A Date with Danger Page 4

  “Excuse me?”

  I’ve been admiring a black cocktail jacket and suddenly realize someone’s talking to me. “Hmm, yes?” I whirl around guiltily and almost hide the jacket before remembering I’m allowed to hold it.

  “Do you work here?” The pinched voice belongs to a girl with a pinched face, enormously teased hair, and a posse of poshly dressed, disdainful-looking teenagers behind her.

  “Yes.” I smile. “How can I help you?”

  She thrusts a sequined party dress toward me. “Do you have any more of these?”

  I take the dress and look it over with a very scrutinizing expression, buying time as I rack my brain for where this stupid dress came from. Wait—wait! I know this one. It’s on display to the left of the accessories.

  “Yes, if you’ll follow me.” I cross through menswear to the right with them all trooping behind like an anorexic parade. When we arrive, I motion to the display. “Here we are.”

  The girl flicks through too fast to really be looking at sizes and then scowls. “Do you have any smaller than this?”

  Her posse folds their arms at once like they’ve practiced this. Synchronized snobbing.

  “Smaller?” I push to the back of the rack and select the smallest dress. “Here you go. Extra small.”

  She tsks loudly. “I already have extra small in my hand.” She shakes the sequins in my face, and her posse tisks in a round. “What I mean is do you have anything smaller than this?”

  I’m nodding slowly. “Smaller than extra small?”

  She pops her gum in a way that says, Obviously.

  “I’m afraid not.” I replace the dress on the rack. “I’d try Gymboree a few stores down. They should have what you need.”

  It takes her several seconds to realize she’s been insulted. She makes a noise of disgust, flips her long hair over one shoulder, whipping me in the face, and stalks off. Her posse flings their hair each in turn and follows, strutting out with the exact same amount of swagger.

  I’ve got to give them credit. That’s a well-honed routine. I sigh and straighten a scarf display, reprimanding myself. That was a rude thing to say. Sometimes my mouth runs off on its own. It’s one of the flaws I’m constantly repenting for. Besides, as an employee I’m supposed to live and die by the mantra “The customer is always right.” At least she didn’t tattle to my manager on her way out.

  “Hey.” Rhea—a smiling brunette with a nose stud—is just coming on shift, taking her purse and jacket toward the break room. “How long you been on?”

  “Only”—I check my watch—“forty-two minutes. Time stops in here.”

  She laughs. “At least we’re on the rest of the shift together. Want to get an Orange Julius on lunch break?”

  “We’ll never get our break together. Tanya’s on a tear. Speaking of—” Our manager is headed our way on her towering heels, and I hurry toward the rack I left in the black-and-white section. “Gotta get back to go-backs.”

  “Clever.” Rhea heads off to the break room, and I return to my task, trying to look busy.

  I’m trudging toward the fitting rooms for more clothes when I spot a guy in the menswear section. Not really unusual for there to be a guy in menswear. What is unusual is his apparel. He’s wearing a suit. Our guy clothes cater more to the hipster crowd with graphic tees and sweaters. This guy is wearing a tailored black suit, a crisp white button-up, and a dark tie. He’s idly riffling through a rack of clothes I could never picture him wearing, but his gaze isn’t on the merchandise. It’s wandering around the store.

  Weird.

  Maybe he’s just trying out a new look. I return to my work, trying to find where in the world this stupid little skirt originated, but my eyes keep swiveling back to Suit Guy. Now he’s at a rack of fedoras, picking them up at random and putting them back. Many customers shop with no intent to buy. I myself shop when I’m too broke to even afford a button, just for the pure joy of looking. But he’s not really looking. He’s just sort of handling things and watching everyone else.

  His gaze suddenly drifts to me, and we make eye contact.

  Panicked, I duck behind the rack and wait several seconds, my heart pounding. Then I slowly part two jackets to peek. He’s still looking my direction.

