One Cold Night

almost a smirk.
    “So where are they now? Letting you out all by your lonesome this late.”
    His words had the same Texas limp hers did. He sounded like a local, displaced here in Brooklyn, like her. Only here she felt more at home than she ever had in Lindsay, despite the comfortable life Mommy and Daddy had given her.
    Like a real New Yorker, she stared him right in the eye. She drew herself up tall and stepped forward, over the yellow line, into the street.
    “What do you want?” She didn’t see why she should let him bring it up first.
    “What I want,” he said. “What I want. ”
    That was when he slipped the stone into his pocket and took out the gun. It was not even a good-looking gun: it was blunt-nosed and rusty.
    “No way, loser.” Lisa threw the paintbrush at him but missed; it landed a good foot to his left and splashed yellow onto the cobblestones. She ran as fast as she could in the direction of home, but he was taller than she was and each one of his steps brought him closer. She heard the squish of his shoe hitting the edge of the yellow splotch and saw the footprint he left just before he reached her, and she thought, Good. Dave always told her that a detective needed one good clue.
    As soon as he got the gun into her back, she was smart enough to stop. Or dumb enough. That was what she couldn’t decide now, pressed into the dark, stinky trunk that was going, going, going somewhere. The sound of a road was endless when you couldn’t see it. You could hear every pebble and every notch on the asphalt, and you could even hear if the driver lost his nerve: He slowed down just a little, then sped up, changing his mind.
    Never get into a car with a stranger, Mommy had often told her, sounding paranoid; why on earth would she even consider it?
    Never get into a car with a stranger, Dave had instructed, sounding authoritative, because he knew things regular people didn’t know. Like that girl Becky, who vanished last year, poof, right off the street near their school. Dave had imagined aloud if a car had pulled up next to her and offered her a ride on her way home. “One minute she was there,” he had said, “and then she wasn’t.” Lisa wondered why she was thinking about that now, but knew why she was thinking about it, and tried to push it out of her mind.
    She remembered last night. There it was, parked up the street from the chocolate shop, a red car Lisahadn’t noticed lately. It was always parked there, it seemed to her, and so had blended into the scenery; she had stopped seeing it after the first time, months ago, but now it was the only car on the street and it was bright red.
    He took her to the car, keeping quiet while she talked to him.
    “What are you doing this for?” she said. “You don’t really want to do this. What if I was your mother or your sister? Please, sir, think about that. ” Yes, she had actually called him sir. Dufus, she thought now. Idiot.
    That ugly gun made a cold, hard ring on her spine.
    “I saw you skipping stones before,” she said. “You got better. It just takes practice.”
    He popped open the trunk with his free hand. “Get in.”
    She got in. As simple as that. Saying, “You still have time to change your mind.”
    He slammed shut the trunk door.
    It was so dark she couldn’t see her watch. She had no idea what time it was, how long she had been here, how far he might have taken her. Was it still nighttime? Was it day?
    She would try her voice: “Help!” It filled the trunk, resonating inside her body.
    She felt around for an inside trunk latch. They said that some of the newer cars had them for just this reason, or if you got stuck inside your trunk by mistake. Well, who got stuck in their trunk by mistake? No one did. It was just that there were so many carjackings these days. And kidnappings. That was what this was: a kidnapping.
    There was no trunk latch and no light. She felt around for anything else but it was completely empty. No one kept their trunk this empty unless theycleared it out on purpose. He had prepared, then; planned this.
    “Help!”
    She pounded on the inside of the trunk. Pounded and pounded. She could practically see all the cars whizzing past, drivers listening to their radios and CDs and iPods. No one knew she was there, inside the trunk of the little red car. She pounded and pounded.
    But all her shouting and pounding seemed useless. She felt dizzy and a little sick. She thought of Meg in A Wrinkle in Time