Hoops of Fire

It's a tough job market in this suffering economy. The main character of this story finds out the hard way.

Hoops of Fire

The bride glides slowly down the aisle, her lace and taffeta train trailing behind on scattered rose petals. Her father is somehow beside her, there for her special day, smiling despite discomfort in his stiff tuxedo. The crowd murmurs approval as they look on, but they blur as she focuses on her beloved standing at the altar, looking so handsome as he awaits her arrival. She cannot wait to spend her life with him, so she speeds up, her father and the violinist adjusting their paces, anxious for the moment when the priest will pronounce them husband and wife.

As they join hands, she feels the spark of a magical electricity course through her. The priest starts to speak, and the bride gazes lovingly at her groom, noticing her beaming reflection in his eyes. She glances away momentarily as the priest asks her to repeat after him, and when she turns back, her fiance’s eyes have clouded over. Sweat is pouring off his brow, drenching his face and dripping onto his starched ivory collar. His forehead creases as if he is suddenly fraught with worry, but then it flakes off in chunky layers, exposing an oozing mass of muscle and soft tissue below. The bride’s mouth drops open as his face suddenly melts away, falling to a puddle of flesh at her shiny sequined ballet slippers. He continues smiling broadly as he leans forward for a kiss.

Lydia bolts upright in bed, her chest heaving as she struggles for a full breath. She kicks away her covers, looking around and wondering where she is. An orange tabby bounds past her, causing her heart to leap into her throat. As she eyes the dingy yellow curtains billowing softly over the churning radiator, realization of her whereabouts smack her squarely in the face.

Chicago. A desperate attempt to start afresh gone terribly wrong. Her new husband and her best friend together in their bed just days after returning from a fantasy Hawaiian honeymoon. The quickie divorce in Vegas. Packing everything she could fit into her small Toyota and hitting the open road with a foolish notion that moving somewhere else would help.

Lydia had shown up on her sister’s doorstep in tears, not knowing where else to turn. She felt slightly optimistic a week later when she landed a new job and was able to move off Meg’s couch and into her own place. On a Tuesday a few weeks after, the vice president of her new company held a meeting to report how well they were doing. There were rumors of large bonuses, even for new hires like her. That Friday, Lydia had returned from lunch to find a note on her desk from her supervisor requesting her presence in the conference room. She entered to find half of her department there, staring glumly at the table. The human resource woman summarily laid them all off. That evening on the news, the company announced it was going out of business. Just her luck.

            Now, she’s stuck here, in Chicago, living in an apartment she cannot afford, without the man she thought was the love of her life. Every time she picks up the phone to call Samantha, the friend she’s leaned on since the third grade, she remembers and breaks down all over again. The images are burned on an iridescent sticky note in her mind, and they flutter through the torrent of emotions that overcome her, taunting her no matter how hard she tries to ignore them. Lydia cannot turn to Meg either, since her sister works around the clock as an intern. When her sister is free, which is rare, she’s so stressed from her long days that all she wants to do is sleep. Lydia even called her mother yesterday, just to hear a familiar voice, but the nurse reported her moments of lucidity are fading fast; the early onset Alzheimer’s has dimmed the lights almost completely. The last time Lydia visited, her mother called her Betty and sang Christmas carols at the top of her lungs until the nurses had to sedate her.

            “I can’t keep doing this,” Lydia says to her cat as he rubs against her. “I need to move forward and stop dwelling. Things have to get better, right?”

            The cat gives her a blank stare as a flashing blue light reflects off his glowing eyes. Lydia scans the room, wondering where the light is coming from. She looks down to find her alarm clock overturned on the floor beside the bed. She wonders what time it is as her cat gives her an innocent look.

She stumbles into the living room to find her phone. Just as she sees it is 7:10 am, she remembers the interview.

“Oh God!” she cries, running to the bathroom. The only call she’s gotten for a job, and now she may have blown it. After a successful first interview two days before, they asked her to come back for a second meeting with the CEO of the company. She is supposed to be downtown in less than an hour!

Lydia quickly dresses in her only suit, forgoing her usual shower. She twists her long brown hair back into a neat bun, haphazardly applies makeup, and grabs her attaché case and purse. She briefly looks toward her cat meowing by his empty bowl.

