She walks up to me and takes my hand again and squeezes tightly. So tight that I doubted I would ever be able to free my hand again. “She was right. You came.”
Dear Lord, drown the bells in my heart. Silence the whispers in my mind.
“Yes, child. I’ve come.”
4
Christopher
Heat floods my muscles as I struggle against the confines. A metal, cold shackle surrounds my ankle as if I’m cast back in the days of medieval times. I stifle the urge to scream but don’t want to waste the sound without knowing my surroundings. My pulse speeds and alarms blare.
The room is dimly lit by an oil lamp in the furthest corner, too far for me to reach with the short length of chain hooked to the iron cuff holding me captive. I can see a door, a small window toward the ceiling that with my six-foot height I can maybe peer out of if I can get the chain to extend, which based on how long I have tried to free myself, seems unlikely. There is no sunlight shining through the dirty glass, which tells me I have been knocked out for hours and night has already fallen. There are crates against the wall opposite of me, but still too far for me to utilize in any way to aid in my escape. The dank, dusty air, the dirt-covered floor, and the cool temperature of the room leads me to believe I’m in a cellar or a basement. The painful pounding on the back of my head reveals the story of how I ended up chained to the floor in a foreign place.
But where is my attacker?
Why am I here?
The unknown answers are nearly as terrifying as my current situation.
I can stand and take two steps before the chain stops me. I sit down and tug on the chain some more, but it is anchored into concrete. My ankle is bloody from all the fruitless effort rubbing it raw.
I need to regain my senses. I need to stay level-headed and focused. It’s clear that I won’t be able to break free from my constraints on my own, so I need to find another solution.
Footsteps approach the other side of the aged and discolored wooden door. Standing again, I widen my stance to prepare. When the door opens, I ready myself for war. A man walks in who, after a few moments, I recognize as the ranger of Hallelujah Junction. He’s the last man I spoke to before… before…
He still wears his uniform of tan khaki with a state forestry patch on the shirt, or I wouldn’t have come to the realization so quickly. On his heels is a thin, tiny blonde woman, though I have to question if she’s truly a woman or a girl. I do see breasts, however, barely visible beneath her oversized, dirty, floral dress that hangs on her like a child playing dress up with her mother’s clothing. Her eyes are wide, her cheeks sunken slightly, and her long blonde hair hangs down her back weaved in a braid.
Neither of them seems surprised to see me awake. The shadows of the room conceal the finer details of both of their appearances, but I can now see who are responsible for me being shackled to the floor. The ranger stares at me directly, but the woman does not. She fixes her eyes at the ground before her, biting her lip and wringing her hands.
“Christopher Davenport,” the man says as they fully enter the room.
I reach for my back pocket and notice my wallet is missing.
“115 57th Street, New York, New York. Staff photographer for Rolling Stone Magazine. Chiefly known for his portraits of the rich, the infamous, and the powerful but also freelances with additional photo credits in other magazines like National Geographic. Son of wealthy socialite Louisa Davenport and only heir to the Davenport textile empire,” the ranger says as if reciting a book report. He clearly has researched me based on my I.D. he now possesses.
“What the fuck do you want?” I rasp. My hands are free from restraint. He will soon regret that decision.
Take a step closer, motherfucker.
Come on. Step closer.
Is this a ransom situation? When traveling overseas and in dangerous countries, the reality of something like this happening is a possibility and one I am always aware of. But not in the United States. Not in Nevada off the beaten path.
“You’ve traveled a long distance to be here,” the ranger says as he