Forced to Change

The screensaver on the flatscreen monitor danced and then went blank with a click of the mouse. While I stretched my tired body, I confirmed the time was approaching ten p.m. I massaged the tension knot that ached in my lower back. There was a blurry, off-white mass in front of my eyes that I could barely make out. I barely saw the due diligence reports on top. I debated starting the new files. Leaving for the evening was far more appealing and won out in the end. If I'm honest, it wasn't much of a debate. A long hot bath and a glass of cheap white wine waited for me at home.

I stood up, slid my chair back and picked up the black faux leather purse that I'd purchased at a garage sale for two dollars. Hidden in the red cloth lining was a penknife worth more than everything I was wearing. I always felt secure enough at the office, no matter the hour I left. Whenever I prepared myself to change locations, the only thing that settled my nerves was the penknife in reach.

The lonely cinnamon brown winter coat and an abandoned red umbrella belonging to one of the other paralegals on my floor were the only items in the otherwise empty coat closet. I draped the coat over my shoulders on my way to the bank of elevators. It was warm, worn, and a little too large for my small frame. I stubbornly refused to buy a new winter coat, even though I knew the bulky item I struggled into needed to be replaced with a more stylish one. The coat had belonged to my father, and wearing it all winter long was my way of still wrapping his arms around me. I buttoned it up one-handed as I reached the elevators.

When the elevator doors opened, Joe, the security guard, was inside. He was in his early sixties, Caucasian, with white hair in a buzz cut. He was tall and quite fit for his age, although a little softer through the middle. Joe was also weirdly intimidating. There was something brimming under the surface of the plastered smile on his face that made me wonder. Whatever it was, it wasn't dangerous exactly, maybe a wicked humor that I didn't understand. I knew Joe wasn't there just to watch the elevators. He was inside the box to walk me to my car. I smiled by way of a greeting.

Joe had commented to me more than once that when I thought I smiled, I actually grimaced. My smiles barely turned my lips. Slightly offended, I snapped at him that I did the best I could and it was the best that Joe would get. He got eerily quiet, but still continued to walk me to my car every night I worked late. At the time I apologized for my abruptness and his smile got brighter.

For me, seeing him in the elevator was routine, familiar. My hand didn't rest on the penknife in my purse. I never thought to question how he knew when to get on the elevator to meet me, yet I appreciated his concern.

"Ms. Katie," Joe grinned. He took a step back and leaned his hip against the side of the elevator.

"Joe," I responded.

"Late night again, huh? You work too hard, Ms. Katie," Joe pressed the button for the parking garage.

"It's not late. It's not even midnight. Besides, you work hard too, Joe. When are you going to take a vacation?" I raised my eyebrows at him and attempted to smile.

The already there on his face grin picked up warmth as he asked, "Do you have anything planned for the coming weekend, Ms. Katie?"

The question was his way of changing the subject. If there was one thing I'd learned from working for lawyers it was when someone was avoiding a question. I knew that Joe thought of this job as easy in comparison to his former career. He was ex-military and ex-police. His wife had died years ago and he and his son were estranged.

Joe had told me he liked to feel useful. For him, watching a bunch of empty offices overnight was probably as close to retirement as he would get. It had been a four years' struggle during the down ride on the elevator, walk to my car conversations to get that much info out of him. Joe was a private person, a lot like me, which is why, I assumed, we got along.

"Not really. You?" I asked. I stared at the floor of the elevator and wrapped my arms around myself, holding my things close to my chest. It wasn't panic, not with Joe. I had an urgent need to give myself a hug. My father had called the feeling someone walking over your grave.

"Not really," Joe said slowly as the doors opened on the parking garage. He stood just outside of my personal space, his hand over the doors so they wouldn't shut before I could exit.

.

I took a few deep breaths and we walked in a comfortable silence to my car. I was embarrassed to admit my plans included nothing more than a hot bath and a glass of wine, maybe a good book or a romantic comedy Bluray thrown in. I found my weekend agenda sad, bordering on pathetic. Coffee with a friend though, that would be okay, I thought as Joe held the car door open. I immediately shut down the idea as I slid behind the wheel of my SUV.

"See you tomorrow, Joe." I blushed.

"Have a good evening. Take care, Ms. Katie." Joe grinned at me as he closed the door.

I flushed brighter at his wicked grin. It was almost as if he'd read my mind. The thought made me grateful for the door between us. His eyes darted around the parking area and I realized I was being paranoid again.