            “You did this!” she says angrily. “You’ll have to wait until I come back.”

            Running down four flights of stairs, Lydia prays the traffic will be light and parking spaces will be available. She hopes she even remembers how to get there. Still new to Chicago, she’s unfamiliar with the winding streets of the congested downtown area.

            She bursts out the door, racing for her car. Fumbling with her keys, her shaky hands finally disengage the locks. She hops in, throwing her things next to her. At once, she feels an odd prickling sensation under her as frigid air blows in her face.

            “What the -?” she says, looking around in confusion.

            There’s no windshield! The jagged remnants line the edges of the window frame, but the rest of the glass is shattered all around and beneath her.

            Lydia looks up and notices the man with the missing teeth leering at her from his usual spot under the light pole. A neighbor told her there is a halfway house adjacent to their apartment building, and this particular occupant spends his time out front, giving everyone the creeps as he gawks at them.

            She grabs her things and jumps from the car, brushing away bits of glass that cut her hands.

            “Did you see what happened to my car?” she shouts to him. He continues grinning at her, rubbing his bulging belly under his stained shirt. He starts to giggle, then lowers his hands to stroke himself below his belt.

           “Ugh, never mind!” Lydia says, running past him to the street. She hails the nearest cab, praying she makes it on time.

***

“Where to?” the driver asks. Lydia grabs for the papers in her attaché case. Finding the address on the brochure she’d gotten at the first interview, she tells the driver.

            “Please hurry,” she says. He nods, but then he pulls slowly onto the street, halting for an elderly woman who is hobbling by on a cane. “I have an important interview and I’m running very late.”

            The driver eyes her in the mirror and nods again, but he cruises at a leisurely pace while Lydia’s heart hammers in her chest. She checks her phone and finds she only has a half hour to make it. She wonders if she should call ahead to say she’s stuck in traffic.

Deciding to give it another few minutes, she studies the brochure from the company. Lydia knows she is completely overqualified for the job for which she’s interviewing. With a Master’s degree in computer science from the University of Michigan, becoming the assistant to the CEO of some advertising agency she’s never heard of is certainly not her dream job. However, since most positions in her field are now being outsourced to other countries, competition for the remaining slots has become fierce. She felt lucky to land the job in Chicago in the first place. She certainly didn’t expect it to be pulled out from under her only three weeks later. Since being laid off, she has applied everywhere from Microsoft to Denny’s. Swallowing what little pride she has left, she knows she’ll have to take any job, no matter how menial. Otherwise, she’ll soon be out on the street.

The initial interview with The Allied Group had gone well. The panel of supervisors and human resource staff seemed impressed by her educational and work history. She had answered their battery of questions easily. They basically told her she had the job if she wanted it. Lydia was so pleased after feeling so desperate for anything with a paycheck that she barely heard them when they said she’d have to come back to interview with the boss.

            “Of course, Mr. Barnaby will want to meet you,” the Vice President said as he walked her to the door of the suite. “The final decision of who will become his assistant will be up to him.”

            “Oh, okay,” she’d stammered, feeling foolish for counting her chickens too soon. With a sinking heart, she agreed to return two days later.

            As Lydia pulls out other papers they gave her, wanting to refresh herself on the background of the company, she nervously checks the time. Five more minutes have passed. She scans the sheet for a phone number and starts dialing.

            Just as a voice greets her on the other end, the cab lurches forward, causing her to smash into the plexiglass partition.

            “Hey!” she says, rubbing her head. She looks up and notices someone has yanked open the passenger door and jumped into the cab.

            A man in a dark wool coat spins toward her, pushing aside the glass partition and pointing a gun right in her face. “Good morning, Lydia.”

***

“Drive!” the man yells as he glares at her.

            The cab remains still.

            The new passenger puts the gun to the driver’s temple. “Just go! Move now!” The cab jumps into gear, nearly sideswiping a group of pedestrians who have started across the intersection. “Get onto the expressway going north. I’ll tell you when to get off.”

