Necessity

Beginnings

Finished adjusting his tie, Jim Cross stopped to admire his wife.

Helen, my love, you are a truly beautiful woman.

A grateful woman, at the moment, thank you, she said, as she sat up and slipped on her robe. Nothing like a bit of morning glory to begin the day well.

She came to lean against him for a moment before saying, You’re not going to get in trouble for being late?

Who’s to know? I have to evaluate a defunct factory’s condition, to get an idea of how to best market the place, and that’s going to take up my whole day. So, who cares if I start and finish an hour or two late? And because no one cares, I waited for Rick to leave for school, so I could spend time with the woman I love, without worrying that he’d hear."

Well, I’m glad you did, but I can’t be late today, so off with you.

After a kiss that made him sorry they couldn’t go back to bed, he patted her cheek and headed for the train.

° ° °

Jim stepped from the train to the empty platform. As the train rumbled away, blowing for the crossing, he looked around. The area was a wasteland of abandoned factory buildings, idled, as time, technology, and the migration of industry to cheap labor markets passed them by. With a sigh, he headed for the plant. It wasn’t going to be an easy property to sell.

As he walked the driveway from the gate he gathered impressions.

The main assembly building was a slab-sided structure, its galvanized metal sides rising over sixty feet into the air, nearly a five-minute walk from end to end. Dirt-coated windows lined its upper face, but far too many frames gazed emptily down at him. He watched as a pigeon sailed into one, backwinging to land on a nearby beam.

What the hell? As he exited the administration building, headed for the assembly floor, he stopped. Two cars and a large step-van were parked by the building, but shouldn’t be. Matlock and Sons were supposed to have exclusive rights.

He’d nearly reached the cars when the stuttering roar of what sounded like a machine gun reverberated throughout the plant, sending flights of glass panes cascading down from the upper levels, as the vibrations dissolved their age-fragile bond to the window frame.

He jumped in surprise and fright, then did so again as shattering glass provided a crystalline echo of the shots.

Holy shit! For a moment he froze, his mind trying to reject what his ears reported: human screams of agony punctuated the gunfire. Then, belatedly realizing his danger, he spun, seeking sanctuary.

But the door behind him was locked, and would take time to open. The vehicles were useless as cover. That didn’t matter, though, because before he could take more than a few steps, four men, armed with lethal-looking weapons came through the entrance next to the cars, taking up defensive positions in front of it—lean, hard men, with a decidedly foreign air about their dress and faces.

He had time to note this almost idly, as the surprise on their faces turned to anger and their guns lifted to converge on him. He gazed at death almost without comprehension as he waited for the guns to cut him down. It was too sudden, and too far out of his range of what was possible to accept as real, so he stood, sheep-like, blinking in confusion and unable to react.

A barked command brought the world back into focus. A fifth man had joined the original four, and at his word the men brought the guns down from the shooting position to a cradled rest in the crook of their arm. Still, the weapons pointed steadily toward him.

At a second command, two of the men trotted forward, careful not to block the line of fire. Taking him roughly by the arms they pulled him toward the man who had given the order, caring little if he walked or was dragged.

Two more men exited the building followed by a third, squinting in the light and scowling at the sight of him. This third man wore an expensive suit, the flash of diamonds on his fingers bright in the early morning sun. His swarthy skin and knife-blade nose advertised his nationality as Middle Eastern. A glance at the others showed they were of the same racial type. The word terrorist came, unbidden, to mind.

While he stood shaking in the iron grip of the two gunmen, this, their obvious leader, indulged in heated conversation with the man who’d stopped his execution. Their eyes never left his face while speaking, and the two men not restraining him maintained a visual sweep of the area. The words of the conversation were unintelligible, the language unknown. But the meaning was clear. He was in trouble—trouble that would probably end in his death.

The conversation ended abruptly, on a note of command, as the leader turned and strode toward the cars. Another command, this time from the man who’d halted the gunman, and he was searched, quickly and efficiently. His hands were restrained, and he was hustled to the step-van, where they tossed him into the rear compartment like a sack of trash. Two of the gunmen joined him, pulling the rear door shut as they entered, to sit on the floor, backs braced against the rear corners of the van and facing him.

He lay where he’d fallen. The stink of fear filled the van—his, for certain, but likely that of the previous occupants, too, now undoubtedly sprawled on the floor of the plant.

Sometime later the truck rocked as someone entered the front of the van, started it, slammed it roughly into gear, and then drove with a reckless abandon that brought a smile to the faces of the men sitting with him. One of these pounded on the side of the van to gain the driver’s attention, then shouted something to the driver, who responded with a sharp comment. The men with him laughed, but the driver moderated his pace. The man had probably warned the driver not to be stopped by a local policeman.

Surprisingly, the men with him made no move to taunt or humiliate him further. Not the sadistic bullies the media seems to portray in such a situation, these men were professionals at what they did. They’d been ordered to watch him, and like faithful guard dogs, did no more and no less.

Relieved of one of his immediate fears he moved to sit against a front corner of the van, away from the men, uncomfortably bracing himself against the bumpy ride.

Rational thought, or for that matter, any thought, eluded him. Stray stupidities, like the profound wish he hadn’t chosen to take advantage of the plant visit and leave for work later than usual that morning, filled his mind. That idea was the closest thing to a coherent thought that occurred in the next half hour.

Still, even having a gun pointed at you can become boring after a time. His fear was receding when the truck turned hard left, then slowed, as the ride became rougher. Apparently, they were traveling a secondary road, whose paving was in a poor state of repair.