  After nearly a minute, he turns back to the fedoras. Staying crouched, I creep through racks and around displays, trying to be inconspicuous. A pair of girls laughing over boots notices me as I crawl by, and they stop to stare. “Hello,” I say with a broad smile as I crawl along. “Are you finding everything all right?” They just nod mutely.

  A display table across from menswear is draped with maxi dresses that hang down in front, the perfect hideout. I slide under the overhanging skirts and lie on my stomach to peer out beneath the hems.

  Suit Guy has moved on to men’s jackets but isn’t even pretending to look anymore. He’s just standing there, his gaze moving back and forth, and I swear he’s looking for me. After a moment he’s joined by another man in a twin dark suit.

  There are two of them.

  The second guy turns, and he’s wearing dark sunglasses. Inside.

  They’re the Men in Black!

  Oh, my gosh. What if there’s an alien in the store? I don’t really believe in that stuff, but it would sure take the boredom out of go-backs.

  They converse for a moment, looking very serious, and then both turn my way. Though I know they can’t see me, I shrink back into my hideout. As long as I stay here—

  “Jack?”

  I jerk, startled, and whack my head on the underside of the table, rattling my teeth together.

  Tanya, my manager, is gaping down at me. “What are you doing down there?”

  Massaging my throbbing scalp, I manage, “Just, uh, go-backs. Isn’t this, uh . . .” I hold out the little skirt still clutched in my hand, “where this goes?”

  Only now do I notice the store’s district manager standing behind her.

  Tanya is smiling in a terrifying way, her teeth bared like a jackal. “Come out from under there,” she hisses through clenched incisors, and when I hesitate, she takes my arm and drags me out onto the floor like an overturned beetle.

  Oh no. They’ve spotted me. The Men in Black have spotted me. They’re striding across the store.

  “Tanya!” I gasp. “You don’t understand. You’ve got to call the authorities or something—”

  Two pairs of shiny black shoes have stopped beside me. “Jacklyn Wyatt?” one man asks, his voice impossibly deep.

  “No,” I say at once.

  “Yes,” Tanya contradicts me.

  “Yes?” asks one of the Suits.

  “Yes,” Tanya insists.

  He points at her. “You’re Jacklyn Wyatt?”

  “Yes!” I exclaim.

  “No!”

  The Suit is scowling now. “You’re not Jacklyn Wyatt?”

  “No, I’m not!” Tanya insists and thrusts a finger down at me. “She is!”

  Both grim faces turn down toward me.

  “Hello,” I say feebly from my back, giving a little wave.

  “Miss Wyatt”—the one in shades flashes some kind of badge—“we need you to come with us.”

  5

  I’ve been abducted.

  I’ve been abducted!

  And you know what? No one seems to care! Now I understand how these things happen in movies. I always thought, Oh, come on! Nobody saw them kidnap that girl?

  But it’s true. The Suits march straight through the mall with me pinned between them—which must’ve looked suspicious enough—but I also frantically whisper, “I’m being abducted. I’m being abducted!” to everyone we pass. And the only people who actually looked at me acted like I was nuts.

  When I get dismembered, it’s on them.

  We even passed one of those regenerative skin
kiosks, and when the worker approached and asked, “Do you have a minute?” I responded, “No, I don’t have a minute, I’m being abducted!” She looked completely unfazed and instead approached a customer strolling behind us while the Suits marched me on.

  As we near the exit, I realize I should yell, shout, make a scene. If I attract attention and cry for help, surely mall security or someone will intervene. But what if one of them has a gun in his pocket pointed at me as we walk? What if they’ve fit the entire mall with hidden dynamite or something and are just waiting for me to resist before they blow the place up?

  I could kick them in the shins and make a run for it. I definitely know this mall better than they do, and I could get lost in the middle of a clothing rack somewhere and not come out until next week. That is, unless they’re planning to explode things if I don’t cooperate. Or they might take someone else hostage.

