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| The following story is an entry in Network Twenty's March 2008 Fiction Contest. Author's name will be posted after a winner has been chosen. Snuff Film Connie kept an extra close eye walking her quilting student to the front door every time she came over now, thanks to that one kid in town disappearing. Echoes of "Mom, look! Look! You're not looking!" muffled into background music to the last few dented heaps that sped past her building, the radios' intensified bass hammering into her until her head seesawed in time with it. When the last gray Honda zoomed by, she sighed at the suddenness of the quiet. She ignored the soreness in her legs, the entire hallway back to 3A more like a football field than a simple hallway. Better not feel that way when Tommy comes over Sunday. Her brother joked his son had Connie's runner legs, but it was never as obvious as when she babysat him. Back inside the modest little apartment, she set her own nearly-knitted quilt back on the coffee table, over the new book by the host of Digging for the Truth and 50 Best Mysteries. Her aching legs tugged at the rest of her to take a plunge onto the couch. Instead, she switched on the stove and dumped a thick tomato soup into a pot. That freshman's face appeared in the university's paper again, peeking out at her from the trash can. Throwing the empty can of soup on top of eighteen-year-old Andre Billings' soft brown eyes, she tested the soup and poured it into a bowl, careful not to let her long coffee-colored hair tumble down into it. She flipped through the channels until she finally found Monk barging up the stairs with a Kleenex pressed tightly to the nose on his hyperventilating face. Good thing the 10k was this morning and not this evening, she thought, swallowing a spoonful of soup. Without warning, a synthesized, tingling arrangement of Eye of the Tiger escaped from her cell phone, jerking her out of her mystery-solving mode. "Hello?" "Hey, Connie! Your evening voice sounds just like your afternoon voice." "Hey, Randy. What are you up to?" She hadn't meant to practically squeal at him, recalling how refreshing it was to at long last have a guy work with her. The only male page, only male employee at all, he came to work in long, pin-striped dress pants and a white or red or black t-shirt, revealing tattoo-covered arms with things like snakes, cypress trees, griffins, and Japanese symbols, capturing the eyes of every patron. His arms and legs were long, and when he stretched to place a book on the top shelf or pick a stack of books off a table, someone always stared at him. "Not a lot with me per se, but have you heard anything about this Page of the Quarter thing?" His rich baritone seemed to resonate directly into her room. "No. I don't think I know what you're even talking about. What's that?" "Oh. It's this new thing the library's doing, like employee of the month. Just another short-lived incentive to keep the pages around, in my opinion." "Taking the pay cap away would have been better. So is this like who can shelve the carts the fastest? Why'd you want to know if I'd heard of it? Did they pick you?" "Well, this is slightly awkward. Um, I, I don't know if I should say..." "You better say it," she teased. "Few things actually make you this incoherent." She relied too much on teasing, she thought. He was the kind of man you never knew how to behave around, the kind that seemed to know what you looked like naked without ever needing proof. "Well," he cleared his throat. "I'm on my way to work." "Now? It's too late for you to be going to work." "Yeah, uh, listen, Connie, I'm just going to tell you. I've never been good at keeping things to myself. They picked you for Page of the Quarter. They pick four a year and hence the quarter thing, but only four get it a year and you're the first. Still there?" "Yeah," she coughed. "Yeah, I'm still here. Why didn't they say anything at work?" "They wanted to surprise you next time you came in. I'm on my way..." "What exactly does that mean for me?" she interrupted. "Just something to add to my resume?" "No pay raise, at any rate." "Stupid pay cap," she pretended to whine. "But I didn't mean to interrupt you. Go ahead." "I should say," he mocked with a laugh. "I'm on my way to work because the librarians gave me the key to get your little plaque. Not that it's little, well, it is physically, but little things are often big things." "They thought you had the address?" As often as they talked at work, they had never met outside of it, not even walked across the street together to browse the 7-11. Those ladies and their imaginations, she thought. Of course they assumed Randy had her address penned in bold ink in his little black book, the rest of the names probably scratched out as a result. "The librarians