            Satisfied the driver has followed his instructions, the new passenger turns back to Lydia, leveling the gun at her again. She swallows hard, immobilized with fear, wondering what he wants and how he knows her name. She is sure she has never seen him before. She barely has any cash in her wallet, but she’ll give it freely if that’s what he’s after.

            “We need the code,” he says gruffly, waving the gun as if it would hurry the information along.

            Lydia crinkles her brow. “What code?” Her voice comes out a high-pitched squeak.

            “Don’t play games with me. We need the code that will unlock the decryption algorithm to the RXJ7000 program.”

            Lydia scans her memory for such a program. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” she says through the tears that stream down her face.

            The man grabs her by the collar, pushing the gun hard against her forehead. “Don’t bullshit me! I know you have the code.”

            “I’ve never worked on that system! Please don’t hurt me!”

            The man’s sour breath steams her face, causing her stomach to turn over. He snarls, his nostrils flaring as his face reddens. “I happen to know you most certainly have! Now, tell me the goddamn code before I put a bullet in your head!”

            Lydia feels warm moisture seeping below and realizes she has lost control of her bladder. She doesn’t care. Her brain jumps into overdrive, frantically searching for something that will appease him. “Okay, I’ll tell you! Just let me go so I can think straight!”

            The man does not oblige. Instead, he pulls her even closer until she can feel the stubble of his jaw against her quivering chin.

            Lydia suddenly recalls a password to some system she’d worked on in Michigan. She knows she can’t just make something up, because he may ask her to repeat it. She tells him the long string of numbers and letters, and he mercifully releases her. She slumps back, exhaling slowly.

            “Wait a second so I can enter it into my phone,” he says. “Say it again.”

            Lydia slowly repeats the password as he types.

“Now we wait. My associates will verify the code. If it’s correct, maybe you’ll get to live after all.”

***

Lydia eyes the door handle, wondering if she has the guts to try for it. The man follows her gaze. She looks up, and he shakes his head, grinning to expose stained and crooked teeth.

            “Don’t get any bright ideas,” he says. He waves the gun in a beckoning motion, gesturing toward the papers beside her. “What’s that you have there?”

            Lydia cannot peal her eyes from the gun. His words are a jumble in her ears.

            “I asked you a question. What are those papers?”

            Lydia grabs the folder beside her and glances at it. “They’re information sheets from some company where I’ve interviewed for a job.” Her shaky voice sounds foreign to her.

            “What job?”

            “Just some assistant job.” Lydia thinks briefly that she’ll never make the interview now, and she wonders whether being held at gunpoint in a speeding cab is a good enough excuse for rescheduling. If she makes it out of the cab alive, that is.

            “For what company?” the man asks.

            Lydia’s mind is blank. The gun and the man pointing it at her have vanquished memories of anything before she made his acquaintance. She tries to press the rewind button in her brain, but the file is damaged beyond repair. She stammers a bit, but she cannot produce anything besides an inconsequential gurgle.

            The man impatiently taps her folder with his gun. She yelps as if he just yanked out a nose hair.

            “What is the company?” he asks again. She looks down to the gun and sees the name below it. She tells him, and he seems satisfied. He withdraws the gun from her lap, but he keeps it pointed toward her.

            “Why are you interviewing with them?” he asks. Lydia wonders if he’s attempting small talk or there is a reason for all the questions.

            “I – uh – I need a job. The company I was working for folded. I need to pay my bills.”

            “That’s unfortunate,” the man said. “So, what will you do there?”

            “Nothing. I won’t get the job now. I was supposed to be going for a second interview today, but it looks like I won’t make it on time.”

            The man considers this. He scratches his chin with the barrel of the gun. Lydia shrinks away, hoping his finger will have a spasm and end things right there.

            “Well, if the code you gave me works, perhaps we can drop you at the office on time.” He grins at her, his congeniality oddly ironic as he keeps the gun pointed toward her face.

            “That would be nice,” Lydia says glumly. She knows that’s impossible because she’s given him a code for a system she’s never heard of. Her hopes for arriving to the interview in time died when the man with the gun entered her cab.

            “Pull off here!” the gunman shouts to the driver as he points to an exit. The cab cuts off in front of a semi, fishtailing as it tries to correct for the sharp turn. This earns a loud honk and a middle finger from the truck driver.

