The Grass is Always Greener and other stories Page 2

  I blinked, then blinked again, trying to clear my hazy vision. A woman loomed over me suddenly, her face close to mine, a macabre reprisal of my dream—the early moments of my dream, thank the Lord, for this woman was not the woman of my dreams.

  No, this woman was very old and very ugly. White hair, faded eyes and, on one cheek, a nickel-size brown mole that looked like it could crawl away under its own power. I turned my head away as I realized with horror that she intended to kiss me. The kiss landed on my ear rather than my lips. Repulsed even so, I rolled sideways intending to dislodge the covers and hit the floor running.

  Sluggish from the drug, I hit the floor, all right, but head-first and still tangled in the blanket. As I struggled to free myself, the woman appeared next to me, extending a pale, bony hand.

  I shrank away from her touch. "What do you want?" I croaked. My voice sounded hoarse and uneven to me, though perhaps that was because my ears seemed stuffed with cotton.

  What the hell had they given me?

  And who were they?

  And what did they want?

  The last thing I remembered was kissing Sarah and our baby girl, Kathleen, goodbye and driving to work at the bank. My car was a just-off-the-assembly-line '62 Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight, and I clearly remembered parking it snug along the wall in the executive parking ramp in order to leave as much space as possible between it and Hal Schultz's Caddie. Mr. Schultz was our bank president, and he had the habit of opening his Cadillac's driver side door with the reckless abandon of the very rich and very privileged.

  When I'd been driving my old ‘57 Chevy, I hadn't minded as much. And truth be told, it wouldn't have done my career or my Chevy any good to complain anyway.

  But now, with my promotion secure, and the Buick paid for in cash, I did mind. I had bought the car with the bonus I'd gotten when I'd been named SVP. That's Senior Vice President, which is the step above First Vice President, which is a step above plain old Vice President, which is a step above Assistant Vice President. Sunset Bank, as a friend of mine likes to point out, has more VPs than customers.

  Anyway, I'd been through all the ranks and now was second-in-command, the youngest man ever to have achieved that post, with all the stock options and indemnifications to prove it.

  But I digress.

  So I'd parked my car and then…what?

  I didn't know.

  The crone's voice interrupted my drug-induced reverie. "I'm going to help you up, and then we're going to take a bath."

  That got me moving. "The hell we are," I said, shoving her hard. She fell backwards on her rump, and I managed to get myself untangled and onto my feet.

  The woman crawled a couple of steps toward the door. I felt bad for pushing the old lady, but I'd been pushed myself, far beyond my limits.

  "You've hurt me, John." She said it matter-of-factly, like she was used to being hurt.

  She knew my name, too, which told me that whatever had happened, whoever had taken me, it hadn't been random. I'd been targeted for this abduction. But why?

  The logical answer, of course, was my new job, the one I'd been flashing around like a giggly girl with an engagement ring:

  Look at me, I'm a Senior Vice President! Look at my car! Look at my benefit package!

  What an idiot. Bank executives already were attractive targets for kidnappers, banks having money and all, and I'd practically stood on a street corner with my thumb stuck out waiting to be picked up.

  But vague regret over my stupidity was about as far as my brain would take me in its current addled state. And my body wasn't doing much better. In fact, the surge of energy that had gotten me upright had left me even weaker in its wake.

  So much so, that while I'd been ruminating, the old lady already was up and at the door. "I'm going to have to lock you in, John. I don't want to do that."

  She sounded like she meant it. Probably thinking about that bath we were missing.

  "Then don't," I said, finally willing myself the four steps across the room toward her.

  She stepped into the hall, putting the edge of the open door between us. "I'm sorry, but you leave me no choice."

  She shook her head wearily and her necklace and the loose flesh beneath it swung back and forth in time to the movement.

