To get out of the cage, Joshua decided to cooperate fully. What other choice did he have?
The two bald men opened the cage door and dragged him out, picked him up by his arms and feet and swung him up onto the cot. He didn’t dare move a muscle, but the two younger guys held him tight anyway. Then the big man looked down at him. “Open your mouth.” What? Joshua felt the panic rising in his throat as the big man produced a stick and jammed it sideways between his teeth. Christ! Then the two baldys produced a couple of lengths of rope and proceeded to tie him to the cot, cinching his head so he had no choice but to look straight up at the ceiling. All three lifted him and the cot and placed Joshua’s head directly below a faucet sticking up out of the floor. The big guy twisted the faucet. To a slow drip. First one drop hit the middle of his forehead and slid down into his eye. Then another. And another. Joshua couldn’t see anything but the ceiling and the faucet and the tiny balls of water as they slowly beaded and fell. The door slammed shut, and he was alone. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Joshua tried to move. But it was no use. The ropes were taut. No play. In fact, they cut him in so many places, any movement ramped up the pain. Meanwhile the damn faucet continued to drip. Slowly. Relentlessly. Soon Joshua’s head ached. Then a migraine settled in. Throbbing pain throughout his head. Like an abscessed tooth. His eyes started to sting. They watered. Mucus-like tears pooled at the corners. He kept his eyes closed tight and the images he saw…he couldn’t unsee. I’m in hell. Losing his mind, drip, by drip, by drip. Forever, it seemed.
Then finally someone entered the room. Heavy steps. The big man with the pale eyes came into view. Leaned over. Yanked the stick from Joshua’s mouth. In a voice that sounded like Satan, he growled out, “You will tell us. Now. Each and every judge in your network.”
My network? Who is this guy? Shit…whatever the bastard wants. “Of course, of course,” and then in a desperate play, “There are too many. I can’t remember them all, but the list is at my office. Let me go. I swear. I’ll get it to you immediately. Every name, address, phone number. Everything. Anything you want.”
“I want it all. Now.”
“I swear. Just give me some time. You’ll get it all!”
The big man straightened and turned to speak to unseen others who’d entered the room. “Bring him.” Then, leaning over again, he jammed the stick back into Joshua’s mouth. “Bite down.”
Joshua bit down. Then three bald men untied him and lifted him from the cot only to lug him through the door and into a barn. He watched with horror as they attached chains to his body. Wrists. Ankles. And a pulley turned. Joshua’s body stretched toward the rafters. Every bone, every joint, about to break. When he finally hung vertically, chin to chest, about a foot off the ground, the big man reached for the collar of his shirt and ripped the fabric, buttons popping, exposing Joshua’s chest to the cool air of the barn. Then the man pulled out a shiny stiletto knife, held it up for Joshua to see, and sliced into Joshua’s chest. Frantic, Joshua tried to see how deep the knife went and what the man carved. His brain registered an ‘H’ and then an ‘E’. But what did it mean? Bleeding, exhausted, and more afraid than he’d ever been in his life, Joshua pushed with his tongue and the stick dropped from his mouth. He sobbed. “My God—stop. I have what you want. Here. Just please. Stop.”
The big man barked, “Where?”
“My pocket. Left pants pocket. I’ll get it. Just…let me down.”
One of the bald guys reached into Joshua’s pocket. Pulled out a cellphone. He threw it to another bald man, turned to Joshua and shouted, “Tell him how to access it.”
His body shook, writhing in pain and terror, he nodded frantically. “Yes, yes, let me down. I’ll show him. Please!”
“No. Tell him first. You lying sack of shit.”
Following Joshua’s directions, the bald-headed guy eventually hit the correct buttons. He got through the passwords to the network list. By then, Joshua was ready to pass out. He begged and pleaded, but the men ignored him, focused on the cellphone. I don’t want to die in a barn hanging from a goddamn rafter. He must have passed out momentarily because his eyes flew open when the pulley began to turn. Finally, feet on the ground, Joshua knew, only the hand of God had saved him. His whole body flushed with a strange sense of elation and thankfulness. He started to speak, to thank his captors, but the big man shoved the stick back into his mouth and slammed the rank bag back over Joshua’s head. Blind and suffocating, he felt hands on him, tying his hands and legs. Someone pushed him to his knees. He stayed there, swaying, trying to stay upright, but then he could hear the men leave, and he collapsed sideways. Wrapped himself into a fetal position. Frozen in fear. Just a lump of flesh on a smelly, dirty barn floor.