            The gunman barks a series of orders, leading them down various dirt roads. He points the gun toward the cabbie’s head to ensure his obedience. They’ve slowed enough so that if Lydia tries for the door, the gunman will shoot her before she can escape. Instead, she sits quietly, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. She wonders if the daylight breaking over the horizon will be the last she ever sees.

            “Here!” the gunman says, gesturing to a path partially obscured by overhanging willow trees. The cab turns down a bumpy road, and as they jostle about, Lydia prays the man’s finger on the trigger is steady.

            Finally, they pull into a clearing. A silver car is waiting.

            “Get out,” the gunman orders. Lydia looks up to see he has jumped from car and is aiming the gun at her through the window.

            Her trembling hand finds the door handle. There aren’t any automatic locks in the back seat!

            “Lock the doors and go!” Lydia cries.

            Eyeing her in the rearview mirror, the cab driver remains still.

            The gunman is gesturing to her with the gun while reaching for the door handle.

            “For chrissakes, get out of here!” she screams.

            Instead, the cab driver hops out and joins the gunman as he yanks Lydia from the car.

            She looks to the cabbie with wide eyes, but he avoids her stare, lowering his eyes to a rock on the ground.

            “What’s happening here?” Lydia demands. No one answers.

Instead, their focus is on two men walking toward them. One is in a dark suit and prompts the older man forward by pressing a semi-automatic to his back. The older one cannot walk too well due to the bindings around his wrists and ankles.

            The captured man is pushed roughly to the ground a few feet from her. He grunts as his knees meet sharp gravel. He looks up to Lydia with desperate eyes. His face is bruised, his whitened hair askew and a trickle of blood seeps from the corner of his mouth.

            “As you can see, he’s not exactly able to give you a hug just now. I’m sure he would if he could.”

“Huh?” Lydia eyes the older man, wondering why he’d do such a thing.

           

            The gunman grabs her arm and thrusts her forward. “I’ll give you the opportunity instead. But, just this once. Go and give your dear old daddy a big kiss.”

***

            The rug below Lydia’s feet has been pulled from under her. She loses her balance, falling back onto the gunman and feeling the barrel of his gun against her.

            He pushes her away, grinning with those crooked teeth. “It has been a long time, no?”

            Lydia stumbles a bit, searching the bound man’s face. Although she hasn’t seen her father since she was eleven, when he left for a business trip to China and never returned, this man does not look even remotely familiar. His thin face, high cheekbones, and expansive forehead, although marred by wrinkles tinged with marbled bruising, are nothing like she remembers. Her father’s face had been round, like hers, with olive skin indicative of his Greek heritage. This man looks to be of Scandinavian descent, with light coloring and piercing blue eyes. Fifteen years time could not make that much of a difference.

            “This man is not my father,” Lydia says, staying where she is.

            “Sure he is. Now, go give him a big kiss and let him know how much you’ve missed him.”

            Lydia is done with trying to figure anything out. Obviously these men have the wrong woman. She doesn’t know the program they’re referring to, much less the code they want, and this man is certainly not the father who disappeared from her life so many years before.

Lydia’s mother was always vague about her father and his business dealings. He was a scientist of some sort, a mechanical engineer she thinks. He was usually either at work, traveling somewhere, or locked in his basement lab. One time, Lydia tried to enter his lab to bring him an espresso, and he pushed her out so fast, she dropped the cup with the hot coffee onto her foot. Lydia glances down, the remnants of a scar peeking through her hose.

In recent years, Lydia’s mother spoke of her father here and there as the Alzheimer’s reared its ugly head. She’d always been so tight-lipped about him, even after he failed to return from China. She had said that was just how things were and they had to move on with their lives without him. No matter how curious Lydia was, her mother gave her unsatisfactory answers or none at all. Meg was so wrapped up in her studies and dating and parties, she barely seemed to notice his absence. After awhile, Lydia just pretended he was dead. It was better than thinking he’d left her on purpose.

