The Stolen - Jason Pinter [61]
I heard a faint rustle come from behind us, then there
was a sharp pain in my leg. Before I could shout, the
gravel of the driveway came hurtling up to meet me, and
then everything swam away.
22
I woke up groggy, with pain in my head and my leg. It
took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the faint crack of
light coming from a doorway on the far side of the room
that was otherwise pitch-black. I was standing up. I was
shirtless, my bare torso cold against a metal pole behind
me. My head pounded, and when I tried to move I realized
my hands were bound above me, my legs bound below.
My arms were bound and tied to what felt like a metal
pipe. I groped around, felt that the pipe went straight back
into the brick wall behind me. My feet were bound behind
the same pipe. I wriggled but it did no good.
Suddenly my eyes flew open. Amanda. Oh, God,
where was she?
I struggled against the bonds, but I couldn't see
anything, couldn't reach the rope that bound my hands.
Then a voice spoke out from the darkness, and I
stopped moving.
"Don't worry, she's fine. I'm sorry my associate had to
restrain you, but I promise it's for your own good." The
voice was gruff, older, slightly raspy. A smoker's voice.
"Who are you?" I said. "Come over here so I can see
you, asshole."
The Stolen
175
"Listen to you, talking as though you're holding all the
cards. When your hand was folded before you even woke up."
I heard a spark, like a match striking flint, and then a
small orange flame lit up the darkness. The flame rose until
I heard a sucking sound. The flame lit the end of a cigarette, and with a puff was blown out.
I could see the cigarette about ten feet from me, and
with each inhalation I caught the outline of a man's face.
I couldn't see much detail, but he looked to be in his late
fifties. Harsh light to go with the harsh line. He just sat
there, sucked his cigarette and said nothing.
"Come on!" I shouted. "What do you want?"
"What do I want," the man said. He flicked away the
cigarette and stood up. He must have turned on a light
switch, because suddenly an overhead lamp cast a soft
glow over the room. I made out what I could. I was in what
looked to be some sort of basement. Bare cement walls and
a tiled floor. There were no windows I could see. The
room wasn't dingy, though, and in fact I was surprised that
it appeared to be rather well maintained. A plush leather
sofa rested in front of a television set, and a long-forgotten treadmill sat adorned with boxes and discarded clothes.
If this was a prison or interrogation room, it wasn't the
most intimidating one. The man approached me, took
another cigarette from his pocket, lit it and took a deep
drag.
Then he approached me, plucked the cigarette from his
lips and held it out.
"Want a puff?"
"Yeah, nothing satisfies me more than sucking on a
butt that was just in some strange asshole's mouth."
"You sure? It's a Chesterfield."
"Gee, now, that makes a difference. Go screw yourself."
176
Jason Pinter
The man shrugged, took another puff.
"I haven't smoked another brand in over thirty years.
You know, you can enjoy the pleasures of so many things
in life without knowing where it came from. Who made
it. Thirty years ago, I would have taken a beating before I
smoked. Now I can't get enough of 'em. Ironic, 'swhat it
is. That delicious burn inside your lungs, just makes me
want to close my eyes, savor the feeling. My ex-wife
always asked why I spent so much time reading about crap
like that and never listened to her. I'd say, baby, because
one's interesting, and one ain't."
I stayed silent. The longer he talked, the longer I
stayed alive.
"Chesterfields started to become popular back in the
day when Arthur Godfrey ended his radio program by
saying, 'This is Arthur buy-'em-by-the-carton Godfrey!'
Since the program was sponsored by Chesterfield, pretty
soon that's all anyone wanted to smoke. The nonfiltered
Chesterfields were popular during Vietnam, allegedly the
strongest nonnarcotic stimulant in the country.