  Is that what’s happening here? Am I a hostage?

  Why could they possibly want me? My brain wildly reels through any possible reason they could want me. I’m flat broke, and my parents do okay but could never pay a ransom or anything. Maybe I saw something I wasn’t supposed to see and don’t even know it. Like at work I happened to glimpse a random stream of numbers which, if plugged into a key pad on an island directly at the center of the equator, blows up the core of the earth or something.

  Yeah. Because that kind of information would be lying around the paperwork at the local Forever 21.

  Or maybe they think I’m someone else! Yes, it’s a case of mistaken identity.

  Except they called me by name.

  Maybe it’s some kind of revenge thing. For a wild moment I wonder if the little army of teenyboppers has anything to do with this. It just goes to show, you should never provoke someone that skinny because they’re bound to be hungry and mad.

  We pass the security desk, and my mouth opens to cry for help, but no words come out. Moments later we’ve passed, and Shades is opening the exit door to lead me through.

  The sunshine warms my hair, and as we march through the parking lot, I observe for a moment what a nice day it is.

  A perfect day to get kidnapped.

  They steer me to a dark SUV parked in the handicap spot right at the front of the lot, and the other guy unlocks the doors with a remote. I parked my own car on this side of the mall. Employees have to park at the very far side in the white spots, but maybe I could break away, run to my rust bucket—

  Outrun two huge linebackers and manage to unlock the car before they catch me? Sure.

  Shades is already ushering me inside and closing the door behind me like a nice gentleman kidnapper. At least they teach manners in Criminal School.

  The second the door closes, I tug on the handle but it’s locked. I slide over to the other door. Locked too. By then both men are climbing into their own seats in the front, and with a barely discernible rumble, the car comes to life and we’re backing out of the space.

  It all happened so fast.

  Tanya saw them take me, but I doubt she did anything about it. She probably thinks it’s appropriate punishment for someone who shirks their responsibilities and hides under display tables. In fact, she probably sent them to teach me a lesson about employee work ethics.

  The driver turns right out onto University Parkway. And a minute later (traffic is far too light for this time of day—further proof of the conspiracy), they take the exit right onto the freeway headed toward Salt Lake City.

  You’re never supposed to actually get in the car with a kidnapper. Didn’t I hear that in school somewhere? You’re supposed to make a stand and force them to action before you get in because the statistics for survival drop rapidly once you change locations. If you get in the car, chances are pretty good you’re not coming back alive.

  So I’ve already done the number-one thing you’re not supposed to do.

  Palms sweating, gut tying itself in knots, I riffle through the mental catalog of all the crime thrillers I’ve seen in my life, searching for a solution. Several scenarios come to mind:

  Jerk the steering wheel so the car crashes and you can run away. I’ve seen this done on lots of movies, and the bad guy always gets banged up worse than the hero so the hero can disappear into the darkened forest with a head start. Downside: We’re on the freeway going about seventy-five miles an hour. A crash at this speed would probably not help much, and there’s no darkened forest to retreat to anyway.

  Kick out a taillight and wave your hand so drivers behind see that you’re in distress and they call in the license plate. Downside: I’m not in the trunk, for starters. I could try kicking out the window, but I’m wearing worthless little ballet flats and the glass would turn my legs to mush. Besides, if I’m waving from a window, people won’t think I’m in distress, they’ll just think I’m being friendly. Fat lot of good that will do.

  Send a smoke signal of Morse code. Downside: I don’t have any smoke. Or know Morse code.

  Steal a cell phone off one of the guys and hotwire it to phone a random stranger, who then follows my clues to find us and rescue me.Downside: I have no idea how to hotwire a cell phone. And if I got hold of a cell phone, I wouldn’t hot-wire it, I would just call for help.

  Fake a seizure and get them to pull the car over.I could maybe manage that. Especially if I had some kind of tablets to put in my mouth to fake foaming at the mouth. Downside: No tablets, and very little shoulder here on the freeway to pull over. And even if they do pull over and I manage to get away, there’s nowhere to run but straight into traffic.

