Chris poured three glasses of scotch, the amber liquid catching the flickering light, and handed a glass each to Stanley and Mary. Stanley raised his glass towards his unlikely guest, his eyes never leaving Chris’s. “To your continued health and good fortune.” With a swift motion, he emptied the scotch down his throat, the burn a welcome distraction from the icy snake coiled within his gut. Mary took a hesitant sip from her glass, a disturbing scowl etched between her pale and drawn cheeks, the lines of worry and contempt deepening.
“And to yours,” Chris replied, his voice smooth and cordial as he too tipped his glass down his throat. The sound of the storm outside was a relentless howl, a reminder of the chaos that mirrored the tension within the room. Chris quickly poured himself another, the bottle clinking softly against the rim of his glass, and sat down again opposite Stanley and Mary, his posture deceptively relaxed. “How long have you two been married?” he asked with unsettling calm, the question absurdly out of place amid their blood-drenched hostage situation.
Stanley chuckled, a dry, humorless sound, recognizing the bitter irony. “A long time. I would guess we were married before your father was even born. Over sixty-two years.” He held his bound wrists out to Chris with his empty glass, a silent request for a refill. The ropes chafed his skin, a biting reminder of his helplessness.
Chris obliged, a smile playing on his lips as he poured. The simple act of refilling the glass was perverse in its normalcy, a grotesque parody of hospitality. The storm outside raged, a fitting backdrop to the twisted tableau within, where polite conversation and deadly threats danced hand in hand.
“Sixty-two years! Not to sound too corny, but is there a secret?” Chris reached over and refilled his own glass, the bottle glinting ominously in the dim light.
“What’s our secret, Mary?” Stanley asked, turning to his seething wife. Her eyes burned with contempt barely masked by the thin veneer of civility she struggled to maintain.
Mary unclenched her jaw and, with her bound wrists, gently wiped the sweat from her brow, forcing a weak smile. “I’m not so sure it’s a secret…” she began slowly, each word chosen with deliberate care, as she infused her voice with forced cordiality. “But I’ll give you two pieces of advice… marry your best friend, and dedicate your lives to living your passion.” She paused, as though gathering her scattered thoughts, the weight of the situation pressing down on her.
“For Stanley and me,” she continued, “It was traveling. We’ve lived in this house together for sixty-two years, but we’ve circled the globe at least a dozen times. There are very few places you could name that we haven’t been to. And we spent every minute of that time living our passion.” As she spoke, a proud light filled her eyes, soothing her frayed nerves. She seemed to calm considerably and asked, “Are you a married man, Chris?”
Chris looked around the room, noticing for the first time souvenirs from around the world. Miniature statues from Rome, wall art with Japanese paintings and writing, and photographs of Stanley and Mary at Stonehenge, in front of Aztec ruins, the Great Wall of China, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, the Kremlin, the beach in Rio de Janeiro, San Marco’s Square in Venice, and dozens more. He slowly took in their lifetime of adventures together. “Far from it,” he eventually replied. “Came close with my boy’s mother, I guess. She didn’t stick around. I’ve always had a hard enough time taking care of myself.” He leaned back, the tension in the room thickening once again.
Mary’s expression softened, a flicker of something resembling tenderness passing over her face. “That’s exactly my point, young man,” she said, her voice carrying a note of grim resolve. With a smile that barely masked her underlying hostility, she took Stanley’s bound hands between her own, her fingers pressing firmly, as if trying to draw strength from their shared predicament. “We take care of each other.”
The tender moment shattered like glass as the kid burst into the room. “We got trouble,” he said, his voice a harsh whisper that sliced through the calm. “Cops are looking in the windows next door. They’ll be knockin’ any minute. What’s your plan, pop?”
Chris stared directly at Stanley, his eyes sharp with cold calculations. “Now’s your chance to take care of each other, Stan.” His voice was low, a growl of urgency mixed with a hint of menace. He turned his gaze to his son and snapped, “Get your uncle in here right now.” The kid darted toward the back of the house, disappearing down the basement stairs with a speed born of fear.
Chris turned back to Stanley, his expression hard as granite. “Here’s the play… I know there’s no way I can trust you, and I know there’s no way you can trust me. But for the next few minutes, we’ve got no choice but to try. Me and my guys are taking your wife into the basement.”
The room seemed to close in around them, the walls pressing tight like a vice. Stanley’s eyes flickered with a mix of fear and defiance while Mary’s face drained of color, her bound hands trembling. Outside, the storm raged on, each clap of thunder a countdown to chaos. The air was thick with dread, the kind that prickled the skin and turned every breath into a gamble.
“Is that right?” Stanley asked through clenched teeth, his voice a low growl. The amicable exchange turned to ice, the temperature in the room seeming to drop as Stanley pictured Mary being carried away, helpless at the mercy of these men.
Chris slowly nodded, his eyes never leaving Stanley’s. “You’re going to get rid of the cops,” he said, his voice calm but laced with deadly intent. “If I hear anything other than you telling us the coast is clear, Mary dies. And we’ll come up shooting at anything that moves. You said you didn’t want anyone else to get hurt, right? Well, that’s on you now.” The threat hung heavy in the air, each word a blade poised to strike.
Stanley closed his eyes, a deep exhale escaping his lips as he nodded.
“Can you do this, Stan?” Chris’s voice was almost a whisper, but it carried the weight of a death sentence. Stanley opened his eyes, the fear and resolve battling in his gaze as he faced the dire reality before him.
Stanley’s steely-eyed gaze bored into Chris, unwavering, unyielding. His resolve was as unbreakable as a block of granite. “The men out there know me,” he said, his voice a low, controlled rumble. “They trust me. They’ll believe what I tell them, and they’ll only see what I want them to see. You’ll be safe.” Mary closed her eyes tightly, tears spilling over and streaming down her cheeks.
The basement door burst open with a crash, and the other two men bolted into the room. The brute, his eyes wild and haunted, stared at Stanley for a moment, then shifted his gaze to his brother. “You’re not gonna believe what I found in the basement,” he said, his voice trembling with something close to awe.
“Later,” Chris barked at his brother, his voice sharp and edged with urgency. “Grab the old woman, and take her into the basement. She already knows what will happen if she makes any noise.” Both men seized Mary by the arms, her frail body tensing as they marched her toward the basement stairs.
As they vanished from sight, Chris knelt in front of Stanley, his hands working quickly to untie the clotheslines that bound Stanley’s wrists and ankles. He tugged the shirt sleeves down to conceal the angry red marks the ropes had left and placed a baseball cap on Stanley’s head, hiding the bruise that darkened his temple. “Just stay calm, Stan,” Chris murmured, his voice softening. “Do that and everyone walks away from this. Believe me, I don’t want to hurt anyone else.”
Stanley’s eyes met Chris’s, a flicker of understanding passing between them. “I know you don’t, but right now… you need to trust me,” Stanley said, his hand gripping Chris’s arm with a reassuring firmness. “I’ll come for you as soon as they’re gone.”
Chris nodded, a shadow of doubt crossing his face before he masked it with a tight smile. “Good luck, Stan,” he said, rising to his feet and walking out of the room, leaving Stanley to wonder what lay ahead in the darkness of the basement.
About the Author:
Mystery and thriller author K.C. Kissig writes from his home in Northeast Ohio, drawing inspiration from family life with his wife and two children.