wanted to get it to you today, but they'll make it up to you. Hint hint, I hope you like frosting." "Gross." Connie let one ear focus on Randy as she rose to turn off the TV, debating whether or not to just have him stop by. "I forgot you don't like eating anything fun," he said. "Aunt Connie's not going to make that rub off on Tommy, is she?" "His parents would never forgive me if I did." Going out seemed nice, but her tired eyes and Andre Billings' eyes narrowing at her from the trash can made her say, "Why don't you just bring it to work with you next time? I don't need it right away." Remnants of cold soup broth clung to his picture, dripping from his forehead deeper into the trash can. "Sure?" "Yeah. I'm bad at giving directions anyway. Later." "Later." Oh, Randy, how dare you forget how much frosting sucks. She was sure that in all their lunch breaks the closest thing to a snack she ever brought was a baggie of berries. His face never looked surprised except for that. Laughing to herself, she savored that small moment of what felt like victory over him, how she had left him speechless and fascinated for once. Stretching her legs out on her couch, she tried to remember just one of the little comments the older ladies they worked with made about how cute a couple they would be, always leaving her, but never Randy, blushing to no end. Her fingers finding their way to her knitting, Connie turned the volume back up and resumed Adrian Monk's cunning antics, making up the quilt pattern as she went—a series of diamonds made up of turquoise, navy, and lavender leaves. It would compliment the several dozen she had, in addition to the number her brother and sister-in-law had. She worked extra hard on a bold railroad-patterned Thomas the Tank Engine quilt with all his cheeky friends chugging around it for their son Tommy. He loved it, she remembered fondly, and anything Tommy liked, Tom and Jessi liked by default. Just as another commercial for the special about Jonestown ended and she was sure she deduced the hidden, yet plausible solution to the mystery that plagued Monk, loud knocking on the other side of the door called to her. She stretched her legs again as she wound around the coffee table to peer through the peephole. His hands were in his pants pockets as one foot dragged against the toughened carpeting. "Randy," she said, opening the door. "How did you find this place?" "Hey," he mumbled, his large brown eyes staring intently at her. People at work always said how their heights were compatible to the point that Connie's head would be comfortable nestled on Randy's shoulder. "Like a couple of ballroom dancers," the ladies at work chuckled to themselves seeing the Dynamic Duo in the workroom arranging their carts together. "I wasn't sure you'd be up after that marathon this morning and then work," he said, resting his hand against her doorway, revealing his snake tattoo that wrapped around a stick of dynamite on his forearm, one of many patterns forever etched into both his arms. "10ks aren't marathons." "Fair enough. I called up one of the librarians, said I needed to get your address to send you a postcard when I'm on my upcoming vacation. Connie," he began, edging closer to her. "I told you a little white lie about your award. They're not implementing anything like that." "Oh," she said, a chill creeping up each of her little vertebrae. Controlling her body language was one thing. Controlling the mounting pink in her cheeks bordered on impossibility. "Why don't you come out with me for a while?" "I'm still tired from this morning," she said, swallowing. "Is there another time?" "This time is what's good for me." He made no gesture that even hinted at anger or annoyance, but something changed. She wished she could catch what it was. Without turning her head too much, she caught her eyes drifting to her keys hanging from their hook, inches from the door. Her mother told her to hold the keys in "stabbing position" if she were alone and someone came to the door. "I did tell you I was going to California next week, didn't I?" His eyes never left hers, but her hand still prepared to dart out for her keys. He lurched forward a little more, ducking his head as it crossed her threshold. "Don't you want to know why I'm going?" "Why?" She shifted her body. His grin sent out what felt like miniature fairies leaping up on Connie's back. "Sell the movie I'm making." "Oh." "The movie you're going to be in." Their eyes locked. He sprang. Connie's bony fingers stretched for the keys. The tip of her middle finger grazed the toothy stem just as Randy tackled her to the ground. A flash of his dark, moppy hair flew past her eyes as she felt her wrists being pinned to the ground. Wordless screams streamed from her throat out her mouth. "Nice and quiet now," he hissed, scrambling to pull