  Keep sitting here, wait until we get where we’re going, and then hope to formulate a plan of escape. Yeah, I think I’ll go with F. Mostly because I don’t have another option.

  I grate my damp palms back and forth across my jeans compulsively, but the sweat just seems to keep coming. Maybe I have one of those glandular disorders that cause excessive sweating.

  Or maybe I’m just scared out of my mind.

  We’re passing American Fork already, speeding toward Salt Lake at what seems to be a superhuman rate. Where could we possibly be going? I imagine all the places between here and wherever that could serve as a tiny hole in which to stuff a body.

  Maybe I should do what victims do sometimes and try to identify my killers on my person somehow. Then at least in death I can point the finger at the thieves who robbed me of life. I could use blood or something to write their names on my stomach, where they won’t think to look. The problem is I don’t know either of their names. I can’t just write “The Men in Black.” That wouldn’t narrow the suspect pool very far. Besides, blood makes me nauseated. Even if I could cut myself, I’d pass out before I could write anything.

  I’m the most worthless kidnap victim ever.

  How many times have I watched movies where fussy girls get abducted and they just cry and go along with it? I always thought, Why don’t you do something, dummy? Be proactive! Hit him with a board! Jump out of the car! But now that it’s me, I’m plastered to the seat with fear.

  We’re coming up on Lehi now. Beyond there’s Thanksgiving Point and then Salt Lake City about thirty miles out. If they wanted to take me into the wilderness, they could easily do so once they pass the Point of the Mountain. My mouth is bone-dry at the thought.

  Neither one has spoken a word since we left the store. They’re absolutely silent in the front, staring straight ahead. Maybe it’s a psychological tactic to put me on edge before we get where we’re going. It’s working.

  I could ask, I think. I could just ask where we’re going.

  Something about actually interacting terrifies me. Their silence, though unnerving, isn’t definite. They haven’t confirmed the thousand atrocities swimming around in my brain, but if I ask where we’re going, they may respond with, “To meet your new children, wifey dear.” Or “To keep company with the worms and the maggots.” And if they say something like that,
my already tenuous composure will crack and send me spiraling into complete horror. Maybe it’s better if I don’t know.

  But we’re passing the Point of the Mountain now, and suddenly I can’t bear the silence. “Where are we going?” I ask. My voice is so small I have to clear my throat and repeat the question.

  Shades glances back at me and says, “We’re not at liberty to say, ma’am.”

  Ma’am? That’s unusual for a kidnapper. Now I’m back to the Men in Black theory. Before I can stop myself, I blurt, “You guys know I’m not an alien, right?” Shades turns to look at me, his expression stony, and then stares out the front again. I lean back into the seat, blotting my palms and trying to keep a rein on my breathing.

  Please, Father in Heaven, I find myself praying. Please let this be okay.

  At the speed of light, we’ve reached Salt Lake. I’m surprised when they take the Fifth South exit and follow the traffic surging into downtown. What is there in downtown Salt Lake? A murder lair? A secret government UFO facility? Some kind of brothel?

  Coldness grips my stomach. They could be selling me into human trafficking. I saw a documentary on it once. They could be taking me downtown to some kind of auction where I’ll get purchased by a foreign gentleman for a thousand rupees or whatever currency the foreigner uses.

  “They just need to speak with you,” Shades says as the driver guides the car onto a side street.

  They? I get bold and ask, “Who are they?” He doesn’t answer me.

  After a few minutes we reach an area of town that looks mostly deserted. Here brick buildings have fallen into disrepair, their faces marred by layer upon layer of graffiti. The driver navigates the car to a squat, gray building with rows of identical windows, and we stop in front of the steel wall of a closed garage. He pushes a button on the dash, and the garage door lifts to give us entry. Shadow swallows the car as we enter the garage.