Then, suddenly, Lydia’s mother would mention him along with her musings of the authenticity of the tooth fairy and whether the dark-haired man in the next room was Hitler’s son. She whispered that Lydia’s father was a spy, and he’d been building bombs for the Chinese. When he didn’t return, her mother assumed he’d been discovered and eliminated. She said she always wanted to protect Lydia and Meg from whoever he was dealing with, so she spoke of him as little as possible. Then, she’d pointed to the daffodils near the window and begged Lydia to check them for bugs. She was sure someone from the government was listening.

Lydia had concluded her mother was pretty far gone and nothing she said could possibly be true. Now, with the crazy events of the day, she wonders just how bonkers her mother really was.

Lydia moves slowly forward, studying the man on his knees. She stoops down to his level, embracing him in an awkward hug. “Who the hell are you?” she hisses.

“It’s me, Lydia. It’s been a long time, but don’t you recognize me?”

“No,” Lydia says as she backs away. “I would know my own father. You’re definitely not him.”

He spits blood at her feet. “You can pretend you don’t know me. That’s fine. I understand your hard feelings. But, they know you and I are kin. That’s what’s important here. They also know you have the RXJ7000 code I sent you last month, in that Lucky Cat statuette I shipped from Belize. They’ve been watching all of us for quite awhile. They won’t stop until they get it from one of us.”

Lydia’s brow crinkles as she searches her memory. “What are you talking about? I never got any statue in the mail.”

“You must have. I got a return receipt from the shipping company that you signed.”

Lydia shakes her head. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I never signed for any package. Why are you lying like this?”

The man in the suit shoves a pink slip of paper at her. She looks down and sees her signature scrawled on a shipping invoice. “Why are you lying like this?” He arches an eyebrow.

Before she can answer, Lydia feels rough hands on her arms. The gunman behind her pulls her back to the cab. “Get in,” he says, shoving her inside.

As Lydia tries to upright herself, the man in the suit hauls her alleged father to the rear of the cab. The driver opens the trunk. She hears a loud thud, and the trunk slams shut. The driver returns to his place behind the wheel, and the man in the suit walks back to his silver car. The gunman returns to the front seat, aiming the gun at her again. The older man has vanished.

A loud kicking behind her reveals his new location. They’ve locked him in the trunk. As the cab retraces its route back to the expressway, she hears pounding and shouting as her impostor father struggles within his new confines. As the cab merges back with the northbound traffic, the commotion behind her dwindles to nothing.

***

A loud ringing drowns out the thudding of Lydia’s heart as it jackhammers in her ears. The gunman pulls his phone from his pocket.

“Tell me something good,” he says. He listens for a few moments while Lydia wrings her hands in her lap.

“I see. Just as I suspected. Do you have the sister?” he asks.

The gunman waits a beat, gnawing on a cuticle. “Good. I’ll try one more time with her, and if she doesn’t give us the code, kill her sister.”

He clicks off and looks at Lydia expectantly. His black eyes pierce through her like daggers, deflating her sinking heart.

“You have Meg?” she whispers, at once picturing her sister beaten and bloodied like the man in the trunk. Her brain churns with futile exertion. Strings of numbers and letters flash before her, but her mind rejects them all. None of them will save her sister.

The gunman nods. “And you have what we need. So, how about it? The code for your sister’s life, and your own. Double or nothing.”

She thinks for awhile. Every option has too dire a consequence. “I’ll take nothing then,” she says resolutely. She stares straight into his eyes, her jaw steeled against the violent quivering of her chin.

The gunman stares at her, his mouth slightly agape. “You’re sure about that?”

“Well, I can give you another bullshit code. Or make a break for the door. Try to wrestle away the gun. But you and I both know, no matter what I do, I have no chance. Unfortunately, you had to involve my sister and that other man who claims to be my father. There’s nothing I can do to save them. So, do what you will.”

Lydia braces herself, wondering how painful getting shot will be. Nothing is worse than knowing she cannot save her sister. At least the misery her life has become will soon come to a merciful end. She hopes it’s quick and that she has the chance to apologize to Meg on the other side.

“Nice try,” the gunman says. He grins at her while dialing his phone. “Kill the sister. No, there’s no new code to try. Not yet, anyway. But, I’m not too worried. The Wireman will take care of things. He always does.”