a cloth out of his leather coat. With all her strength, Connie rolled her body over. Randy caught his balance and held her tighter as he tied the cloth over her mouth just as she took a breath to scream. The cloth seemed to instantly suck the saliva right out of her mouth. "One more," he said. Both his knees had her arms pinned. She felt a hard tug as he took another cloth and tied her wrists together. "You're coming with me." He took her keys and dragged her out the door. She threw herself in the opposite direction, but he caught her and locked the door behind them. Only two other people lived on the first floor of the building, clubbers, both of them. But it wasn't a detail Connie remembered, thrashing as wildly as she could, hoarse wails pouring out of her. The cold breeze tugged on the sparse, white hairs on her arms in spite of her clingy sweat. Her legs already aching, the few feet to his car felt more like crossing a vast desert. Her throat went even dryer as she dug her shoe into his leg, scraping against it. Please, please, please, she prayed. Nearly all the lights in the rooms above hers were out. Her muscles tensing, she wiggled out of his arms and plopped to the ground. Inching her way to her door like a snake, she heard him grunt as he bent down and pulled her back to him, her arms digging into the gravel street. "Get in there!" he hissed again, lifting his trunk with one hand. His other hand pressed up on the back of her neck, his long fingers clawing into her head. Her knee thudded against the harsh cloth board covering the spare tire. Almost ramming her head against the dip further in, her long body finally fit into the space. She expected him to close the lid on her, leave her in a silent darkness. Instead, he pulled out a dark mound Connie hadn't seen. Her eyes even wider than before, she screamed into the gag and tunneled back to the front of the trunk. As she threw a leg over the side, he shoved her further back and held her down. "In case you've seen too many movies and kick out my taillight." He caught her jerking legs, the rope squeezing her already-dead ankles. She could feel the knots tightening. Finally, he slammed down the lid and, with a sudden pull, he started them on their trip. Clenching her teeth together as best she could while gagged, she controlled her breathing. Arms and legs bound, can't scream...no sense in wasting energy, she thought. You'll be dead soon anyway. No! No, no, no, no. I live. Other people die! Calm down. Just calm down. You are not going to die. Come on, Connie. All those marathons weren't for nothing. Your heart's too healthy to stop. A lightheaded sensation gripped the front of her face, sending a sudden jolt of claustrophobia to her mind. She inhaled again, slower. She allowed a brief snort of laughter, restraining tears, and then something demanded her attention. We haven't turned yet. It seemed a straight, smooth ride southbound. A sudden left turn caught her off guard. If only she knew the exact street where they had just turned. No, not where we turned, where Randy turned. She curved her body around to let her fingertips brush against the front of the trunk. Heaving, she closed her eyes, ignoring the sudden bumpiness of the ride. **** "Man, I don't think I could run one mile anymore," Randy had said, shaking his head with a grin. She had brought in her Boston Marathon photos to show him and the ladies at work when he had only been there two months. Mom and Dad, Tom, Jessi, and Tommy made a vacation of it, Mom, Dad, and Tom deciding to take that year off from the marathons. He had held each picture for an eternity, soaking in the surroundings, drinking in the people trying not to pose in them. "I bet you could," she had encouraged him. "But why prove anything to anyone?" he had joked. He had handed back the stack of pictures, seeming to memorize the angles of her shoulders, the length of her neck, the way her calf muscles jutted out only when she ran. Maybe it wasn't the right time, but she remembered opening her mouth, her larynx ready to confront him about the fact she'd caught him staring at her more than once today alone. It was that knowing, deciphering look he always gave her that made her shiver and cover herself. "I can easily picture you being that passionate about something," he had said. Just when she was about to ask him about his passions, the "dynamic duo," as they were often called were separated by lost patrons shelves away from their craved reading material. She really didn't have a chance to talk to him for any real length of time until he initiated the "scare" conversation. "What do you think you look like scared?" he had asked her last week, shelving a cart close to hers. His random questions no longer held their shock value. She had assumed things like a mundane job and being the only source