I stuck my hand back in my pockets just to warm my fingers. I could hoof it home, I realized. It would take about a half hour. But I’d be freezing cold by the time I arrived. And I didn’t feel comfortable being alone at this hour on the deserted downtown streets. I also didn’t feel like hopping on the subway this late.
Suddenly I heard a car come up slowly behind me on Ludlow, and instinctively I spun around. It was another gypsy cab. Or, rather, the same gypsy cab I’d seen outside the Living Room. The driver was obviously having the same amount of luck as I was. He made eye contact again and cocked his head. I nodded my head in response. This time I felt desperate enough to hop in.
“Ninth and Broadway,” I told the driver once I was in the back seat. The car, to my disgust, reeked of cigarette smoke.
“Twelve dollars,” he told me, not bothering to turn around. Gypsy cabs didn’t have meters.
“How about ten?” I said. Twelve seemed outrageous.
He nodded, again without looking back, and put the car in drive. I leaned my head back, exhausted. I’d barely slept last night, and my insomnia was catching up with me now. I closed my eyes, just resting them. I heard Beau’s words from earlier echo in my head suddenly: “Something absurd is going on here. But I’m not the one responsible.” Was he going to end our relationship? I wondered.
I opened my eyes again, feeling miserable. I was too churned up right now, and I couldn’t think any more about it. When I gazed out in the darkened Manhattan street, I realized something wasn’t right. We were back on Houston Street, headed east, not north. The driver was going the wrong way.
Chapter 16
“Wait,” I yelled, jerking my body forward. “I said Ninth and Broadway.”
For one brief moment I actually thought the driver had misheard me or had arrived in America six days ago and had no freaking clue where he was going. But he never turned around, just gunned the motor so that the car sped even faster. I realized that after I’d closed my eyes in the backseat, he must have circled back to Houston. It was suddenly clear: he was abducting me! My heart hurled itself against the front of my chest, like it was trying to leap off a cliff.
“What do you want?” I called out. My voice was squeaky from panic. “Do you want money?” But the driver ignored me.
I glanced toward the door. The lock was still up at least. I had no choice—the only escape was for me to leap out onto the road. Yet the car was moving so fast, I couldn’t imagine how I’d pull it off.
I reached for my handbag and searched frantically until I found my BlackBerry. My hands were shaking as I punched in 911.
“A cabdriver kidnapped me,” I yelled to the operator. “Uh—a gypsy cab. We’re going down Houston Street. East.”
“Miss, what is your name?” the woman asked.
“Bailey Weggins. Please, you’ve got to help me.”
With one swift movement the driver reached his right arm into the backseat and tried to slap the BlackBerry from my hand. I jerked away, pressing my body against the door.
“What is the license plate of the car?” the operator asked.
“I have no idea,” I exclaimed. “I didn’t see it.”
“What’s the car look like? What’s the make?”
“Uh—I don’t know. It’s dark. A four-door.” I peered into the front seat toward the glove compartment. I couldn’t see anything.
I prayed the guy would head onto a side street, where he’d be forced to slow down. But he turned south onto the FDR Drive, which ran between the East River and the eastern edge of Manhattan. My fear ballooned. There was only a small amount of traffic, and the driver now had the car up to at least fifty miles per hour. If I jumped out, I’d kill myself.
“We’re on the FDR now,” I yelled to the operator. “South.”
I grabbed the window handle and rolled it down. Cold air gushed into the back of the cab.
“Help me,” I screamed to the stream of cars to my right, but my voice was crushed by the wind. Finally a woman in the backseat of one of the cars seemed to notice me. She leaned forward, said something to the couple in the front seat, and then glanced back at me, her face scrunched in worry. But the car pulled off at the next exit.
I felt nearly dizzy with dread. Where was he taking me? I wondered desperately. Did he want to rob me or rape me, or both? He nearly careened off the South Street exit, and then to my horror swung onto the entrance to the Manhattan Bridge. He was taking me to Brooklyn, where it would be easy to find a deserted spot. He was forced to slow down just a little on the bridge, but there was too much traffic for me to even think of jumping out. On my right a subway car hurtled by alongside us. Inside passengers dozed or stared listlessly. I tried to motion to them, but no one noticed.
From my hand I could hear the operator calling out to me. I pressed my Blackberry to my ear.
“Miss, please, give me your location now,” she said.
“We’re on the bridge now,” I told her. “Manhattan Bridge.”
“Can you signal to anyone near you?”
“I’m trying, but they don’t see me.”
“We are alerting the police in Brooklyn to your location.”
Get control, I told myself. I had to think of a plan. When we left the bridge, the driver would have to slow down. That would be my chance to leap from the car. I pressed myself against the door and gripped the handle tightly.
Finally we came off the bridge, rolling into a dark, deserted part of Brooklyn. I could tell the driver was trying his best not to lose speed, but he had no choice but to ease off the gas. The traffic light ahead had just turned from yellow to red and he zoomed right through it. I’d never have a chance to jump if he refused to ever stop the freaking car.
There were only stop signs at the next two intersections and the driver just barreled through. He was about to do the same with the next one, but miraculously a delivery van came lumbering through the intersection. The driver touched the brake, slowing the car. I jerked the handle down. At the same moment the driver shot his right arm into the backseat and tried to grab hold of my jacket, but I was faster than he was. I shoved open the door, propelled myself out, and rolled onto the sidewalk.
I scrambled to my feet, veered right, and started to run. I was on a dark and empty street, lined with old warehouses and storefronts with their metal gates pulled down. Behind me I heard tires squeal as the driver jerked the wheel. Oh God, I thought. He was going to come after me, even though he’d be headed the wrong way down a one-way street.
“I’m out now,” I yelled into the BlackBerry. “On, uh—I can’t see.”
I couldn’t take the time to see. I just had to move. Running as fast as I could, I screamed for help a couple of times, but there wasn’t a soul in sight, just darkened or boarded-up windows everywhere I could see. In a minute I could hear the car coming up behind me. I propelled myself even faster, trying not to trip in my damn riding boots. My lungs seemed ready to explode.
I heard the driver gun the engine. He was almost parallel to me, just off to my left. I didn’t look over, just kept my eyes straight ahead, focusing on a point in the distance. About two blocks ahead I could see a big halo of light at an intersection, as if there were businesses and traffic there. Go! I screamed to myself. I only had to make it two long blocks. I yelled for help a few more times, just to let the guy know it would be a bitch to stop the car and try to get me inside again without a fuss.
We were coming to a stretch of the street where there weren’t even any parked cars along the sidewalk, and I wondered, horrified, if the driver might try to jump the car up onto the sidewalk and mow me down. And then it was like he’d read my mind. I heard the thud as he yanked the car up over the curb. Without even processing what I was about to do, I dropped my phone into my pocket and grabbed a garbage can near a doorway. I spun around and hurled it right at the hood of the car.