Final Option

you botch, Tim. Hexter asked you to spread his trades across the different accounts, and you couldn’t even do that right. You allocated too many trades to Deodar and brought the whole CFTC down on Hexter Commodities. I bet Hexter had some choice things to say when he figured out what your carelessness was going to cost him. But that was nothing compared to what happened when he found out you were stealing from him. That was a bonehead move, Tim.”
    “It would have worked,” shouted Tim defensively, “if that bitch Torey hadn’t gotten greedy and wanted that fucking apartment. Bart never even looked at the junk they sent him from the bank. How was I to know he’d pick the one account he never touched for that damned apartment?”
    “And so you killed him.”
    “He fucking deserved to die. Before his accident, Dad went to him crying, begging him to lend him money. The loan sharks were going to bust his kneecaps. But my fucking uncle told him that he didn’t get where he was by backing losers.”
    “So why did you take the money? To get even?“
    “To get the fuck out of here,” he answered, breathing fast. Adrenaline surged through me as I readied myself. “Do you think I wanted to spend the rest of my life taking his abuse while his fucking kids got rich? Do you?”
    “I think you’re going to spend the rest of your life in jail. That’s where losers like you end up,” I shouted as I jumped to my feet, grabbing hold of his wrist with both of my hands, trying to knock him off his feet. We struggled for a moment in the stillness of equally balanced opposing forces. I focused on the hand with the knife, holding it away from me. I did not see him grab the baseball bat from the display on the wall until it was too late.
     
    I came to in a small space, curled in the fetal position. My head hurt so much I thought I would throw up. As I pulled myself more solidly into consciousness, it became clear that I already had. I shuddered miserably for a few minutes, trying to get my bearings. I tried to sit up but hit my head almost immediately. I groped with my hands in total darkness.
    The reality of my predicament came to me in fragments. I felt some sort of rough, cold fabric against my skin that felt like carpeting. There was a noise as well, a constant rumble, but it was awhile before I decided that it was coming not from my throbbing head, but from some outside source.
    I had no room to move. Panicked and disoriented, I thrashed around in the tight confines of my prison. Finally I realized that I was inside of something and that something was the trunk of a car. I groped around again, struggling to orient myself. I felt the sharp ends of something metal under my shoulder that frantic fingers revealed to be the ends of a set of jumper cables. Scrabbling in the dark I brushed up against the familiar bulk of my purse, a towel that smelled like gasoline, and the sleeve of my Burberry, slippery with blood and vomit.
    “Tim!” I shouted. “Hey, Tim! Can you hear me?“
    “What do you want, bitch?” came his muffled reply. “Where are you taking me?”
    “It doesn’t matter, does it? Wherever it is, you aren’t ever coming back!”
    “Killing me isn’t going to solve anything. Just the opposite. The police will come after you even harder. Do you really think you were able to get me out of the Board of Trade Building without being seen? The cops are probably right behind us.”
    “Dream on. I stuffed you in one of those deep mail carts, spread some mail bags on top. And besides, there isn’t anybody coming looking for you.” Suddenly the car slowed and changed direction. We’d turned onto a different road, one with a rougher surface. We drove for a few minutes in silence. It’s going to be soon, I thought, willing myself to stay in control. I knew that at some point Tim was going to stop the car and that when he did, he was still going to have the knife.
    Tim cut the engine, and we drifted to a stop. I held my breath, and time stood still. I heard the door open. Everything else disappeared, the sounds of my breathing, the rank smell of my appalling fear—it all gave way to something else.
    I had squirmed around in the cramped confines of the trunk, turning myself so that I was lying on my side with my feet tucked under me. My knees were pushed up against the inside of the license plate wall. My head was jammed up against the back of the car’s backseat. At the moment I heard the click of the key