***

“He will start with your pinky finger. You really don’t need it anyway, did you know that?”

Lydia exhales through her nose. Her mouth is bound so tightly, her airflow is severely compromised. She tries to remain calm, to block out what she’s hearing. An itch winds from her eyebrow, below the bandanna that shields her eyes, and onto the crest of her upper lip. She cannot scratch it, for her hands are restrained by rough, thick rope behind her. She focuses on the torturous tickle, which is better than listening to the gunman as he attempts to scare her further.

“I heard that each generation, the pinky finger is getting shorter. The others are much longer in comparison. The only reason we really need it now is to sample a new batch of coke.”

A woman joins in with the gunman’s laughter.

“He’ll tie a thin wire around it, a few times I believe, and he will exert pressure until it simply comes right off. Clean and simple.”

Lydia feels a vibration as a snapping sound rings in her ears. She smells the sour breath of the gunman as he leans over her. Tears soak the bandanna around her eyes.

“Then, he’ll move on to the other hand and do the same. Put it this way, you have ten tries to get the code right. After that, well, I guess you’ll never type again.”

The woman giggles, and Lydia feels a clap on her back. “You’ll be okay here for a little while, right?”

Lydia is silent as sweat intermingles with her tears, cascading in rivulets down her face.

“That’s what I thought. The Wireman should be here shortly.”

Lydia hears footsteps retreat. A heavy door slams shut. A lock engages. She runs her thumb across her fingertips and wonders how much longer she’ll have all of them.

***

Lydia wriggles in her chair, rocking it sideways and trying to gain momentum. After a few tries, she feels herself tip a bit. She continues, hoping to fall hard enough to break the chair apart and get free. One more push, and she feels a slight breeze followed by a hard thud as her head meets the floor. Stars erupt through the darkness. Something tickles at her chin.

She jumps back, thinking it’s a rat or something worse.

A low moaning on her right. Hot breath on her chest. Someone is there with her.

She inches further back. More tickling on her chin. Rough stubble against her smooth jaw. Someone is leaning on her.

The moaning continues.

“Help me!” she hears, but it is muffled.

She tries to respond, but her voice is similarly stifled by her gag.

The body keeps moving toward her. She tries to pull away.

“Roll over,” she hears. She cannot do any such thing. She is still attached to the chair.

“I can’t,” she gasps. She moves her head as much as possible, but it catches on something. “Wait!”

Lydia keeps shifting, tugging her head away from whatever has restricted her, and she feels the bandanna slip slightly. She keeps working it, pulling and twisting, until she gets one eye free.

She stares at a figure hunched near her on the floor. His chest moves with struggling breath. The white hair and bruising over the wrinkles are familiar. Her impostor father is laying there beside her.

***

“Move a little more to the left,” Lydia instructs as the man wriggles around. He grunts as he tries to align himself with her.

“Can you reach me?” she asks.

She feels his fingers on her palm. The two captives struggle, back-to-back now, to untie the rope from each other’s wrists.

Lydia’s nails work his knot, digging until she feels one break. Better her nails than her fingers, though. She pictures someone cloaked in black coming toward her with shiny wire.

“Stop moving,” she commands. He falls still, and she is able to get part of the knot loose. The man twists his hands, and she hears a snap as the rope falls slack.

A moment later, and he is able to speak. “I’m almost free,” he says.

Lydia hears some banging for awhile, followed by a sigh of relief. “There’s a window up there,” he says.

Lydia tries to see, but all she can make out is the door in front of her with a dim light under it.

After a beat, she hears shattering. She tries to twist around, but a pain through her side prevents it.

“I’ll come back for you,” he says. She hears him hop through. “I’ll go get help and – “

The room is silent save for the low cry that escapes Lydia’s throat.

***

Her father has left her twice in her life. Her real father departed when she was just at the brink of womanhood, and now this one leaves her to some unknown destiny at the hands of a man talented with methods of wire torture. She doesn’t know which is more harrowing.

Lydia twists around, readjusting her orientation. She sees a large wooden crate perched upon a metallic pallet. She wriggles her body back and forth, but she cannot seem to get close enough. Instead, she heaves herself around to her back, and with every ounce of strength left, she bends at her waist so that her feet are above her. She crashes them down on the hard floor, repeating the motion until she finally feels the give of the wood. She has managed to splinter the chair frame.

