Dire Means (2 page)

Lights in the corridor blinked on and Keith saw the four people, dressed in uniforms familiar to him—red Polo shirts and black slacks. Keith squinted in the new light to examine the faces of the foursome, but he knew none of their names.

“Hey, I didn’t know you guys worked on this floor!” Keith said, with a nervous chuckle.

They continued toward him with no reply. The man in the rear generated the rhythmic squeak as he pushed a waist-high gurney with both hands. It was a typical ambulance gurney, painted red and black and rolled on collapsible aluminum legs.

The other male, muscle-bound with a crew cut, carried a rolled foam cushion pressed under his arm. The two women led the way.

Keith pointed back toward the hidden elevator door and said, “How much do you wanna bet that management will wish they had kept this piece-of-shit elevator fixed for us after I’m done with them?”

They did not answer.

Keith wiped sweat from his lip and then tried to suppress his fear by putting his shoulders back and taking charge. “Where’s your stairway? Aren’t you guys supposed to have illuminated exit signage?” he asked, as he pointed past them toward the end of the corridor.

At fifteen feet from Keith, they spread out shoulder to shoulder, blocking him in. The man who pushed the gurney shoved it forward and it rolled to within a couple of feet of Keith.

Keith backed away until he bumped the padded barrier and then fumbled in his pocket for his phone.

The tall brunette woman stepped forward. She had the shapely body and serious expression of a fashion magazine model. She raised a Taser gun with a straight arm, aiming it at Keith. “Please lay on our gurney,” she said calmly.

Keith looked down at the red laser dot that jiggled on his shirt’s third button. “What’s going on? Is this some fucking prank?”

The woman fired two wired probes that pierced Keith’s abdomen, using his body to complete a circuit of fifty-thousand volts. His fingers went rigid. He dropped his phone and jerked to attention. As he began to fall, the muscular male who carried the rolled cushion, flung it out in a perfect toss that padded Keith’s landing. The Taser tick-tick-ticked while the woman held the trigger tight, feeding Keith seven seconds of uninterrupted current. The thick padded walls seemed to inhale his screams. The four spectators stood motionless.

The woman released the trigger and Keith’s body went limp. His chest heaved. He looked up at the four uniformed people. He saw the wires coiling from his stomach to the tip of the Taser.

The woman brought the Taser’s barrel straight up in a relaxed position beside her shoulder. “Please lay on our gurney,” she repeated in the same calm, flat tone.

Keith struggled to sit up. He leaned back onto his hands and fixed his legs under him as if he might try to crabwalk away. He brought his hand from behind him to touch the probes and the woman squeezed the trigger again, sending him into a new episode of writhing and gasping.

When she released the trigger the second time, Keith was face down. “No more, please,” he moaned, his words smeared into the padding.

“Please lay on our gurney,” the woman repeated, her tone unchanged.

Keith raised himself to a sitting position. Drool strung from the side of his mouth and he wiped it on his sleeve. He lifted a trembling hand toward the woman and said, “Please, ma’am, no more. Please…”

He labored to his feet and staggered toward the gurney. He flopped his upper body across it, panting and his face ashen. The second female, a petite blond who carried a backpack, eased past Keith. She picked up his phone from the floor with gloved hands and dropped it into her bag.

The two men took hold of Keith’s arms and legs and carefully swung him up onto the gurney, rolling him over so that he rested face up. They were gentle with him. One cupped the back of his head so that it came to a soft landing on the gurney pillow. Keith’s eyes were wide.

The blond woman walked to his side and examined his face. “Aww, poor thing,” she said. She opened her backpack and produced a vial of clear liquid and a soft white cloth. She wrapped the cloth around her forefinger and wet it with the bottle. She dabbed at some blood that oozed from the side of Keith’s mouth. He winced at her touch and pulled away.