Tomorrow, I thought as I started the car and waited for the gate to rise so I could exit the lot. Tomorrow I'd ask Joe to join me for coffee. Or another time if I was feeling brave enough.

***

As I drove home from work, singing along to the radio, I could feel the promise of snow in the air. I was around the corner from my apartment when a glance at the fuel gauge made me pull into the gas station. My tank was half full, but old habits die hard.

"You never want to be stranded with an empty tank, just in case," my father had said to me a thousand times. Keeping the gas tank full in winter was his golden rule of driving his car, especially when living in Michigan. His thinking was that at least I could use the heater if I got stranded but had a full tank of gas.

It was a habit instilled in me from the age of sixteen, and advice from life before cell phones. I doubted many people got stranded as much now as in my dad's day. Still, I followed the rule and pulled into the gas station, bringing my '98 Chevy Blazer to a stop in front of the pumps.

Despite its age, my car had proven to be very reliable, even if it was another item I should and could have updated. Again, the sentimental value I attached to it was for my father, and his memory kept me loyal to my green monster.

My stomach growled as I perused the row of packaged food in the store. I selected a candy bar, a bag of chips, and a pop. That seemed like a perfectly reasonable dinner. The convenience store was mostly empty except for the acne-faced cashier and a couple of men coming out of the bathroom.

I headed back to the car, tossed my purchases and purse on the passenger seat, unscrewed the gas cap and pushed the pump in. Gas prices were high and even though medium grade was better for the car, I selected the lowest grade of fuel and pumped it in.

The door of the gas station chimed, the bells above the door ringing as the two men from the bathroom walked outside. The sound had me momentarily flashing back to the sound of bells tinkling in my past.

The sound irritated me and my skin crawled. One of the two was a tall guy with hair so dark it was almost black, the other a blond. I don't think I would have noticed them at all except for the fact that the tall one wasn't wearing a coat. I had a moment to think it odd in the cold weather. His lack of winter wear registered, but not much. I watched the blond more as the two men walked away.

There was a feeling of recognition, of familiarity, just for a moment. It lingered like the sound of the bells echoing in my ears, scraping across the skin. I almost reached for my purse before I stopped, thinking myself silly and paranoid. The men headed around to the back of the building and out of sight.

A longing ache overwhelmed me as my heart skipped a beat. I closed my eyes and leaned my forehead against the side of the car. The cold was shocking enough to steady me. I took a deep breath and opened my eyes. The cashier watched the TV as I finished filling up my tank.

I was more affected than I was willing to admit. My hands trembled as I returned the pump to its cradle. The name Paul whispered across my mind. It wasn't as if I needed to make the connection as to why a random tall blond man would make me think of the past. I opened the driver's side door of the car, again taking deep cleansing breaths. Why should he make me think of a boy who had died on a roadside in South America? Paul Donnelly with his dark blue eyes, his open and kind face, his long blond hair. I shook off the memory, refusing to let the longing and grief take control.

He approached in a shroud of silence so I didn't notice until it was too late. I felt his presence a moment before the business end of a gun was shoved into my side. Time slowed down the moment I felt the gun. All thoughts of Paul were gone out of my head by the rush of adrenaline that pumped through my system. My purse was too far away but the car key slid between my glove-covered forefinger and middle finger as I made a fist around the rest of the key chain. I'd made a weapon and assessed the danger even before the blond could speak his first words.

"Give me the keys." His voice was deep and steady.

I hesitated; giving him the keys would mean giving up my makeshift weapon. The dark-haired one was making his way around the front of my vehicle. I hoped that I was just being carjacked. I didn't want to die for my car, so I relaxed my grip and the keys dropped to the dirty, slush covered ground.

Darkie picked them up. There was a second where he was bent over in front of me that I could have kicked him. Almost as a reflex my leg tensed for it, but Blondie pressed the gun tighter into my side.

"Don't," Blondie said. I didn't, even though I really wanted to kick the man in front of me.

Being carjacked wasn't so bad. I'd certainly survived worse. I reviewed the rules for survival. The number one rule was survive. I ticked off the other four rules in my head, knowing that I could easily survive a simple carjacking. Number two: victory goes to the person in control. Number three: be aware. Number four: take action. Number five: don't panic. I was being carjacked and I wanted to survive the situation.

Darkie had my keys and I was cooperating like a good little victim. The two men outweighed me. They had a gun. Vegas odds were against me. I was angry and that fueled me to stop panic in its tracks and work the rules in tandem. The biggest advantage I had was that this was a situation I'd prepared for long ago. I'd been too young and unprepared once, and I never wanted to be unprepared for trouble again.