of testosterone in the workroom brought on strange, multiple series of thoughts. "Probably more confused than anything else. I don't scare easily." "Pretend you do." He always grinned at her, but lately it had seemed like more than usual. "I think I'd have to control my breathing a lot," she had said. "Do your eyes go wide?" "Probably." "So mysterious, Connie." He had shaken his head while he placed another fiction novel on the middle shelf. "I don't know. Scare me and find out." "Why don't you scare me?" he had challenged. "You're dying to." "You say that very confidently." "It's a statement that deserves some confidence. You're dying to scare me, get the better of me." "Why?" she had smirked. Remembering what he said now froze her entire body. "Because I scare you." **** Connie felt herself rolling towards the back of the trunk. Randy stopped the car. She could only remember that one left turn. Already an opaque night loomed over her. Hardly any stars made themselves visible during this new moon. Concentrating on it, she didn't struggle when he lifted her out. "Quieted down? Calm now?" he asked. "I'll put you back down once we get inside, and then I'll let you know what's going to happen, okay? Nod your head." An obedient compulsion struck her, and she nodded her head, taking in as much information as she could observe. No street signs were nearby, but he carried her into a barn, an array of pine trees supplying the background. The faint stench of damp hay pinched Connie's nostrils. With a loud creak, Randy opened the barn door with the hand not balancing her over his shoulder. The door's splintery gray wood almost brushed her arm. Connie could see nothing inside but a blinding white light giving off a slight burning odor. Randy set her onto a cherry, paint-stained chair, carefully reworking her binds to include the chair's back and legs. She thrust out her torso, the only movement she had left. Her head jerked every which way, the hoarse screams commencing again. "Turn the light down a little, would you?" he called up to the loft. No voice answered. The heat radiating from the light lost some of its intensity as it dimmed only a few degrees. Slowly turning her neck, she spotted an ancient-looking bed with no frame. Dry strands of straw poked through the lumpy mattress like stakes. Cold fingers along her chin brought her face back to the front. "Do you like it?" Randy asked eagerly, untying her gag. "Help! Help!" "You'll ruin the mood that way." His cold hand over her mouth produced a full-body shiver. "I'm sorry it's not that warm in here for you. It's only about sixty in here." "She'll warm up in a minute or so," a deep male voice shouted from behind the light. Randy ignored it. "I've spent the last month finishing this," he said. "No sleep, no recreation. Just working, and filming, and writing, always writing, storyboarding. But it's all about to pay off." "Randy, Randy, please untie me." "We'll shoot the scenes where you're by yourself first, then we'll start the real fun. You're a businesswoman, a real estate agent and your client has tied you up. He knows you like bondage. You're being filmed right now, just so they can get a glimpse of you." He paused to glance at her jeans and long-sleeved t-shirt. "We'll just pretend it's a casual Friday or something. Didn't have time to pack a suit." "I'm not doing this!" she screamed. "Help! Help!" She made her move smoothly, toppling the chair over in one swift motion. "Cut! No!" Randy darted towards her. "Dude, that didn't even take," a voice grunted. "One minute she's in the shot, the next she's gone." Hell, it might have even been the same voice. Everything but her own huffing sounded muffled. "I can fix this," Randy assured whoever it was, propping the chair back up with her still in it. "There's no way you can fix six seconds of film!" "I know, Dave." "Come on, man! We didn't even get the shot!" "I know!" Randy ran trembling fingers through his thick hair, his three platinum rings more like silver stars in a wavy black sky. He let his eyes close and held them shut for the good part of thirty seconds, Connie thought. Her thoughts gathered. There were so many ways to ruin a home movie. "You're going to ruin every shot, aren't you?" His eyes hard, he still looked like he had never been prouder of her. She allowed herself a smirk. "Then you'll just have to let me go. Get someone else." "Someone else?" His hand flew to his heart. "I'm coming over there and beating this chick, Randy!" A ripped man with a chest broader than his shoulders stomped over to her. His bald head reflected the spotlight. "You won't touch her. She needs to stay preserved." Randy guided the taller man back into what Connie now named the dark zone. "Connie." She blinked. "I chose you. You were the exact face I saw when I first thought this up. I was about