  I blinked my eyes twice, and the haze cleared for a moment. Dangling on the chain around her neck was a wedding ring. My wedding ring. I grabbed it and yanked, breaking the chain. "That's mine, damn it," I yelled, suddenly beside myself with fury, a merciful break from the fear and confusion. "How dare you touch me, how dare…"

  That's when I realized I was standing there in my undershorts. Not only had the old crone taken my wedding ring from my finger while I was unconscious, she had undressed me. The thought made me sick.

  I raised my fist, the ring still clutched in it. I'm not sure if I really would have punched her, but she didn't give me the chance. She slammed the door in my face, and I heard the lock turn.

  She didn't move away, though. "You don't need that ring," she hissed from the other side. "And your marriage? Your wife? You can forget them, too, John."

  I backed away, nearly tripping over the bed in my eagerness to escape the malignancy that seemed to seep right through the door.

  Jesus. Did they have Sarah, too? But where were they holding her? Did they mean to kill her? Or me? Or both of us?

  I looked at the wedding ring in my hand.

  Sarah. Quite literally the blonde, blue-eyed girl of my dreams, though that was the twenty-year-old Sarah. The Sarah I'd met in college.

  Now, some nine years later, she was still just as beautiful, if a little less…uninhibited. The fact that I still dreamed of her, and no one else, never failed to stagger me.

  Sarah. I slipped the ring on my finger. "Will I ever see you again?" I whispered.

  And Kathleen. What would become of our baby if both Sarah and I were…gone? My brother would take her in and love her, I knew. But Kathleen would grow up never knowing her parents, not being able to remember so much as a trip to the zoo or a hug or a kiss from us. I imagined Kathleen poring over yellowed baby pictures, desperately trying to manufacture memories to fit the photos.

  I knew I was wallowing, but even the idea of Sarah growing up without us wasn't nearly as bad as the alternative -- the thought I refused to entertain: That they had our baby, too, and meant her harm.

  No. Thinking of that would do me little good, and would do Sarah and Kathleen even less. But I did need to think—to think of a way out. I sat down on the bed.

  I'd been kidnapped -- that much was clear. I wondered how many people had been involved. The woman had to have at least one male accomplice. Even if she had managed to undress me, she wouldn't have been able to move me while I was unconscious.

  So what was her partner doing right now?

  Making a ransom demand?

  And what would the bank do in response?

  If Schultz couldn't be bothered not to bash my car door with his every day, could he be bothered to hand over a hundred thousand -- or more -- in ransom?

  A knock at the door made me jump up, or try to. This exertion/exhaustion was becoming a tiresome cycle. I heaved myself off the bed and toward the door. "Who's there?"

  The old woman or the accomplice? The Lady or the Tiger -- though in this case they both were losing propositions.

  "I have your medication."

  Medication? Did she really think I was going to let her drug me voluntarily?

  Apparently so. "You'll feel better if you take it," the crone crooned.

  I'd feel better only when I was out of there, when I'd found Sarah and knew that she and our baby were safe. But for now I needed to play along. The fact that the old woman wanted me to take another dose meant the current one must be wearing off. So, bad as I still felt, there wouldn't be a better time to make a break for it.

  "All right," I said, purposely making my voice weak. "I am feeling lousy."

  "Of course you are," she said, fiddli
ng with the lock. "That's because you got so angry. You mustn't --" She opened the door.

  I stepped behind it, using the solid wood as a shield like she had, and checked behind her for her accomplice. No one.

  She came in with a glass of water. I noticed it was a plastic glass, oxymoronic as that sounded, probably so I couldn't break it and gain a weapon. And God knows I'd gladly gut the hag if it would get me home.

  The old woman held the glass out to me with one hand and reached into her voluminous apron pocket with the other.

  That's when I struck, knocking the glass out of her hand and bolting from the room. My right hip was hurting, probably from the fall out of the bed. I could hear the old woman yelling my name as I high-tailed it down the hall and into a living room.

  My vision was still hazy, and I searched frantically for a door. There. On the far wall next to the television set.