With some considerable effort, she is able to get to her knees. She rolls back on her toes so that she is almost standing. Hopping for her life, she makes it to the pallet. She sits now, using its sharp edge as a saw. Moving herself up and down frantically, ignoring the pain as her wrists skin, she feels the rope begin to fray. After what seems an eternity, she is able to get her hands free.

In a few more seconds, she unties her feet and sprints to the shattered window.

Like a pole-vaulter at a track meet, Lydia shoots toward the high ledge, the adrenaline giving her the extra strength to pull herself up and through it.

***

Lydia lands hard on the ground, but her fall is cushioned by something soft. A familiar moan. That white hair.

“Couldn’t you aim a little more to the left?” a voice grunts. Her impostor father is beneath her.

Lydia pushes away from him, getting to her feet. She looks down, her frayed skirt exposing a stream of blood oozing from her knee. “I did that on purpose.” She stumbles away as he reaches for her.

“Don’t leave me,” he cries.

He grasps her ankle, causing her to lose her balance. She kicks at him as her other knee crunches on the jagged gravel.

“I’m sorry,” he wails, grabbing for her again. “I just panicked. I was going to come back for you, I swear.”

Lydia pushes aside some shrubs that block her way. “Yeah right,” she snorts. “I believe that almost as much as I believe you’re really my father.”

***

The woods beyond are pitch black. Lydia runs forward, only to kiss the trunk of a large tree. Something scurries over her foot, and Lydia suppresses a scream. She hears a faint howl from somewhere on her right, so she goes left. It’s really a crapshoot at this point.

“Help me!” a voice calls. “I’ll tell you everything if you just help me!”

Lydia spins around, and the injured man has crawled into the forest after her. He is laying face down, his body wracked with labored breathing.

Images of Meg and what she must be suffering flash before Lydia’s eyes. She knows she cannot save her sister. She doesn’t even know where she is. But, perhaps this man does. Or if not, maybe she can at least save him.

“I’m a fool,” she says as she grabs his shirt. She pulls with all her might, but he won’t budge.

“I’m too heavy,” he grunts. “Help me to my feet, and them maybe I can hobble along.”

Lydia sees some large branches nearby. “Wait here a second,” she says.

“Like I have a choice?”

She gathers a few sturdy branches and wraps vines around them to form a crude crutch. She returns to the man, putting the crutch within his reach. “Use this.”

With her help, the man is able to prop himself up. They move slowly through the brush, every step an arduous effort. After awhile, Lydia cannot see the warehouse behind them. She is finally able to sigh with some relief.

That is, until the sound of growling dogs rise through the still night air.

***

“Go! Leave me here!” the man says. He pushes away, landing on a fallen tree trunk.

The barking is getting closer. She looks to the man, but he avoids her eyes. He slumps forward.

“No,” Lydia says, adrenaline rushing through her again. “I won’t do that. You screwed me before, but I cannot just leave you to be mauled by those dogs.”

“Save yourself,” he pleads. “I got you into this. I should never have sent you that package.”

Lydia has no time to ask about it. She pulls him up, twisting around beneath him. “Lean on me,” she orders.

“No.”

She pulls him anyway so that his weight rests on her back. It’s too difficult, and she can barely move. She bends lower, pulling his legs around her waist. He is now fully aboard, piggyback style. “Hold on tight!” she says.

As the dogs close in on them, Lydia’s legs get stronger until she is practically running through the dense forest.

A faint light flickers through the trees. Lydia heads toward it, her heart hammering so hard in her chest, she is now more worried that it will explode than anything.

She collapses on a dirt road with her impostor father on top of her as the headlights of a car bounce toward them.

***

Rough hands pull at her. Lydia gets to her knees. All she can see is a shiny black car stretched before her. She looks up to a sea of faces staring at her.

The gunman, the man in the suit from the silver car, and her impostor father are among them. Her alleged father is standing upright, his injuries magically healed.

They are all smiling at her. Lydia’s heart plummets as they close in.

