CHAPTER EIGHT - Vanessa

C HAPTER E IGHT

Vanessa

Two Weeks Ago

T he Rowan family had felt compelled to leave Portland. The crime rate was rising, and many streets were lined with the tents of homeless people. The illegal drug situation was at an all-time high, and had almost cost the life of Bobby Rowan, their eighteen-year-old son. They sent him to a ninety-day rehab center in Arizona, and upon his return, the Rowans decided it was time to find a safer place for their two children, Vanessa and Bobby.

Vanessa was a feisty fourteen-year-old. Emotional and stubborn. She resented moving away from her friends, but her mother reminded her that they were only an hour away, and her friends were invited to visit Mountain Valley. She suggested a sleepover but with negative results. She even offered to drive the friends back and forth. Nope. Vanessa thought Mountain Valley was boring, and her friends would hate it. She wanted to go back and visit them in Portland. “Not happening” was the repeated response.

Like many teenagers, Vanessa had a chip on her shoulder, and thought her parents were out of touch with reality. “You still have your social media,” her mother reminded her.

“Big deal. I want to be with my friends.” She’d pout or yell, depending on her mood.

Mrs. Rowan was trying desperately to connect with her daughter and made efforts to keep up with the technology and the lingo. “Don’t you have a lot of friends on TikTok or Insta, or whatever you kids are using? Oh, what about FaceTime?” It wasn’t working.

“Mom, puh-lease! You really think I have two thousand friends? I mean, for real?” She’d grimace. “Like, no.”

“I guess I don’t understand the point, then.” Julie Rowan found all of it unsettling. Technology surely made the world better. It also brought out the worst in people. She sighed. Raising a teenager today was like dealing with a tidal wave: it was coming at you, and the only thing you could do was ride it out and try not to go under. She knew arguing with her daughter was a no-win situation. And it seemed as if every conversation was an argument lately.

* * *

Vanessa was having a difficult time making real friends at her new school. Teenagers could be mean, but so could she. The guidance counselor spoke to

Vanessa several times. She spoke to the Rowans several times. Everyone surmised it was her brother’s addiction, rehab, and moving that had thrown Vanessa off her game. Before all that happened, Vanessa was a good student, was on the gymnastics team, and had a decent circle of friends. She felt she was being punished for her brother’s bad behavior. “It’s not fair!” She’d scream from inside her locked bedroom and then crank up her music so loud, the doors would vibrate. There was no use in asking her to turn it down. She’d just make it louder. The next day, she would be almost civil, as civil as one resentful teenager could possibly be.

Her parents were kind and thoughtful. Good people. Where had they gone wrong with Bobby? What had they done to drive him to drugs? They certainly didn’t want Vanessa to take the same path. Bobby had one more month in rehab before he could return home. Perhaps that would bring more equilibrium to the household. Vanessa had respected her brother until he went down the rabbit hole. She couldn’t figure it out, either. The family hoped Bobby would return like his old-young self. The good news/bad news was that the overdose episode had scared the daylights out of him. He actually asked to go to a facility, and for as long as it took. The Rowans had a positive attitude about the problem. Now if they could only get past Vanessa’s mood swings. But as long as there were raging teenage hormones, it wasn’t going to be easy.

* * *

Vanessa was on her way home from school when she got a text from one of her friends in Portland:

Partizzle. 2nite . [meaning: Party tonight.]

Vanessa’s mood was elevated.

WTPA? [meaning: Where The Party At?]

Response:

Bakers Shubs [meaning: Baker’s House Party.]

* * *

Vanessa knew her parents would never allow her to go, so she took matters into her own hands. She made her way over to OR-99ES/Portland Road NE, where she would try to hitch a ride. If she was lucky, she’d be there in less than two hours.

