Vox Mentis

Can I have a soda with those jelly beans?

Can I have a soda with those jelly beans?

NO! get me an orange juice! I love orange juice!

Can I have a soda with those jelly beans?

NO! get me an orange juice! I love orange juice!

Get sunflower seeds instead, so you leave a trail of shells out the window!

I mean, this whole situation is questionable as hell. But while escape is definitely not off the ideas table, he makes a compelling argument for not trying it right this minute.

"Something to drink," you say, "would be nice."

"Sure, Nick, sure," the man says, twirling a finger. "Turn around."

"What?"

"So I can cut the cord."

Your bindings loosen; you bring forward your arms against the protest of your muscles and rub your wrists. You feel a lot more optimistic with your hands free.

Hey wait, don't you still have that railroad nail or whatever in your eye, or at least a huge, still-bleeding gash where your eye used to be? Seems like it'd be hard to convince them you're NOT being harmed and need urgent attention with that.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, the tall man and his friend were quite surgical with whatever probe they put into your eye. It must have been a lot smaller than it felt, because all you seem to have come away with is a few broken blood vessels. Nothing anyone is really going to think twice about.

"So let's go get those snacks," the man says, and opens the door.

~

Three other cars sit beside pumps: two sedans and a battered truck with Texas plates, its rear window draped with a Confederate flag. A bumper sticker reads: CAN'T FIND A JOB? THANK AN ILLEGAL. You'd thought the tall man would want to fill up, but he heads for the store. The glass doors part and you step inside. There's music. The air smells sweet. The tall man stamps his feet. "Woo," he says, to nobody. "Cold tonight."

You see magazines and chocolate bars. A poster offers a hot dog and slushie for two dollars. How can you be kidnapped next to a deal like that? It feels wrong. You shouldn't have to fear for your life in a convenience store while looking at hot dogs. But you look at the tall man, and he's still there, with a shotgun not quite concealed under his coat, and you feel nauseated and look at the hot dogs again. That guy had almost shot you. He'd been seconds away from spreading you across the snow. Melinda is dead. Just yell, you think, What's the worst that could happen? You know the answer. But it's tempting, looking at the hot dogs.

"Go on," the man says. "Get whatever you want. He gestures at the confectionery aisle. You walk toward a great pyramid of Pizza Pringles. When you glance back, you see the man has wandered over to the magazine rack, where a man in a red-checked snow hat is staring suspiciously at shrink-wrapped women. "Hi there," says the tall man. "That your truck?"

You look back at the Pringles. You close a hand around one. It's firm and familiar and doesn't do anything unexpected, for which you feel grateful. You look back at the tall man. He seems to be paying you no attention. So you keep going, and then there's a shelf between you and him and he's out of sight. You feel overwhelmed by the desire to sit down. Cover yourself with snacks, maybe. Make a little fort. You keep walking. You take a bag of sunflower seeds. Then a woman's functional ponytail bobs along in front of you, above the green and red foil snack bags.

You close your eyes. The tall man is going to take you to a lonely farmhouse and kill you. It's obvious. They will find you eight years later, buried beneath the roses, one skeleton among many in WASHINGTON'S HOUSE OF NIGHTMARES. Because the tall man is a psychopath. Or possibly not: Possibly the tall man is part of some politically motivated group, something a little more professional and terroristic, but the point is the tall man kills people. He had shot a girl in a blue cotton dress, and reloaded and shot her again, and Melinda had died, and although that possibly wasn't the tall man's fault, not directly, the takeaway message here is that around the tall man people die. You will either get away or you will die, too. You feel calm. It's good to establish facts. It permits the making of decisions.

Fuck it, you're invincible. Try to get sly and ask someone to call 911 anyway. Pray you're not yet in Canada and that number still works.

You're going to talk to this woman. You're sorry, but you're going to bring her into this. You'll whisper a message and if things go bad, you'll defend her. That's the best you can offer.

You open your eyes. You feel sure the tall man is watching you somehow, and sure enough, when you look around, there's a corner ceiling mirror and the tall man is in it. He's nodding at the man in the snow hat, who's showing him a cell phone, for some reason. You pretend to inspect potato chips.

The woman's ponytail bobs toward the end of the aisle, where a cardboard cutout lion offers free Cokes with every purchase over four dollars. This lion can screen you, if you time it right. You could pass the woman at this spot and for one perfect second speak to her unseen. You begin to move. Halfway there, the woman's ponytail stops, and you have to stop and eye batteries to kill time. You glance at the mirror. The tall man is still chatting to the guy. Why he has so much to say to him, you have no idea. The ponytail moves. You move. You spot a second security mirror and maybe this lion isn't going to screen you as completely as you'd thought, but it will only take a second to mutter I'm kidnapped help gun call 911, and you're committed now. You've made a decision not to end up beneath roses. You round the corner.

A girl stands there, five or six years old. She's looking at the cardboard lion. You stop.