She shields her head with her arms, wishing them all away.

“Congratulations!” someone says.

She peeks through her fingers.

“You’ve passed the test.”

“She did a really great job. Better than we expected.” The other voices murmur in agreement.

“What test?” Lydia asks. She feels like she’s entered the Twilight Zone.

“Come on in and we’ll tell you all about it,” a distant voice says. Lydia looks up at a chauffeur gesturing to the back of the limousine. She gets to her feet, her wobbly legs threatening to buckle under her.

She shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re in no danger. In fact, you never were,” the gunman says, stepping forward and holding something out to her. Lydia flinches, sure he has a gun in his hand.

He thrusts an envelope at her instead. “Here are your scores.”

“Scores? For what?”

“For the interview. Like we said, you did very well. Almost perfect in every category, except interest in the position. That one was a little low. But everything else was absolutely outstanding!”

“Interview?” Lydia asks. Her befuddled brain searches its files, but everything has been erased.

“The interview you were going on today. You‘ve passed with flying colors!”

Lydia eyes the grinning faces that surround her. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

A deep voice booms from behind her. “We are most certainly not kidding.”

She spins around. A figure emerges from the back seat. The shadows obscure his face.

The figure steps into the light. The cab driver beams at her. He is now wearing a double-breasted suit.

“You handled yourself very well, no matter what we threw at you. No candidate has ever impressed us this much. That’s why I have been without an assistant for so long.”

“Huh?” Lydia feels she’s been transported to another planet.

The cab driver comes toward her with a hand extended. “I’m Jackson Barnaby, CEO of the Allied Group. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

***

“Wake up, Lydia,” a distant voice says. A coolness seeps over her brow, soothing her pounding head.

Her eyes flutter, but they’re unusually heavy. Her hand shoots up, and she feels a wet towel on her forehead.

The gunman stares down at her. His face is contorted with concern. “You fainted, my dear. Are you alright?”

Lydia pushes him away. The others are in the speeding limousine, surrounding her with worry painted on their faces. “Am I alright?” she repeats. “No! How could you even ask me that? After what you put me through today, I am definitely not alright!”

“We had to be sure you were the right one,” a woman says, patting her knee. “Mr. Barnaby is a very important person, and not just anyone can be his assistant.”

Lydia glares at her. The woman rubs her bulging stomach. “I was his assistant for five years. But, well, I just keep getting pregnant. This time, it’s twins.”

“How nice for you,” Lydia says angrily. “And so you put all your applicants through this ordeal, just as a temporary replacement?”

“Not exactly,” Mr. Barnaby says. “Sheryl and her husband are relocating to Spain, so I’ll need a permanent replacement. None of the other applicants have been right so far. Until we found you.”

Lydia glares at him, restraining herself from ripping out his throat. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’d rather clean the streets with a toothbrush for the rest of my life! Now, take me home.”

***

The limousine pulls up to Lydia’s apartment building. She jumps out, wincing with pain. Her knees are stiff and caked with blood, her back is on fire, and her hands are scraped up. She looks to her car nearby. The windshield has been replaced and is gleaming under the lamp post.

“You have no idea what you’re turning down,” the gunman says as he gets out with her.

“No, I don’t. And I don’t care. Looking for a job should never be this tough.”

“It’s awfully rough out there. Crappy economy and all that. Are you sure? This is a great opportunity with a high salary.”

“Never in a million years. Perhaps you all should change your screening process. I can’t imagine anyone would take the job after all this.”

“Only the right person. I guess it’s not you after all.”

“Guess not.” Lydia turns to her door. Tires screech away behind her.

***

Lydia’s purse is on the kitchen counter. The last time she saw it was in the cab. They’ve obviously made themselves at home in her place.

She grabs her phone, anxious to call Meg and make sure she’s alright. The screen indicates that she has one new message. Punching in her code, she listens.

            A manager from Denny’s says they’ve received her application and would like her to interview for a waitress position the following afternoon.

            Normally, Lydia wouldn’t be particularly thrilled to receive a call from them. However, in light of the day’s events, anything else seems quite preferable.

Wincing in pain as she sits gingerly on the sofa, Lydia dials her sister’s number.