I stared at the back of the cashier's head, willing him to turn around and see the crime in progress in his parking lot. Just look up, turn around. Be aware, you idiot. I wasn't sure if the last was for him or me. Instead of noticing me, the cashier laughed at something on the TV.

Joe carried a gun at work. He'd told me that most people keep the safety on, even when they're pointing it at someone. Joe didn't. If it was in his hand, the safety was off. Habit, instinct. He'd told me to never bring out a gun unless I meant to use it. I had no doubt that Blondie intended to use the gun, but if I were lucky, he might not be in the habit of thumbing back the safety. I held on for small things, small hopes, even in dire situations. It was all I had.

"Get in the back," Blondie said. I was going down the list of survival. Control the situation. The sub-note to that rule was don't let yourself be taken to another location. I tried to figure out how good my chances were of making a run for it.

Don't panic.

The mantra sang through my thoughts. I looked around, taking in the minor and major details of my surroundings.

Be aware.

I was going for a peek at the gun, but I didn't want it to be known that was my goal.

Control the situation.

I shifted my weight to the balls of my feet. Survive.

I could feel the opportunity to control the situation presenting itself. Blondie was the bigger threat, despite being the smaller of the two men. He was the one in control. He called the shots and was holding the gun. He was the one I needed to take down when the chance for action arrived. Once Darkie was behind the wheel I'd have seconds that felt like long moments to fight Blondie and get away.

The gun was shifted to the small of my back as if Blondie knew my thoughts. Maybe he'd read my subtle movements. He told Darkie to get behind the wheel as he pulled me toward the back door of the Blazer.

My window to run was almost slammed shut by the new position. My eyes darted to the cashier, who was still oblivious. My body continued to tense for the fight, even though I'd decided to let myself be taken. I saw the fight in my mind's eye. I visualized my arm flying backward, connecting with the gun, getting its aim off me. I could see myself bringing my hand and foot up, striking almost simultaneous blows, hand to face, hopefully in the nose, quickly followed by knee to groin.

My aim would not be the man, but beyond and behind him. He'd go down, and as he was falling I'd get a knee shot to his chin. I only had to wait until Darkie shut the door; he was sliding into the car. I continued to visualize my victory.

"Keep thinking thoughts like that and you're going to die. Now get in the back," Blondie growled in my ear as the driver's side door shut.

I wondered if he was reading my mind. Was there more than one Patrick Jane from The Mentalist in the world? The rational part of me knew he was reading my body language, but it was still unsettling.

I prayed the cashier would just notice what was going on. I wanted him to call the police and save the day. But he laughed again at the program he was watching on television, proving he was just as clueless to my situation outside as I was aware of it.

I sighed, because I hated that if the cashier did miraculously become aware, it wouldn't just be my life in danger. His ignorance could be saving his life. What if he saw us, took action and Blondie decided to kill him for intervening? I knew I couldn't be responsible for ending another person's life, even a random stranger. The guilt of it would destroy me.

"Fine," I said, my anger tightly laced through the syllable. My voice was nearly as venomous as my feelings over my failure to control the situation. I'm not a victim, I thought. Plain, simple. My movements were stiff and jerky as I was pulled aside so that Blondie could open the back door of my car. I may have been willing to go, but my body not so much. It was fighting not to be taken away.

My stalling body frustrated Blondie. I hoped so and even took a little pleasure in his annoyed sounds as he pulled on the sleeve of my coat. For all my preparation, all my thoughts of how to escape, how to prevent myself from being taken somewhere else, it was too simple for him to subdue me.

My scalp tingled in a way that put me on guard a moment too late. I felt something I was too well acquainted with, fear, a heartbeat before I took a paralyzing blow to the back of my head. Everything faded quickly. A whack to the back of the head with the gun did exactly what the blond man needed as I slipped into blackness.

That was the reason I now found myself kidnapped and waking up in the back of my car. For some reason, only God knew why for sure, I was having that experience again.

What is déjà vu for a thousand, Alex?

See, the bigger picture problem is that I'm Kathryn Rollins, or Katie to my friends. Yes, that Katie Rollins. I'm one of the Greenwich Country students taken six years ago while volunteering for the Build-A-Village program. The other students were held for ransom. I wasn't. I was the only one sold into sex slavery. I know, right? Unlucky me. The media attention surrounding what happened to us was huge news at the time. It's a tiny bit of celebrity that I hated and it's why I strive for a boring, uneventful life.

Although most people have forgotten all about it, there was at least one person who intended to remind me of my past tonight.