, at any time. Who would do this?
There were no windows, only a lovely painting of the Golden Gate Bridge spearing out of a thick fog bank. All of the lighting came from LED fixtures in the ceiling. What she assumed was the entrance door was painted the same warm ivory as the rest of the walls, but with the oversize hinges and crossbars, it looked more like a bank vault. She walked over, pushing and tugging at the spoked handle. Her grip was weak; her entire body felt used up and she couldn’t make the wheel budge in any direction.
A flat panel on the side of the door lit up and a feminine computerized voice announced, “The status of the safe room is secure.”
“Good to know.” Becca tapped the panel, and a command screen appeared. Not seeing an icon or a button to unlock the door, she spoke clearly in the direction of the speaker above the panel. “Unlock safe room.”
After a moment, the computer denied her request.
“Thanks for nothing,” Becca muttered. She walked the length of the room, looking for a switch to make the lights brighter. Apparently that too was controlled by a system outside her reach. Not even the reading lamp on the end table tucked between the love seat and the oversize tufted leather armchair responded when she flipped the switch. “Where am I?”
More silence. Apparently not even the computer had an answer.
She went to the kitchen sink and tested the water faucet. The water smelled fine and looked clear. The cool water on her hands refreshed her and she blotted her face as well before finding a cup and drinking her fill.
Her memories returned in fractured images. She remembered walking with Lucy, but not what they talked about. There had been a strong man holding her tightly. He’d smelled funny. Odd. Too sweet and strong for a cologne, the odor had made her head swim. Chloroform? Was she recalling fact or was her mind weaving in some fiction?
Uncertain, she crossed to the other end of the room, opening the bathroom door, finding no windows and no obvious escape route. A glance in the mirror had her scrubbing away the mascara smudged and streaked under her eyes and down her cheeks. Noticing a red mark at her neck, she rubbed at the spot, remembering the pinch and sting of a needle before her world went black. Someone had shouted. Who had it been?
“Where am I?” she asked, returning to the center of the room.
“You’re in a safe room.”
She jumped. This reply was not automated. The voice, as rough as sandpaper thanks to one of those altering devices, filled the room. “Cooperate, Ms. Wallace, and you will be released unharmed.”
She heard the unspoken flip side of the statement. If she didn’t cooperate she wouldn’t be released. “Come in here and say that,” she said with all the bravado she could muster. “Show yourself!” Her temper mounted as she waited for a reply. “You coward! It will take more than voice alteration and an automatic door to avoid the penalty for kidnapping me.” She needed to keep him talking, needed information about her captor.
“We’ll see.”
Male, she was sure of that much. Ninety percent sure, anyway. Those voice gadgets could do bizarre things. “Let me out!
“People will be looking for me.” She hoped they already were.
There was another long delay before the reply. “Rest. Drink plenty of fluids. We’ll talk again soon.”
“What do you want from me?”
“For now, I want you to rest.”
“Where are my shoes?” She shouted the question at the door and pulled on the handle again. Her frustration soaring to new highs, she smacked the control panel, hoping for a short circuit if nothing else.
“Escape is impossible without the code and my palm print.”
She swore at the door and the electronic panel that was currently dark. “Unlock this door.”
“As soon as it’s safe, I will.”
“When this door opens I’ll—”
“I understand your distress. You will not be harmed in my care.”
Becca shivered. Something about the voice, the cadence of it, felt both familiar and frightening. “I won’t make the same promise to you.”
“The basics are stocked for you,” the gravelly, distorted voice said. “Meals will be provided three times each day.”
When left to her own devices, she didn’t eat three regular meals each day. “What makes you think I’ll eat?” A hunger strike might be her fastest way out of this room.
“Eating is your choice,” the voice replied. “But I will not allow you to harm yourself.”
“Oh, that’s your job, huh?” She crossed her arms to hide her trembling hands. “What do you want? Money?” Had one of her notoriously bad dates gone off the rails in an effort to get her father’s attention? “Name your price.” She’d gladly give up the password to her untouched trust fund account in exchange for the code to leave this well-appointed prison.
“No,” the voice said. “Cooperate and this will be over soon.”
Cooperate with a faceless kidnapper? No way. “Buddy, this won’t be over until I’m free and you’re locked up in a prison cell,” she shouted at the ceiling.
The speaker crackled once and went silent. The vault-like door remained closed. Knowing the effort was futile, she walked to the panel and poked at it again anyway.
One dead end did not a hopeless situation make, she told herself, not quite believing it. She couldn’t bring to mind any situation quite as bad as this one.
Her father’s film company had been detained once in Turkey. It had been a miserable and uncertain forty-eight hours under house arrest, before all the paperwork was considered acceptable to the authorities and they were allowed to leave.
As stressful as that had been, this was worse. Here, she was alone, trapped by someone who had yet to make any real demands. She felt her molars grinding on the tension and forced herself to take a few calming breaths.
She’d survived worse things than this. Turkey had been dangerous. Working the story with Bill in Iraq, right on the Iranian border, had been a huge risk. Anymore, dating was akin to Russian roulette. No way was she going out of this life in the role of a helpless captive.
“What do you want from me?” she shouted at the door.
The silence built and built until she ended it with a loud, long scream worthy of the worst horror flick. Cutting loose, she released all her bottled-up fury into the sound, imagining her captor’s ears bleeding from the assault.
He might be in control for now, but there had to be something here she could use against him. Her dad had gone through a horror flick phase and she’d learned a great deal about improvised weapons on those sets. Not to mention all the time she’d spent with prop masters, learning how to fashion amazingly realistic things with little more than duct tape and a good idea.
Her captor had been smart enough to confiscate her high heels. No matter. That was only the first, and most obvious, option. She reviewed