Of Ash & Linen

Waterloo

Kidnappers are not known for taking their victims on all expense paid trips across the country. They just aren’t. Usually they find a nice basement to lock the unwilling party in or throw them in an underground bunker for a decade or so. But not Fred.  No, that just isn’t his style. 

As we pull out of the harshly lit parking lot of the third Seven Eleven we’ve visited that night, I briefly consider making meaningful eyes at the lady pumping gas in the spot across from us, but I really don’t want to be responsible for anyone else’s death today, so I let the opportunity pass without making a move. 

Fred’s an asshole like that. 

He’s also a sociopath. These are facts that I’ve gone ahead and filed in the definitely true category based on the overwhelming amount of supporting evidence that I’ve gathered in the two days that I’ve known the man. The creepy, sadistic bastard named Fred. 

Having finally secured the exact flavor of sour gummies that he scoured every gas station in the last three miles for, Fred makes a right and takes us up the ramp to merge back onto the freeway. 

When he catches me looking at him he gives me one of his classic nausea inducing smiles. 

I turn away.  

“How about some music?” he asks as he reaches up to turn the volume dial on the ancient radio. 

Fred’s car is super old, and super icky. It just screams “serial killer.” It really should have been my first warning. If I only knew then…

Wholesome music that was probably from the same decade as this car, which I’m guessing was the seventies, flowed through the speakers. 

So how could I ever refuse

I feel like I win when I lose 

An image of the caved in head of the man who tried to help me the last time I stepped out of line and made a run for it flashes in my mind. 

Fred sings along with the music, “Waterloo - Couldn't escape if I wanted to…”

In my head, I see Fred standing above the body, looking at me with those dead eyes as he drops the bloody tire iron. I’ll never forget the sound of the thing clattering to the concrete or the way the man’s blood flowed out of his body, forming tiny black rivers in the pavement cracks. 

That was the last time I tried anything. That was this morning and two states ago. 

 I rack my brain for some ingenious way to get out of this mess, some bread crumbs I can leave to help someone find me, anyone. But I come up with nothing. Not that it matters. I have hours left in this car to figure out a solution. One that doesn’t end up with more innocent people dead. 

I’d imagined lots of things for myself for my twenty first birthday, but none of them were the guilt of human lives lost because of me.  But that’s what I got. 

I also never imagined that I’d be sitting across from a murder and a kidnapper on my way to Vermont, but hey, life’s funny like that sometimes. 

It was innocent, really, the series of events that ended with me in this car, with this murderer. Kerri and I were walking, like we always do on Friday evenings, down Pickard Avenue on the south side of campus. Decked out in our finest, okay, our skimpiest dresses. Mark was set to meet us at the corner to take us to meet the group at our favorite club. Club Rain.

Our dorm has crap for parking, so Kerri and I always walked to the corner for Mark to pick us up. 

Always. 

It was such a normal thing, but really, when I think about it, it never was really the safest. 

Kerri and I were never aware of our surroundings like some of the other girls were. We weren’t scared, jaded. We’d had no reason to be. No one had ever tried to hurt us before. We didn’t know that evil, like the kind unobscured in eyes of the man sitting across from me, existed. 

So, it makes total sense that we’d think nothing of the trees, heavy with leaves that grew along the path we walked. The way the limbs cast the corner of the street in shadow, blocking the view of the countless widows above.

We made it to the corner, but Mark’s car wasn’t there.  Not surprising. He’s always late. 

A car pulled up to the curb a moment later. Not Mark’s shiny black sedan. Just this horrible road-boat and Fred, peering at us from the driver’s seat. 

We turned our backs on him, brushed off his weird stare. Giggled. Of course, random men would stare. We’re young. We’re beautiful. 

We shrugged our shoulders and pulled out our cellphones so we could look busily at them and ignore the stranger who was getting out of his car behind us.

The door closed with a soft click, and then…silence. So, we forgot about him. Fred, this lurking psychopath, just feet behind us. We’d had no idea. No idea.

Tears prick my eyes and I wipe them away before Fred can see. He gets upset when I show emotion. And when Fred gets upset…

Blood. There’s always blood. 

So much of her blood. I can see it now, droplets of it still stain my stilettos. How tasteful. Mauve with a bit of rusty, crimson splattered across the pointed toes.

I feel sick.  I should throw these shoes out the window. 

But Fred…I have to remain calm.  Plus, it would probably take me an hour to roll the damned window down with the ancient hand-turned crank.

Leaning my head back, I close my eyes. The song on the radio changes, and Fred stops singing. 

Finally. 

I sigh. Maybe if I can get some sleep I can think better, come up with a plan. Will Fred kill me when my guard is down? 

No. That’s stupid. If he wanted to kill me, he would’ve already. He’s put a lot of effort into taking me alive. He must have some sort of plan for me. 

My skin crawls with goose flesh, and my eyes fly open. But Fred is just sitting there, tearing apart a gummy worm with his teeth and watching the road. 

My lids slide closed again. But when they do, all I see is Kerri’s wide eyes. Staring at me. Empty.

Dead.