  I dashed across the room and undid the door chain. Then I turned the knob and pulled. The door stayed shut. I checked the lock button in the doorknob. It was popped out, meaning the door was unlocked. And the knob turned easily enough, but still the door wouldn't open. What the hell?

  I jiggled the knob.

  "You can't get out." The old woman was right behind me. I could feel her attic-stale breath on the back of my neck.

  I pulled frantically at the door again, only then noticing a third lock. One that could be opened only with a key.

  "You can't get out," the old woman repeated. "You might as well sit down on the couch. I'll get your breakfast." Then she walked away.

  I slumped against the door. Somehow the fact that she could go off to make breakfast, secure in the knowledge that I was trapped, was more demoralizing than anything to date.

  She came back in with a Melmac coffee cup. "Sit down on the couch," she said again.

  I obeyed. I didn't know what else to do.

  "Here's your coffee. Not too hot, so you won't burn yourself. Or me." A ghost of a smile, exposing her yellowing teeth and crinkling the hideous mole on her cheek. I took the coffee, and she turned and left me again.

  I set the cup on the end table. Did she think I was stupid? The coffee had to be drugged.

  The woman came back into the room. "You need to calm down, you know. Would you like the television on?" I didn't answer, but she crossed the room to a Zenith and punched a couple of buttons anyway. Then she went back to what I presumed was the kitchen.

  That got me to thinking about where I might be.

  Ignoring the game show on the screen, I looked around the room for a newspaper or anything that would tell me whether I was still in Sunset. At least then, assuming I could get my hands on a phone, I could give the police a place to start.

  But no newspaper, no telephone, no nothing. I eyed the TV set -- a station ID might give me the information I needed.

  But Garry Moore presiding over "I've Got a Secret" wasn't going to help much. Pushing myself up off the couch and across the room to the television, I checked behind me for the old woman before changing the channel.

  A Tom and Jerry cartoon. Kathleen's favorite, but it wasn't going to tell me where I was. I pressed on past a Nile River travelogue and the Guiding Light, too.

  Then an anchorman appeared on the screen. That stopped me short. News in the morning meant something big must have happened. I started to punch the volume up, but an age-spotted hand reached in and shut the set off.

  "You have no need to be watching that."

  The way she said it made me certain they had no intention of letting me go. Ransom or not.

  The old lady had carried in a TV table topped with a plate of bacon and eggs and set it down. I'd been so engrossed in changing channels, I hadn't even heard her. I would have to be more careful.

  "Sit on the couch, and I'll put this in front of you," she said.

  Again, I did what I was told. For now. My plan was to conserve my strength, so I'd be ready when an opportunity to escape presented itself. Maybe it would be when the mail was delivered, or a repairman came. Whatever, it had to be before the old lady's accomplice returned.

  She set the TV table in front of me. "Should I cut up your eggs?"

  She assumed I'd drunk the coffee, and the drugs were taking effect. "Yes," I mumbled, playing along. If I could get my hands on a knife, maybe I could force her to tell me where Sarah was before I made my escape.

  But when she pulled the linty knife out of her apron pocket, it was a plastic non-serrated one that wouldn't cause so much as a papercut. I could do more damage with a manila file folder.

  The old woman sawed the two fried eggs and bacon into a runny mess and surveyed me. "Do you need me to feed you?"

  Ugh. Playing drugged or not, that was not going to happen. "No, I can do it." I picked up the fork.

  As I did so, she grabbed my other hand. "John, I need to have that ring back."

  She was talking about the wedding ring, Sarah's and mine. I tried to pull my hand away from her, but the old crone was surprisingly strong.

  "I'll keep it safe for you," she promised.

  Sure, by hanging it around that withered old neck of yours again, I thought. My head was pounding, and the anger surged. Almost without thinking, I plunged the fork into the back of her hand as she pawed at my fingers.

  She screamed and let go.

  I was up like a flash, searching for another way out. Behind me I could hear the old woman, in the kitchen and on the phone, urging someone to get help. Her accomplice, of course. If I didn't get out now, I knew I never would.

