The Question

The below story is the continuation of David, and Brandi’s adventure. The story began with Middleham Motors, followed by the search and the decision.

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 Photo Copyright: Sandra Crook

 David dropped a white bag on the table. “Breakfast is served.”

Brandi pushed the bag away. “You know I don’t eat fast food.”

“Sorry, but given the circumstances it’s the best I can do.”

“Still not an option.”

“Forget the food. I need to show you something. The envelope he left with your surveillance photos contained one other. I don’t know what to make of it.”

David slid the photo to Brandi. “And you think a picture of a littered creek or river, is supposed to mean something to me,” said Brandi.

“It must. Why else would he send it?”

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The decision

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The pit in David’s stomach grew, when his eyes met Brandi’s.
“Brandi…I’m sorry…I wish things were different,” said David.
“I haven’t seen you in three years and now you’re sorry.”
“Brandi, your in danger. I’ll explain everything, but we have to leave.”
“Get lost!”
“Brandi, he left an envelope for me yesterday.”
“So,” she said with a huff.
“So, he’s going to kill you.”
“Where can we go?”
“I know a place.”
They drove for hours, until David pulled into a small motel.
Brandi stared out the window at a frosted over tree. “When will this be over?”

The trip

This week’s flash fiction is the continuing story of Brittany,Harold, and Victor. The story began two weeks ago in the piece titled  Chance Meeting.

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Photo Copyright: Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

As they waited for a table at Wolfgang Puck’s Brittany wrapped her arms around Harold’s waist. “You surprised me with this trip.”

“That was the plan,” said Harold.
Brittany leaned in to kiss him, but midway she froze. Her face became ashen.
“What’s wrong Britt,” said Harold?

Brittany’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Victor is in front of the souvenir shop.”

“Impossible, Victor doesn’t…,” something sharp pressed against Harold’s back.
Victor grinned at Brittany and in a calm tone said to Harold, “We’re going to walk to your car. If you try anything, I’ll kill you here and now.”

The kidnapper continued

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 Photo copyright: Jean L. Hays

Pain radiated from Henry’s leg. A moment later, he collapsed with a thud.

Before everything went black a voice said, “ Your death will not be quick.”

He awoke to find Patricia bound and gagged dressed in her bra and underwear.

The kidnapper pressed a gun to the side of Patricia’s head. “Did Henry tell you what

happened to Hope and Jason?”

Patricia’s voice trembled, “They ran off together.”

The kidnapper laughed, “No, Henry killed them.”

The van came to a stop. Two men dragged Henry into a pre-dug grave. As dirt covered his body Henry screamed.

Chance meeting

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Photo Copyright: Melanie Greenwood

Victor pulled Brittany’s arm and yanked her out of the pink chair.

“Let go. You’re hurting my arm,” said Brittany.

His grip increased, “I got your text. It’s not over until I say so,” said Victor.

Victor started to slap her, when his hand was pinned behind his back by a man with abs visible though his t-shirt. Victor howled in pain and released Brittany’s arm.

The man said, “Apologize.”

Victor croaked, “I’m sorry.”

The man released Victor. “Now leave.”

“Brittany, this isn’t over,” said Victor and stormed off.

“Thanks…,” said Brittany.

“Harold and you’re welcome,” said the man.

The kidnapper

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 Photo Copyright: The Reclining Gentleman

Only one man stood at the midway point of the bridge. As Patricia approached with the rolling cooler she started to sweat.

“Where’s the money,” said the kidnapper?

“Where’s Henry? I want proof he’s alive,” said Patricia.

The kidnapper handed Patricia an iPhone. “Hit redial.”

The call picked up on the first ring. Seconds later came Henry’s hoarse voice, “Hello.”

“Henry, don’t worry….,” the call dropped.

“The money’s in the cooler,” said Patricia.

A van speed up the bridge. Tires squealed, the door opened and Henry dropped out of the van. As Henry and Patricia embraced, two gunshots rang out.

Patricia’s morning

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 Photo Coypright: Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

 

Patricia peered through the window of the music shop. Her view blocked by keyboards. How does he work in this mess?

“Call me,” she texted.

Henry better have a good reason for standing me up last night? Thirty minutes passed with no response.

This isn’t like him. What if he’s hurt? She called the police. A patrol car arrived an hour later.

The patrol officer said, “Are you Patricia Harris,” to the woman pacing?

She stared at her clasped hands, “My..um..boss..Henry…Petzel is missing?”

“Miss Harris, you’ll need to speak with missing persons. We’ll take you.”

Randal’s journey continued…

 

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 Photo Copyright: Kent Bonham

 

Randal threw the headset at the instrument panel. “I’m on my own.”

He rummaged the downed helicopter to find a S&W MP 9mm, and a knife. A sharp pain shot up his back as he exited.

“Don’t move… Where’s the pilot?” said a female voice.

His grip tightened around the gun. “He’s dead.”

“Good, now face me. No sudden movements.”

He turned, keeping the gun out of sight. A Spanish beauty held a spear to his chest.

“Please, I want to go home,” he said.

Tears fell as the spear dropped. “So do I, but your pilot stranded me here.”

Henry’s morning

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Photo Copyright: Marie Gail Stratford

Henry awoke on a cold surface, his wrists and ankles bound.

Through the gag he screamed, “Help,” but only a muffled sound escaped!

Where am I? I remember bringing Hope’s things to charity. Drove home, and something pinched my back.

He struggled to sit up. A thud filled the air, as his head smacked into a hard object.

He writhed; the effort caused the blindfold to slip. A bright light permeated the space. Oh my god, I’m in a box. Take a deep breath. If they wanted me dead, they would have killed me. In the distance a door creaked.

Salt Rock Island

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Photo Copyright: Dawn O. Landau

Randal peered out the window at the rocks of salt, as the helicopter zoomed over the beach.

“They’re a natural occurrence due to the high salt content of the water,” said the pilot.

Randal said, “Why are they in squares?”

“No one knows, I believe —,” the chopper shook.

It spun out of control and tossed Randal the only survivor into the drink. He awoke with a cough expelling the seawater from his lungs. Using a rusted pole for support he stammered to the crash site.

“Mayday, Mayday, I’m stranded on salt rock island,” he pleaded.

No response.