Meanwhile, the two men had pulled padded nylon restraints from under the gurney bed and strapped Keith at his ankles, knees, waist, chest, wrists, and loosely about his neck. One man lifted Keith’s head and slipped a rubber strap under it, connecting it in the front with hooks attached to a ball gag. The man centered and pulled the ball gag out above Keith’s mouth and said, “Say Ahh.” Keith turned his head to look at the woman who had the Taser. She opened her mouth wide and said, “Ahhhhh.” The three others joined her in a long, almost harmonious, “Ahhhh.” Keith opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The ball gag popped in, snug between his teeth. He tried to close his mouth over it, but his lips couldn’t meet. The rubber strap of the gag pulled the corners of his mouth into what looked like the frozen smile of a happy mask.

The woman with the Taser stepped forward and examined the probes in his abdomen. Keith’s eyes widened as she held the Taser gun out behind her, with her finger clearly still on the trigger. She plucked the probes from Keith.

The two men collapsed the gurney’s legs to the floor, lifted one end, rolled Keith toward the lit wall, and turned to face a red door.

The Taser-wielding brunette stepped to the door and placed her palm on a waist-high glass console to the right of it. A green light silhouetted her fingers and then flashed under her hand like lightning. The door reacted with two heavy clanks and swung open a few inches as if it had been held by magnets that suddenly gave way. The crew of four wheeled Keith Mendalsen through the door.

He would soon desperately wish that a warm bottle of water, forgotten by a temp, was his life’s biggest inconvenience.

Chapter Three

BRANDON CHARGON PUSHED his way to the front of the elevator to exit ahead of the eight other passengers. He wasn’t late; he always rushed to everything. He didn’t wait for the doors to open completely before he shouldered his way out into the grand lobby of Santa Monica’s Pacific Grove building. Roman columns flanked a thirty-foot indoor fountain whose hissing water padded the echoing footsteps and conversations of the lobby’s guests.

As Brandon passed the large security check-in desk en route to the VIP parking exit, he saw a gorgeous brunette woman approaching from the opposite side of the lobby. She wore a low-cut, red satin blouse and a fitted black mini-skirt. She held eye contact with him and smiled. He slowed his pace. At six feet tall, the woman had a two-inch advantage over Brandon—even without the three inch heels that clicked on the polished floor under her graceful legs. Her trajectory and growing smile made it look as if she intended to speak to Brandon, but he couldn’t be so lucky…could he?

She carried no clipboard, so he knew she wasn’t taking an annoying survey, nor could she be what Brandon referred to as “scummy bummys”—homeless people that frequently timed their solicitations near closing time on the concrete walkway of Brandon’s office building. He had strong-armed property management into funding private security guards for the sole purpose of throwing such bums off building property. No, this girl wasn’t a scummy bummy. She was clean, classy, and sizzling.

She tilted her head coyly and leaned to one side—tentative—seeming ready to apologize if Brandon showed the slightest offense at her approach. “Excuse me, sir. Are you Mr. Chargon?”

A smile spread on Brandon’s face. “Yes, that’s me,” he said. His eyes drifted from her long dark hair down to her candy-apple high heels and back up to her eyes.

At fifty-one years old, Brandon had a belt-straining paunch and was bald—except for sideburns that looked like fuzzy, mirrored maps of Florida that didn’t quite make it over the tops of his ears.

“I’ve been searching for you,” she said, extending her hand. Her grip was firm and her need to look down into his eyes wowed Brandon.

“What can I do for you?” he asked. In his instant fantasy, her answer might lead them somewhere private—for the alcohol that could enable all sorts of possibilities. From experience, he knew he had no chance to score with a woman this hot without getting half a dozen drinks in her first.

“I’m sorry to be so forward, but are you the man who drives the ‘57 Ford Fairlane convertible I see pull into the parking garage almost every day?”

“Darling, could we talk a little while longer if I was that man?”

“Oh, God, yes! I love that car! Please tell me it’s yours!” She folded her hands and pressed them under her chin to contain her excitement.

Brandon grinned like a terrible poker player who had just drawn a royal flush. He tucked his left hand in his pocket and worked his thumb to remove his wedding ring. If he had carried some tanning lotion to remove his ring’s tan line, he would have tried to smear some on.

