You Only Die Twice

Chapter FOUR





It was curiosity that pulled her in.

Moving through the pain, she reached out a hand to grab the phone and when she did, she saw the cuts and bruises on her forearm, which made her pull back as her stomach sank with worry.

What did the rest of her look like? She was still in her bar clothes. A tight white T-shirt that showed off her curves, tight blue jeans she picked up for seven dollars at the bargain bin at The Gap, and boots that Patty said were made “for getting any man you want. And you need a man, Cheryl. God, do you ever. It’s been, like, forever since you dated someone. At the very least, those boots with those heels should get you in the back seat of someone’s car. And praise Jesus for that.”

As if that’s what Cheryl was seeking. She hadn’t been with anyone since that night and Patty knew why. She knew Cheryl was emotionally scarred, but Patty had suffered her own troubles and knew that life nevertheless had to move forward.

“There are two things you can do, Cheryl,” Patty once said. “You can live in your past and die by it. Or you can let your past inform your present so you can have some semblance of a future. That’s therapist talk, but it’s true. Your past won’t go away, but you can do your best to learn from it and move forward.”

Over the years, other lectures came, which Cheryl tolerated because she knew her friend was just worried about her. But after what happened to Cheryl during her junior year in college, which is the reason she never finished college, she wasn’t sure if she’d ever be with a man again. Not after what she went through.

She wondered about the boots and their heels. If she had to run, how would she manage to do so with these on her feet? The idea of it worried her almost as much as that phone, the surface of which now gleamed because it had captured a piece of the sun and was tossing it back toward the sky.

She went for it and grabbed it. She turned it over in her hands and nearly screamed when it vibrated again, which confirmed her belief that somewhere in these woods, someone was watching her. Toying with her. She didn’t understand why, but someone was nearby and given her current condition, it was clear that they either planned to hurt her more than they already had, or they were going to kill her.

Why?

She had no idea why. Maybe there wasn’t a “why.” Maybe it just was, particularly if she was dealing with madness, which she’d dealt with before.

She wished she could remember more of what happened last night. Did someone slip something into one of their shots when they weren’t looking? And if someone did, who did it? It had been only her and Patty last night, hadn’t it? She didn’t remember speaking to anyone but the bartender, and even that was brief. The Grind had a packed house. He was busy. Whenever she or Patty engaged him, it was just to order another round.

She was thinking of Patty and wondering where she was when the phone vibrated again in her hand. It was an iPhone, dented on its side, scratched on its surface, but one of the newer models. She had one herself, an older version, so at least she was familiar with how to use it.

She pressed the button below the screen and saw that while there were no voice messages, there were eight text messages. She clicked on the icon and read the first. “You have no ability to make a call. You have no ability to send a text. Maps have been disabled. Tracking has been disabled. Browser access has been disabled. Are we clear? This phone has been hacked and it serves as my line of contact to you. Here’s your first directive. Select the iPhotos icon and look through the photos.” She went through the other seven messages and they all said the same thing, though the last one was more urgent. “Select the iPhotos icon, Cheryl. Do it now. Don’t anger me.”

Whoever it was knew her name. How did they know her name? Did she know this person?

The phone buzzed again and another text appeared on the screen. She opened it. “I really don’t want to kill you, Cheryl. At least not now. So, open the f*cking icon.”

Nervously, she clicked out of the text window and selected iPhotos. What she saw when the application opened was a series of events. The photos began at The Grind. The quality was grainy, as if no flash was used, which made sense because people would have noticed a flash, including her and Patty.

Still, there was enough light to see that she was having a shot of tequila with Patty at the bar. She swiped to the next image. Now, she and Patty were dancing in the center of the dance floor, a crush of people around them, some with their hands lifted above their heads. She stared at the photo. She had no recollection of dancing last night.

She swiped to the next photo and saw that she and Patty were back at the bar and downing another shot. She was sweaty and laughing. Patty was bent over and appeared to be in hysterics. The bartender, a good-looking man with dark hair and a masculine face, was looking at them in amusement.

She swiped to the next photo, and this time it was just her, alone, standing at the bar. Patty was nowhere in sight. Looking at herself, she could see her insecurities stamped on her face, but then she always was uncomfortable when she was alone. Her face looked grim. Her arms were folded in front of her. She was looking off to her left, which is where the restrooms were. The crowd was noticeably thinner. The night was winding down.

Swipe.

Patty was back, this time with a man. Just as she herself was leaning against the bar for support, Patty was leaning against this stranger for the same reason. Her arm was draped over his neck. He was big, younger than them, muscular. He looked sober, but they looked wasted. Cheryl switched to the next photo and this time they were outside in the parking lot with the man. They were standing beside Patty’s white Jetta, which was next to an illumined streetlamp that cast light down upon them, and Cheryl was smoking. The man was kissing Patty’s neck. His hands gripped her ass. Cheryl looked over at the image of herself and saw that her finger was raised, as if she was wagging it at them, even though she was laughing.

Swipe.

Patty was in the car with him, her hand waving out the open window as she drove away from Cheryl, who was still beneath the streetlamp, holding onto it to steady herself while she looked over her shoulder. For the first time, she was facing the camera. Though her lips were parted, her expression was otherwise blank.

Her heart quickened. She flicked her finger across the screen again and this time, she was unprepared for what she saw. She was lying on the pavement. Blood was spattered like a net across her face. There was a dazed look in her eyes, as if whatever happened to her had just happened. A man’s boot―large, dirty and old to the point that it looked worn out―covered her mouth and mashed her face to one side.

She was too upset to look at the other photos, but she knew she had to, if only to see the story they told and how it might inform how she might get out of this now. She flicked through them. She saw herself in the back of a truck bed, her hands and feet tied behind her with rope, a ball gag strapped around her head and shoved into her mouth, Duct tape over her eyes to seal them shut.

Another photo, this one brightly lit. At this point, he obviously felt safe enough to use the flash. She was in the forest now, flat on her back, the ball gag still in her mouth, but now the tape was off her eyes and with them wide open and exposed, they reflected pure terror.

She went through the rest of the photos and in each one, her face and body seemed to expose more blood and bruises. He was actively beating her when he took the photos. By the last set, she was on her stomach, her head was turned to her right, her eyes were closed, the ball gag was removed from her sagging mouth, and water shined brightly on her face, which was smeared with dirt.

She was unconscious.

But right now, she was alive, perhaps only for a moment, because behind her was movement in the woods.