Drawing The Line

AuthorHouse

Chapter One

The pungent smell of pine was as oppressive as the stained, white pillow case that covered his head. Even though it was a cool October night, Chris Carter could feel the trickles of perspiration work their way slowly down his face until they disappeared in the drenched collar of his torn tee shirt. His loosely bound hands were resting between the small of his back and the rough bark of the tree he was resting his bruised body against. The ride had lasted for what had seemed like an eternity, but his rational mind told him it had likely been no more than thirty minutes.

The blur of events that had brought him to this unknown place were now coming back to him as he tried to free his perspiring hands from the constraints. Before he had fully awakened from a deep sleep he was lying face down on his single bed with his face buried in his pillow, someone straddling his waist while his hands were being bound and his ankles encircled with rope. Using every bit of strength his athletic body could muster, he had been able to raise his head slightly only to have his assailants cover his eyes with a strip of torn material then force his head back down in to the recesses of the pillow. A whispered warning, delivered so close to his ear that he could smell the rancid odor of stale beer, told him to not fight the inevitable. As the adrenalin that had kicked in spontaneously slowly subsided he relaxed his muscles, looking for any opportunity for escape. There was none.

He had been pulled roughly from the bed, stood up straight on his bound feet while his pillow case was being pulled over his blindfolded eyes. Two sets of large, strong hands had encircled his torso while another set had lifted his legs in to the air. The sensation of blood rushing to his covered head had told him he was being carried down the three flights of stairs. He remembered car doors opening and being pushed in to the empty backseat. The eerie silence had been broken only by heavy breathing, his and the two occupants in the front seat.

After being pulled from the cramped back seat he had been helped to his feet, his legs wobbly from riding in a fetal position. While two hands helped him gain his balance, he felt the back of the pillowcase lifted just enough for the blindfold to be removed. The circulation was returning to his legs, and the increased blood flow gave him the confidence to ask, "You pricks mind telling me where I am and what's going on?"

There was no response, only the sound of feet moving on pine straw. In an instant the rope had been removed from his ankles, and for the first time since the ordeal had begun Chris felt cautious optimism about his plight. He had sensed a presence in front of him, and for a brief moment considered striking out with his freed right foot. Before he could shift his weight two hands grasped his arms from behind, and a breathy whisper had told him, "Don't even think about it, Carter."

As the hands were slowly removed Chris broadened his stance for greater balance. His breathing had become deeper as the anger welled up inside him, his fists clenched in a futile effort of revenge. The rapid crackling of footsteps on the pine straw and car doors opening and closing had told him he would soon be alone. He had taken a deep breath as the engine started and the car slowly made its way through the forest of trees, headed for some unknown highway.

The silence surrounding Chris was at first deafening, but the sounds of the night began to engulf his senses. The melodic chirpings of crickets ceased as suddenly as they began. The eerie tranquility was interrupted with subtle rustling sounds, coming first from his right then behind him. Chris tensed every muscle in his six foot, two inch body, knowing his vulnerability to what was watching him. He had shuffled his feet backwards, one small step at a time, until he felt the girth of the pine tree.

He had known his first priority was regaining his sight. With his hands tied behind his back he had to find another way to free himself from the pillowcase. A sixth sense had led him slowly away from the tree toward an invisible bramble bush that had started its life as a seed carried by a passing bird many years before. As he got closer to the unseen thorny plant Chris could feel his heart racing, as much from the possibility of relief as from not knowing what might be lurking in or around it. He had instinctively recoiled when a thorn pierced the skin on his right forearm then turned slowly around so he could gauge the height. Carefully he had backed in to the bush, wincing as more thorns pierced his exposed arms and his tee shirt. Chris had felt only the cool night air on the top half of his back. He knew this would work.

Moving ever so slightly away from the bush, he had spread his legs for support and tensed his thigh muscles. In his mind he had done a simple calculation and lowered his body to where he thought the top of the bush would be parallel to his shoulders and then backed the inch and a half gap between him and what he hoped would give him relief. The thorns that had pierced his back and arms felt like a thousand needles. After uttering an obscenity Chris said a quick prayer, leaned forward and slowly knelt toward the ground. He had felt the pillowcase press against his face, and as his body got closer and closer to the ground the stained, white material remained stationary, attached to the brambles. His knees were eight inches from the musky forest floor when his head broke free. Thinking quickly he had turned his right shoulder down to absorb the fall.

The dampness of rotted foliage had penetrated his tee shirt and momentarily soothed the red whelps caused by the thorns. When his breathing had become normal again, Chris maneuvered himself in to a sitting position and slowly surveyed his surroundings. The light from the full moon had shined through the multitude of limbless trees like dozens of flashlights, teasing him with the hope for a way out.

Chris had rocked backwards, then forward, then back once again before using his chiseled calf muscles to propel him in to a standing position. He turned and looked back at the bramble bush and saw the pillowcase, now a crumpled heap, still attached to the thorns. He had made his way to the large pine tree and rested his weariness against the bark.

The sounds of the forest resumed their orchestrated melody but were suddenly interrupted by the distant but distinct sound of voices. Chris cocked his ear toward what he hoped was the direction of the muffled interchange and started walking as he listened.

Innately cautious for most of the eighteen years of his life, Chris approached the sounds slowly. He had been raised by a mother, who in many ways had coddled both him and his younger brother, and a father whose erratic work schedule at a steel mill in Pasadena, Texas left the day to day guidance of raising his sons to his wife. As the sounds became audible his mother's many admonitions about everything that can go wrong rang out in his mind.

With his hands still tethered behind him and his tee shirt now soaked from his exertions, he slowly made his way up a small rising, moving from tree to tree as if they would be barriers to harm. As Chris neared the top of the rising he dropped to his knees and crawled awkwardly toward the sounds that now seemed no more than thirty yards away. He angled his approach toward a scrub tree...