“As a matter of fact, young lady, you’re in luck! That Fairlane is one of my kids.” Brandon loved his cars. The Fairlane convertible was his favorite of the more than thirty classics he owned. His “kids” had his undying love, time, attention, and patience—often to the exclusion and envy of his wife of twenty-two years. “Care to take a ride in it?” he said, offering what he hoped was an unfair temptation.

“Oh, you wouldn’t!” She touched his arm and held her mouth wide open.

“If you have the time, let’s go,” Brandon said. He pulled his ringless hand from his pocket and made a point of scratching his nose in exhibition of his erased marital status.

“NO—are you serious? You’ll take me for a spin?”

“Absolutely.”

“Can we ride her topless?” she asked.

Brandon felt an adrenaline rush at what he hoped was innuendo and he jerked his gaze from her breasts back to her face. “Sure, but if we go topless, you might want to take a sweater since it’s cool out today.” Before he finished his sentence, he cursed himself; a chill would only enhance the scenery this girl offered.

“I’ve got a sweater and hair clip in my office. Do you mind coming with?” she said, pointing up.

Brandon checked his watch.

“I’m on the third floor—come with me. It will take only a minute,” she urged, and then winked at him.

“Well, if you’re going to beg...” Brandon laughed. He turned for the elevators that had just opened and disgorged a load of tired workers, headed home for the day.

She tugged his arm and leaned close enough for him to smell a hint of her perfume. “Wait, I’ve got a faster way.” She led him around the corner of the lobby to the freight elevator.

“So, do you work in building management?” Brandon asked, pointing to the freight elevator that required coveted key cards from the building management.

“No. I supervise security upstairs. I’m rarely out and about so you probably would never have seen me.”

“And that’s a shame!”

She laughed and pulled a key card from her purse and then held it to the elevator’s security pad. The pad beeped and the doors opened to a large, worn elevator car.

When the doors closed them in, she stepped away from Brandon and turned to face the elevator panel. Her smile disappeared as she buttoned two buttons on her blouse.

“Maybe our spin might roll us to a place where I can buy you a drink,” Brandon grinned.

“You wish,” she answered, her voice now lower in pitch.

Brandon, startled, said, “Pardon me. I can be too forward sometimes…I apologize.”

She sucked her teeth and then folded her arms over her purse.

“So, you’re into cars. Is the Fairlane your favorite classic?” Brandon asked, hopefully.

She poked her tongue into her cheek and shook her head without answering. The illuminated Floor 2 on the elevator panel had her full attention.

“Something I said?” Brandon forced a nervous laugh and cleared his throat. “What’s your name?” he asked. “I’m sorry. I can’t believe I actually forgot to ask you your name.”

“My name won’t be useful to you,” she said as the elevator door opened to the third floor. The small 15 x 10 foot vestibule was barely lit by a single 40-watt bulb in the center of the ceiling and dark gray foam padding lined the walls. She stepped out of the elevator and motioned for Brandon to follow.

“Whoa! What’s with the bat cave?” he said. The soles of his shoes sank into the spongy floor.

“Oh, we store some supplies for sound-staging here,” she said. “Just come through, my office is around the corner.”

On Brandon’s third step into the vestibule, a padded wall slid from the ceiling and slammed down between him and the open elevator door, blocking retreat. He jumped. The woman pivoted to him. A door behind her opened and two men in matching red Polo shirts and black slacks entered. One man was muscular with a crew cut, and his smaller partner pushed a silver, enclosed metal cart the size of an office desk. He swung open a side panel on the cart, exposing an interior, padded like the walls. The woman pulled a Taser gun from her purse. A red, laser sight quivered a spastic, two-inch pattern on Brandon’s stomach.

“Remove your pants and then enter the cart willingly,” she said calmly.

“Wait! What the hell is this?” Brandon said, searching the faces of the three.

The Taser’s probes pierced Brandon’s skin and he dropped, stiff, to the padded floor. He writhed with his teeth clenched and fists balled up and pressed against his hips as the Taser ticked. When the woman released the trigger, Brandon staggered to his feet.