  The place was like a jail, though, every window barred with decorative wrought iron. The only one without the fleur-de-lis prison bars was the picture window. I would have to go through it.

  Looking around the room for something to break the glass, I settled on a small arm chair. Problem was, my strength was waning again, and I wasn't sure if I could pick up the chair, much less throw it through the window.

  As I struggled with it, I heard the old woman behind me. By sheer strength of will -- or, perhaps, sheer panic -- I picked up the chair and put it through the window. As the crone's fingernails clawed at my back, I scrambled awkwardly through, landing hard on the wooden porch beyond.

  I pulled myself up with the help of the porch railing. Behind me, I could hear the crone unlocking the door. She might be too old to make it through the window, but then she didn't have to. She had a key to the door.

  As I turned to barrel down the porch steps, the old woman already was pushing her way through the aluminum storm door. One step down, I turned and caught a glimpse of something reflected obliquely in the mirrored glass of the open door.

  It stopped me cold.

  Sarah.

  She was standing on the porch to the right of the door, her hair covered in pellets of shattered glass. She appeared unharmed.

  "Sarah." I said it aloud this time, but she didn't answer, didn't move toward me. She seemed lost. Drugged, of course.

  I reached up and grabbed her by the arm. "Sarah, we have to get away from here."

  Confused, she tried to twist away from me. I wondered where they had kept her, and how she had gotten away. I wondered if Kathleen was safe. But there was no time to ask now. We had to run.

  I pulled at Sarah again, managing to propel her down the one step to me. But that was as far as we got. The old woman had Sarah's other arm, the two of us playing tug-of-war with my wife as the human rope.

  What's worse, I was losing. With one gigantic effort, the old woman yanked Sarah back up and away from the edge of the porch.

  I lost my grip and fell back, just managing to catch myself on the stair railing. My heart was thudding and my ears were ringing as I tried to climb back up. Meanwhile, the crone was trying to push Sarah into the house.

  As I got to them the ringing in my ears turned into a high-pitched wail. Was it Sarah screaming? The old woman keening insanely? I couldn't tell. Everything was bedlam.

  Then, suddenly, the old woman let go of Sarah and bac
ked off.

  I didn't understand why until I saw the police car pull up in front of the house.

  It hadn't been ringing or wailing, screaming or keening I'd been hearing, but the siren of the approaching squad car. Someone must have heard the commotion and called the police. As I glanced at the house next door, I saw a curtain twitch. God bless nosy neighbors.

  Two officers get out of the squad car.

  I took a deep, grateful breath and went to Sarah. "Honey, it's okay. We're safe." I tried to kiss her, but she turned away.

  "LET HER GO," from one of the cops.

  I did as he asked, affected more by the look of revulsion on Sarah's face than by the barked order.

  The officers came around their car, and I unsteadily descended the porch steps to meet them.

  "Thank God, you're here," I told an officer with sandy hair. "This woman is holding me against my will. My wife and I --"

  But the burly officer grasped my arm and started to tow me toward the house. "C'mon, sir. Let's go inside."

  "You don't understand," I said, trying desperately to shake him off. "I've been kidnapped. I'm John Collins, Senior Vice President of Sunset Bank."

  "Sure." He kept right on walking, dragging me along with him back up the porch steps.

  What in the hell was going on? I felt like I'd fallen into an episode of "The Twilight Zone." Rod Sterling would appear any moment. Or even better, Allen Funt, ordering me to "Smile, you're on Candid Camera!"

  I knew I wasn't thinking clearly, but I also knew I had to do something. Now.

  Yanking my arm free at the top of the steps, I lost my balance and landed hard on one knee in front of Sarah. I took her hand. "Please, honey. Tell them who I am."

  But, again, she wouldn't look at me.

  "Sarah. Don't you know me, honey?"

  The beautiful blue eyes -- Sarah's eyes -- turned toward me. They were filled with tears. "I know you, Daddy."

  Daddy? Daddy?