That night, two bald men returned. Joshua heard their footsteps. They stopped beside him. One of them ripped the bag from his head, and he blinked against even the dim light. They yanked the stick from his mouth. Stuffed a rag in it. Then picked him up. Carried him outside. And threw him once again into the back of the truck. This time feet first. He landed on his ass, his head banging hard against the metal of the truck bed. The two walked around and piled into the back of the cab. The big man and another bald-headed guy were already in front. Joshua looked around. To his left, in the truck bed, sat a six-person inflatable on its side, with a 25-horsepower engine laid behind it. They took off. Windy, like falling from an airplane, thought Joshua. But at least, thank God, not the barn.
Then the truck stopped. Near a dark beach. Two of them carried Joshua. Loaded him into the boat, launched further into the waves and jumped in. The big guy steered. About a half mile out, they stopped. Tossed Joshua overboard. Then motored off.
Joshua, out of time and out of luck, had only two things going for him. First, while on the barn floor, he had loosened the ropes on his wrists and ankles. Second, he had been on the swim team at the University of Southern California. Before USC got around, that is, to expelling him, unfairly he felt, for allegedly cheating on exams. Putting those thoughts behind him, Joshua worked the ropes off. Spit out the rag. And swam for his life.
About thirty minutes after being dumped at sea, Joshua washed up on shore at a small tree-lined cove. Exhausted, he sprawled out and then blanked out on the rocky beach. When he awoke, just after sunrise, he saw two girls, jogging along the cliff line above. They spotted him. Said something to each other. Then dialed their cellphones.
Joshua concluded they were probably calling 911. With everything else shit, he sure as hell didn’t need cops. Joshua pulled himself up and crawled like a lizard into the nearby woods. Through a clearing, he saw buildings. And a sign. The UC Santa Barbara dormitories. No students around though. Probably sleeping off Friday night parties, thought Joshua.
He got up. Crossed a lawn and sneaked into the first dorm, through a back door. To his left, the students’ laundromat area. Again, no one around. But clothes spun slowly, over and over, in one of the dryers. Hopefully, men’s clothes. Pulling open the dryer door, he got his first break. He yanked out grey sweatpants, a blue UCSB hooded sweatshirt, and a pair of white canvas Sperry Docksiders. He quickly stripped, dressed in the stolen goods, and jammed his clothes into a trash bin. Then he made his way to the quadrangle. Lucky break two, he found a wall phone in this messed up world of cellular everything. Joshua smiled, picked up the phone, and dialed.
“What did you say?”
“Collect call for Ryan Stacey from Joshua Censkey,” the operator repeated. “Do you accept the charges?”
“Ryan,” Joshua broke in, “accept the damn charges! This is an emergency.”
As Joshua waited for Ryan, the fast-food restaurants on the quadrangle beckoned. He would have killed for a McDonald’s breakfast sandwich and coffee. But without money, he just sat and waited. And contemplated the last 24 hours. And how glad he was to be alive and how messed up his life had become. Then, he had an epiphany, and big decisions followed, tumbling over one another like rocks in a landslide.
Sure, he’d used up all his liquid assets to pay off the thirty million in Hollywood debt. And he’d been fucked over by his number one client, Chesterfield. Not to mention, getting kidnapped, beaten, tortured, dumped at sea to die, and worst of all, robbed of his judge list. And he was an idiot for never backing up the damn information he’d kept on his cellphone, his only copy detailing the lives of each of the twenty-five judges on his list—including name, court, phone number and address, family issues, addictions, porn site use, embarrassing events, and other useful data. The information was his fallback position if money ever became an issue. Now, it was all gone. Leaving Joshua, well, shit out of luck.
