What’s Your Sign

Raymond had just turned eighty years old and didn’t care, age was just a number. He sat at his computer watching an online interview of the famous author of Romance Fantasy, Leslie Sorenson. She was attractive, even sans makeup. Tall, with penetrating green eyes and long brown hair. Seth the blogger had already covered her basic stats. Twenty-nine years old. Lived in Newport News, Virginia. Big influences: Jennifer Armentrout and Diana Gabaldon. Likes to write longhand on the beach with her cat, Miff, so she can watch the bridge open to let the big ships pass through. Now he was asking about her latest book.

“Well Seth, Astrology has always been a hobby of mine. I was reading an article about an unsolved case. The Colonial Parkway murders in York County back in the 80’s. I started to wonder what aspects of a chart would create a murderer.”

Seth interrupted, “And hence your latest best seller, Serial Birth Chart. Tell us a little bit about it.”

Having all he needed, Raymond spent the next hour looking up Leslie Sorenson’s name in the public records of Newport News and all of the surrounding counties. Nothing. Must be a pen name. Have to do it the hard way. He called his travel agent. “Tim, it’s Doctor Price.”

“Hello Doc. It’s been a while. You off on another one of your adventures?”

“Yes Tim. I’d like something secluded somewhere outside of Newport News, Virginia. And rent me a cargo van for the duration.”

“How long Doc?”

“Better make it two weeks. I’d like to leave as soon as possible.”

“I’m on it Doc. I think I have just the place. An Airbnb in Williamsburg. Call you back shortly.” 

The combination of excitement and trepidation in anticipation of his impending caper grew until he felt the creep of fatigue and a tightness in his chest. A nitroglycerin tablet under his tongue and some deep breaths calmed him. This was the one. He was sure this time. Then he could rest.

Parked next to the James River Bridge, a bored Raymond adjusted the radio dial past pop, classic rock, rap, and preaching until he finally found a crackly station playing some old Hank Williams. Thank God, country music at last. Huntington Park and the beach were surprisingly busy considering it was late fall and a little chilly. He had sat there patiently for the last two days waiting for Leslie Sorenson to show up. A beach in Newport News next to a bridge that opened regularly to let big ships pass on their way to the Richmond Marine Terminal. This had to be it. Raymond shut off the radio. There she was laden with a clipboard, backpack, lawn chair, beach umbrella and pulling a white Persian cat on a leash. She was wearing jeans, baggy flannel shirt, a baseball cap and sunglasses. He had no doubt, it was her.

As she set up on the beach, Raymond took a short stroll. He passed her silver Lexus and dropped his cane. Bending to retrieve it, he looked both ways and attached a small GPS tracker glued to a magnet, under the wheel well. He still couldn’t believe how far technology had come. $15 from Amazon. “Well done,” he thought to himself. “Now to find a Chick Filet for some lunch.”

**********

Leslie was surprised to hear the doorbell ring at 10:30 that night. She looked through the peephole warily. A haggard looking old man with gray hair, leaning heavily on a cane, but well dressed in a brown tweed suit and green silk tie, stood on her porch. Out in the street, a van sat with flashers blinking. He seemed harmless enough. She opened the wooden door but kept the storm door latched. “Can I help you sir?”

“I am so sorry to bother you. I’m looking for my son’s house. He lives on Baxter.”

“You missed it. Baxter is three streets over that way.”

“I see. Well the problem is, my truck won’t start,” he pointed at the flashing van. “And my phone seems to be dead. I’ve just come all the way from Delaware. I’m so tired. Could I possibly just use your phone for a moment?” He hung his head in despair.

Leslie melted. “Oh, Sweetie. Follow me.” She opened the storm door. “Come on in and call your son. How about some coffee.”

“Yes, please. Your very kind.”

Leslie locked the door and headed for the kitchen. Standing in the doorway, her cat arched it’s back and hissed. Leslie turned to see the old man pointing a taser at her. The stinging prongs radiated pain while her body locked up and she hit the floor. Then the muscles released as she lay there helpless and numb. Having always thought that stun guns knocked you out, she was surprised of her conscious awareness and watched the old man getting the air bubbles out of a hypodermic. An attempt to plead for the safety of her cat was cut short by a needle prick in the neck, and oblivion.

**********

Leslie opened her eyes to a blur. The drug he shot her with was lingering. She tried to speak but tape over her mouth prevented it. As things came into focus, her head cleared. She realized that her arms and legs were bound, spread eagle, on a double bed. Surprisingly, she was still wearing her jeans and t-shirt. The only optimistic part of her current predicament. That and the fact that she was alone. Straining to raise her head, a look around revealed the room’s sparse details. A dresser covered with fat, black burning candles that smelled of Rosemary and an upside down Crucifix hanging in front of the mirror. That was disturbing. A fold-up table next to the bed and curiously, an old style reel to reel projector loaded with film. Across the room from it, an equally outdated pull-down projector screen. She began to feel panicky and had to calm herself. Years of self-defense training and two survivalist courses kicked in. Stay calm. She took stock of her bonds, tested the strength of the rope and examined the knots. Polyester rope with constrictor knots. No help there. Pulling the ropes, there was some play. The bed was dated and cheap. With time and persistence she might be able to break the frame. With controlled focus on the right arm, she gave it her all. Then relaxed. Then pulled again. 

“I see some give,” she heard and saw the old man watching her through the partially open door. “But don’t worry Leslie, it will last plenty long enough for our purposes.”

He walked across the room normally. So the cane was a ploy. On the table he placed a small brief case, a worn leather bundle wrapped with a strap, a playmate cooler and a puffy throw pillow. First the old man lifted her head by her hair and put the pillow under it. She could readily see around the room now. He opened the case and spun it for her to see the contents. Some type of sex kit. Dildos, gags, clamps, and something… she didn’t know what that was. Her mind raced. A sex pervert? He didn’t fit the profile of a serial rapist. Remember the training. Don’t show fear and ask about his mother. He watched her reaction for a moment and with a crunchy snap, snatched the Velcro strap on the bundle and rolled it open. Knives, scalpels, and a straight razor. Very neat and professional. Leslie lost her cool and began to struggle and squeal. Raymond pinched her nose and cut off the air. As Leslie began to pass out, he released.

“Calm down and listen to me.” He slapped her lightly, twice, and got her full attention. “We’re very isolated but now is not the time for screaming. My name is Raymond. I’ll take off the tape if you promise to behave. You understand?” She nodded yes. “We’re going to watch a film. I want you to pay close attention and not talk. This is very important.” He removed the duct tape from her mouth with one motion.

“Listen, Raymond,” she began.

He poised his thumb and forefinger over her nose threateningly. “What did we agree on?”

Leslie sighed helplessly.

Raymond turned off the lights and started the projector. Clicking and sputtering morphed into a woman sitting on a simple wooden chair. The image spoke. “Hello, my name is Millicent Crowley.” She was obviously pregnant, 40ish, attractive, but pale and drawn. Tall with long brown hair and green eyes. Just when she thought it couldn’t get any weirder, Leslie realized that they favored each other. “Don’t be afraid. I know you have many questions. I’m going to tell you a story. It will sound fantastic but bear with me and all will be explained.” Millicent began coughing up blood violently. A young man in his twenties perhaps, rushed into the shot with a glass of water and comforted her until the episode passed. As he backed out she said, “Thank you Raymond.”

“Raymond!” Thought Leslie. That young man in the movie was her kidnapper. This film must be at least 50 or 60 years old.