A green pickup truck was exiting a gas station as she passed by. She stuck out her thumb, and the driver pulled over. A chubby face grinned through the open window. “Where you headed?” Vanessa recognized the S.E.I. logo and figured it was safe to climb in. As she scrambled into the passenger seat, the chubby guy grabbed a small parcel the size of a shoebox. The tape on the box caught on the seat belt buckle and ripped part of the top open. Dozens of glassine packages containing white pills spilled over her jeans and onto the floor mat. Before she could utter a word, the driver clocked her on the side of the head, knocking her out.

* * *

Bart had reacted reflexively. If you don’t want somebody in your business, you send them to la-la land. He reached over her crumpled body, pulled the passenger door shut, and took off like a bat outta hell. He didn’t know what he was going to do with her once she regained consciousness. Maybe shove one of the pills down her throat? Make it two. Take no chances.

He drove another mile and pulled onto a dirt road. He opened a bottle of water, ripped open one of the small bags, tilted her head back, shoved two pills into her mouth, and poured water down her throat. She gagged, spewing out water and wet pills. He made a second attempt. This time, he stuck his fingers into her mouth to hold down her tongue. He pushed the pills as far back as he could, poured water into her mouth, closed her jaw, and waited for her to swallow. A loud gulp confirmed mission accomplished. That should take care of her for a good while. Exactly how long that good while would be, Bart had no idea, but he figured it had to be at least an hour. If not, he’d repeat the process.

He watched his passenger for any signs of movement. None, but she was still breathing. He looked to see if any other vehicles were around. Nope. He got out of the truck and went to the bed, where he got some rope and duct tape. He hated to do it, but he had to be sure he had her under control before he called Dickie. And boy, was Dickie gonna be mad.

* * *

Mad was an understatement. Dickie was livid. Bart gave him the shortest version of what had transpired. “I picked up a hitchhiker, and the pill packets spilled all over the cab.”

Dickie screamed every expletive in his personal lexicon, words even Bart didn’t understand. Russian, maybe? Bart didn’t try to mount a defense. He simply listened to the diatribe until Dickie calmed down, which seemed to take forever.

“I want you to listen to me. You take her to the Inn in Salem. Put her in the storage room in the basement. The one with the bars on the window. And get someone to keep an eye on her. Ya hear me?”

“You bet, boss.” Bart checked the fuel indicator. “What about the pills?”

“Put them back in the box, you idiot.”

“I mean, should I deliver them?”

“With a bound and gagged teenager in your truck?” Dickie’s volume was rising again. “You’ve got to get rid of her first.”

“Got it, boss.” Bart was happy the call had ended, even though Dickie had hung up before Bart finished his sentence. He grabbed a trash bag from the back and scooped up the pills, picking the small glycine bags from between the girl’s legs. He actually felt creepy about doing it.

Once he was sure he’d accounted for all of the white tablets, minus the two half-melted ones and the two down her throat, he peeled off the dirt road and got on the interstate, keeping a constant eye on his new package.

Bart maintained the speed limit and followed all the laws of driving, using his blinker when changing lanes and constantly checking his rearview mirror. Beads of sweat were running down his face. His palms were clammy. He thought maybe some of that dope had gotten into his system from handling the pills. He strained his brain for the word: trans-derema? Transdermo? Whatever it was, he thought it might be affecting him. He cranked up the air conditioner and took a swig of the remaining water from the bottle. He looked over again. She was out cold.

* * *

An hour later, salty sweat continued to run from his forehead into his eyes. He kept wiping his face with the back of his sleeve. He needed some relief and reached over the seat with one arm to grab another bottle of water from the back of the cab. He used his back teeth to open it and then poured some on his head. Several drops splashed on the girl. She let out a soft moan and bobbed her head. Bart was about to have a freakout, but she settled down in a few seconds. He couldn’t remember the last time he was this rattled. Hardly anything rattled Bart. That’s why Dickie had him on his crew. But this? This was a unique kind of trouble. He might have a checkered past, but it had never included assault—or kidnapping, for that matter. Yep. Jacking a car was one thing, but jacking a teenager? Something entirely different. He could go to jail for life.