to leave the library, back to square one, and then there you were. Your expressions, your body—everything was precisely how it needed to be." "I don't care!" she screamed. "But you care about little Tommy, don't you?" She fought to stop herself from vomiting as he mentioned Tommy. All the times they took their lunch breaks together, she mentioned Tommy. Little dotted clouds seemed to swim up over her eyes, pounding on her forehead. She kept widening her eyes to open them, but it made no difference. She could hardly tell if they were even already open. The clouds overlapped her eyes and flew up to her head, trying to detach it from her body. A strong bobbing sensation took control of her. "Randy! She's about to pass out!" Not sure if she was in the chair or on the cold wooden ground, she felt his hands clutch the sides of her waist. This isn't happening. Oh, but it is. Catch yourself. He's not going to catch you again. "That's my girl," he said. "Do you know what a snuff film is?" He paused, his half-lidded eyes scanning her neck. "You make me lose control, you know that? I'm thinking once I have you finish him off, we can sneak away for a few hours." "Finish him off?" "Yeah." He brushed back her long hair. "Don't worry, Connie. This isn't my first film. I know what I'm doing. We're going to bring someone out to you soon, and the two of you are going to do a lovely scene together, and once I can trust you with it, we'll give you this." Tommy, she thought. She closed her eyes, fighting the urge to tumble into unconsciousness and forget everything for a few brief minutes. You're being played. No, you can't risk Tommy. You really think he'll let you live after you kill this guy? Kill? An image of Tommy's two-year-old arms being clutched too tightly by a man in a ski mask whizzed through her mind. He pulled out a glossy revolver from under the bed. Her body yanked itself as far as it could go, but he knelt down behind her. His arms almost entwined with hers as he let her fingers touch the long barrel of the gun. Rolling it around her fingers, he held them in place with his hand and kissed the tips of them. "I know you'd like to pull it," he said. "And you will. Like I said, once I can trust you with it, your character's going to bring it up to his head while he's on top of you and..." he made a throat-clearing sound. "Tommy." "Stay with me, Connie. Constance? You're about to use this. You need to be all here." Her head spinning, her lips quivered as she said, "I can't. I, I m-might make it accidentally go off." "Oh, you're getting something to go off," he sighed, standing up, the gun leaving her fingers. "I know you'll be tempted to shoot me, but my camera man and my lighting man, well, everyone here except you and your leading man has a phone on them that can call a guy at your brother's house right now. Connie? Don't pass out on me. You look pretty pale." "Randy, you're scaring me," she admitted through shimmering eyes. He leaned in closer to her, savoring the jolt of terror in her eyes. "I knew I did." There's no one with Tommy. Just repeating that to herself over and over in her head made it true enough. He scared her yet again and she fell into the trap. He looked over to the side and gestured with his long hand. Peeking through the glare, she could see a pair of brown eyes that she had thought the rest of the world had forgotten. The lies, the light, the blazing eyes all around her—Connie's limbs felt that second wind so familiar to them as the ropes seemed to just slip off her body. Nearly limp, she felt Randy pull her out of the chair. Swallowing her last sob, she moved from the chair to the lumpy mattress behind it. Rolling her ankles around as they brought the soft brown eyes closer to her, she watched Randy place the "prop" under the bed. She knew everything that would happen next—the awkward hands of a teenage boy fighting pure terror as they were directed to glide up and down her chest and back. Did he know her stage directions too? Did he know that as she was supposed to fake her climax she would make him explode in a way completely opposite what he imagined? His quivering body straddled hers. "Action," Dave called. Stretching her long arm, Connie reached for the gun with the side of her body the camera couldn't see. Tapping the dusty floor, she felt for it. "Get ready to run," she whispered in his ear, the fingers of her other hand tracing his ear and jawbone. "We're getting out of here." It would take one swift motion, completely instinctual, she thought. She took a breath as she wrapped her finger around the trigger. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the light radiating down on them. It wouldn't take much. "Take my hand," she whispered again to him. She mentally prepared for the blessed darkness that would come. It was time to go for a run. | |