Issue #141 : Consider The Source
“Hey! Phone call.”
Howie looked up from his station, and at the phone, scrutinizing the blinking light, as if it had offended him. He stood up, and walked to the wall, looking out over the mass of coworkers around him as he pressed the receiver to his ear.
“Hello?”
There was no answer on the other end, other than a sound of wind, and something else he couldn’t quite identify.
“Hello?”
Still no answer, and now he recognized the sound, underneath everything. It was someone breathing, as if they had called, and were now just sitting with their phone, listening to him silently.
“Look, if there’s someone there, I need to be getting back to—”
“Howard, you need to stop talking.”
He closed his mouth, not because he felt any particular need to obey, but because he was so taken aback by the brashness.
“Excuse me?”
“You need to stop talking and listen.”
“Who the fuck is—”
“If you want your wife to survive this, you need to shut up, right now.”
This did silence him, and he looked around the office, sure that someone was playing a prank on him, that he would just catch the blinds on one of the nearby offices snapping shut, along with repressed laughter from inside. No one seemed to be taking any notice of him however, as the normal business of the office carried on, as usual. He might as well have been invisible to all the people as they filed past, unaware of his need and likely, unwilling to offer aid, even if they did. Howie turned back to the window and spoke again in a hushed voice.
“Who is this?”
“All you need to know is what we expect of you. Do exactly what I tell you, and your wife will come out of this alive, and in one piece. I can’t say the same for you, but if you come along peacefully, at least one death can be prevented.”
His throat had gone completely dry. He opened his mouth to try and speak, but nothing came out. The voice on the other end went on, regardless.
“Right now, there is a van parked behind your building. Red in color, and with the logo of a painting company. You need to leave your building, right now, and get into the van.”
“Wait a minute, how—”
“You aren’t in a position to demand anything from us. What you need to understand is that right now your wife is sitting on the precipice of the decision you are about to make. You are the one who can make this right for her. You are the one we want, Howard.”
“But I don’t know what you want!”
“That isn’t material.”
“How can that be—”
“You are putting her life in danger, Howard. You are putting her at risk, with your insolence.”
“All right, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He pinched his nose and tried to tell himself that this was all going to be okay, that it had to be a mistake. Except that the guy had called him Howard. She was the only who knew that his real name wasn’t Howie. Was that why they had been using it? To show him that the only way they could have known his real name was if she had told them? He had to think around this problem, figure out what he was supposed to do, how he was going to help her.
“Howard?”
“Sorry. What do you want me to do?”
“Go to the van in the parking lot. As soon as you get there, you will see your wife being released. Once this has happened, you will need to get into the van.”
His throat dried up again and he tried to speak. “I don’t understand, what are they going to do with me?
The other end of the line paused for several moments before answering. “I think you know, Howard.”
He felt his fingers squeezing on the receiver, and it squirted out of his hand, crashing to the floor. Several people glanced over, donning their obligatory veil of concern that was really just a paper-thin patina over their annoyance. They turned back to their work, as he reached down for the phone, bringing it back to his ear.
“I don’t understand, I don’t even know who you are.”
“This is wearing on me, Howard. As I said, it’s of no consequence. What does matter is how you handle this situation. Believe me when I say that a life hangs in the balance.”
“But I don’t know if I can—”
His sentence was cut off by a shrill scream, the sound cutting straight through him. He heard her voice, muffled and distant, as if the phone had simply been turned in her general direction. “Howard, please God, please help me, I don’t know what—”
In another blink, she was gone.
“Don’t hurt her, you bastards! What kind of a fucking man are you?”
“You know where you have to go.”
“Just please, don’t hurt her, I’ll be down, just wait.”
He waited for a response, for an assurance, but all he heard was the click, followed by the swollen silence of the dead line. He sprinted for the stairs, didn’t want to wait for the elevator, and instead jumped down six or seven steps at a time, until he hit the bottom floor. He ankle twisted slightly underneath him, and he cried out, grabbing at it as he fell against the wall.
The unmarked van was in the lot, directly across from him. He pushed through the doors, into the parking lot, and began hobbling towards it, ignoring the stares he got from the security guards. He tried to peer in, but the windows were tinted and there was too much glare. As he drew closer, the door slid open, revealing no one inside, but he could now make out the shape of two people sitting in front.
“Where is my wife?” he screamed at them. From the other side of the lot, he heard a quick horn and spun to look. She was staggering out of a small hatchback, clearly confused as she looked about, likely looking for him. There was something off about her that he couldn’t figure out. Something wrong with her hair, the over-sized sunglasses that he didn’t remember her owning. Behind him, he heard the van rev its engine. He turned back to look and saw that the passenger side window had lowered down just enough so that the elongated barrel of a rifle now protruded, taking aim across the parking lot.
Taking aim at her.
“Stop!” he cried out at them, turning from his wife, and hobbling towards the car. Probably it was better this way. Easier for her if she didn’t have to see him one last time, not like this. He got to the van, reached in and pulled himself in, falling to the floor as the driver hit the accelerator and began pulling out of the lot. The side door slid shut on its motor, rumbling slowly and as it closed, he kept his eyes focused on the outside world, on the dwindling time that was likely left for him, whoever these guys were.
From his pocket, he felt his phone buzz and he reached in to grab it. He had about three seconds to hold it up in front of him, before one of the men in the front seat reached back and grabbed it. The three second was enough, though, to see the text message from his wife. Just got home from the gym. Dinner plans for tonight?
It hadn’t even been his wife. He had gotten right into the van, and had barely put up a fight. And now he was being dragged off, to God knew where, and would probably never be heard from again. He felt rage and hopeless misery, all at the same time. He wanted to leap to the front of the van and take hold of the both of them, even if it meant causing a crash. Still, he saw the one on the passenger side, tapping the barrel of his pistol against his thigh, and he knew he wouldn’t make it. He tried to focus on the image of her face, on the fact that he had at least been trying to help her, to do the right thing.
Likely before too long, even that would serve as little consolation.
.
.
.
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