So that’s it, he thought. Enough bullshit. Only God knows what could happen next. Time to exit. Stage left. Wash his hands of Chesterfield. Those goddamn money-hungry judges. And all the Hollywood jerks. Most of all, whoever or whatever sent those hounds of hell who stole his list. First, he’d get Ryan to start liquidating everything. Then Chapter 11. Stiff everyone he owes. Fuck ’em. Meanwhile, he’d be long gone. Safe. But where? Gotta be far away. Somewhere he could make a new start.
Just then, another brilliant idea struck him. Bolivia! Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid had tried it a century ago. Their timing was off. Definitely off. But Joshua had a terrific sense of timing. And four years of Spanish in high school. In fact, Bolivia needed someone like him. Someone who thought outside the box. Someone who could interact with the power elite. Make them stronger. Richer. Still more powerful. In short, what Joshua had done for America, he could do for Bolivia. And, without all the bullshit American laws and lawyers in his way, he’d do it bigger. Better. Faster.
As soon as Ryan arrived in his Land Rover, Joshua demanded a hundred bucks. Without getting in, he turned and ran in his hoodie to McDonald’s on the quadrangle. Then with enough egg sandwiches to feed most of China, Joshua hopped into the SUV. Between mouthfuls, he barked instructions. In fact, Joshua didn’t stop eating. Didn’t stop talking. Until they reached L.A. His last words to Ryan before getting out of the SUV were, “God bless, Bolivia! Get ready. Here we come.”
CHAPTER 36
Ninety miles away in Redondo Beach, Ridge sat enjoying the late Saturday morning air on his west balcony, glad he had installed Malibu glass. The 3x3 clear panels kept the wind out, while spacing between them let salt air in, and prevented a Florida-room effect that broiled brains in direct sun. With the wind blocked, Ridge read the L.A. Times without papers flapping back, forth, and sideways. Sure, he could have used his laptop to read news online but, especially on Saturday mornings, he loved the feel of paper with his coffee. The scent of ink went well with his Kona blend. He even liked the black smudges on his fingers. Scrolling the web just wasn’t the same.
Jayne was in the kitchen feeding Mister and Pistol, who was feeling much better. In fact, the previous night, Pistol was running around in the den, according to Jayne, until Ridge came in. Hearing him enter, Pistol stopped short. Laid her head on her paws. And cast pathetic, soulful eyes up at Ridge. But after some play-acting and a chew bone, Pistol forgot herself. Jumped for another treat. Her gig was up, and Drama Queen knew it. So, this morning, not bothering to fake it, Pistol ran to Jayne for breakfast, leaving Ridge alone with his coffee and paper.
As he leafed through the Business Section, Ridge came across an article that made his heart skip a beat and then pick up at a faster pace. The picture showed a 21st Century version of the O-2 aircraft he’d flown in Southeast Asia. High wings, twin booms, and a rear-propeller-powered engine. The headline read: New Spy Plane – With or Without Pilot. The article explained that a new aerospace start-up, called WingX, had developed a plane which could be either piloted or radio-operated from the ground. They dubbed it ‘WebBird’. Test flights were being flown at Dryden Flight Research Center on Edwards Air Force Base, near Palmdale, California. Palmdale was about two and half hours north of the Beach Cities, no traffic. Then Ridge read something else, and got really excited. The Chief Test Pilot was none other than David Lake.
Dave and he had met in Southeast Asia. Over the years, they’d tried to stay in touch through holiday cards and letters, but in the last five years, their contact had become sporadic at best. Ridge didn’t even know Dave was in California. He put down the Times and picked up his laptop. The number for WingX popped up. And even though it was a long shot on a Saturday morning, Ridge dialed his cellphone. They answered.
Ridge went from receptionist, to press relations, then to WingX at Dryden, and then to another receptionist. Being a persistent guy, he pressed forward. Eventually, the Dryden receptionist agreed to give his cell number to Chief Pilot David Lake. A few minutes later, it rang.
“Is this the one and only Eric Ridge?” David’s voice was as familiar as if they’d spoken yesterday.
Alone on his porch, Ridge’s face broke into a wide smile. “Only if this is the infamous Dave Lake.”
“Bet your bippy it is!”