He tried to keep track of turns and distances as they traveled. He also tried to memorize the faces of his guards, with as little success. Thin faces, olive skin, and a cruel, unsavory look around the eyes was as far as he got. Giving up on tracking their route he focused on the men. But in the end, what he took to be an evil look might be his reaction to the difference in facial characteristics between the American norm and that of their country. For all he knew, their people thought them handsome. To his inexperienced eyes though, they and the situation were too strange to do more than classify them as foreign and frightening.

Again the truck leaned as it rounded a corner, more gently this time, to his relief. The pavement abruptly smoothed, and in a few seconds, following several more turns, the truck lurched to a stop. Wherever they were going, they had arrived.

° ° ° °

Chapter 2

As impersonally as a barnyard animal, they pulled him from the truck and into the house. He had time only to note that it was immense, and fronted by a lawn the size of a football field.

He was hustled up a flight of steps and into what was probably a guest bedroom. As he rubbed feeling into his newly freed wrists the sound of a bolt sliding home said it was also a prison.

From the viewpoint of the men who captured him he was a witness. The only reason he wasn’t already dead was their need to determine who he was and why he was there. As soon as they learned he wasn’t a concern his death was assured. At best, he had until nightfall, so he got to his feet and examined the room.

A canopied bed dominated the space, which was furnished in classic European style. The furnishings screamed of money. The paintings probably cost more than he made in a year, though he was in poor condition to appreciate the beauty.

The windows proved of little help. They overlooked a well-tended lawn, one floor below. The bars covering the window were beautiful, ornate, and, it turned out, solidly mounted.

A private bath adjoined the room, one containing every convenience a being might desire. Unfortunately, nothing was immediately useful, unless he planned to throw a hairdryer at his captors. He doubted that would accomplish more than making them angry.

He played with the idea of wetting the carpet by the door, then electrifying the doorknob with the cord of the electric razor he found in a cabinet by the sink. Unfortunately, he had neither the tools necessary to strip the wire, nor confidence that the result would be more than a shout of surprise.

The walk-in closet provided guests with bathrobes and spare linen, but other than that and a small stock of hangers, was empty.

As he returned to the room the door opened, turning his stomach into a hard knot beneath his breastbone. Was this death arriving? But the man who entered was the one who’d ordered him placed in the van. Though the man’s appearance changed his situation, not at all, he couldn’t keep from feeling hope at his smile as he came into the room. He carried a wallet, which he held out to him. Another good sign. His other hand held the camera, which he didn’t return.

Mr. Cross, the man began, You seem to have become something of a problem, one I hope we can resolve amicably. He took a seat near the ornately carved desk, every inch the urbane host visiting an important guest in his house. The man motioned him to do likewise.

I’m afraid I have to ask you a few questions, Mr. Cross...beginning with what you were doing at the plant today. Friendly curiosity showed on his face, but his eyes were stone.

I... He had to clear his throat and start over. I’m a real-estate appraiser for Matlock and Sons. I was checking the property. When the man didn’t respond, he added, We need to know the condition to decide what it’s worth, in order to conduct the sale.

He spread his hands and shrugged. With his nerves as frayed as they were, and fear of death coloring them, his words must sound like lies.

No car? the man asked, gently prodding him for more detail. You walk to such places?

The man was probably concerned that he’d been sent by the government. Could he convince them he was a government man, and that holding him would result in a visit from the authorities?

Perhaps. But more likely, their believing that would result in a quick death.

The truth made more sense, so he said, I usually take the train into town, and the plant is a short walk from one of the stops on the way there. So... He shrugged and spread his hands.

The man nodded, lips pursed. And what did you see and hear this morning, Mr. Cross?

He took a deep breath, and with a prayer that he sounded convincing, said, I saw the cars when I came to the front of the building. Before I could do more than start over to see who it was, there was gunfire, then your men came out of the building. Belatedly, he wondered if saying Your men, had been a mistake.

The man placed fingertips against his lips, palms clasped together, studying him for a time. Then, he nodded, as if satisfied, and said, Mr. Cross, what you saw this morning was a training session for my country’s militia. They were learning the latest defense techniques. This morning’s exercise was a session on how to flush urban guerrillas out of a building. He smiled tightly and added, We thought the place was deserted. He tapped a finger on the arm of the chair for a moment before adding, There was concern that you might be a spy from a rival organization, or one of your country’s security men, but that seems unlikely.

Reaching a decision, he stood. My apologies, but I’m afraid you will have to be our guest for a short time longer, Mr. Cross—at least until I discuss the details of your release with the leaders of our group. Until then, relax. There’s the television in the wall unit, if you like. I’ll have lunch sent. With that, he left.

For a time he sat looking at the closed door. The man had spoken words of assurance, but he believed none of them. Someone surely would remember the screams that had accompanied the shooting. By necessity, their reasoning must run: Perhaps he saw and heard nothing. Perhaps he will say nothing in any case. Perhaps he has no idea of where he is now. But if we kill him, we don’t have to depend on perhaps.

Later that day he’d be conducted to the van once again, with the explanation that he was being taken to where he’d be released. When he found himself at the plant, they’d tell him to wait inside the building until they’d driven away. And while he stood frozen at the sight of the bodies on the floor, realizing that he’d participated in his own march to slaughter, they’d kill him.

No! His fist slammed on the table as the full realization of what would happen filled his thoughts. Not that way. I won’t go that way. The last was a whisper as resolve coalesced in his mind.

He sat, eyes unfocused for a time, expression hardening. Once again he hit the tabletop, this time in cold anger. Not that way, Jim. Not without company.

Looking over the cold hard facts, he resigned himself to death. That was a given. But die without a struggle? No. Not without at least trying to take some of them with him. His reaction was unlike the Jim Cross he knew so well. But of necessity, he was no longer that man. Perhaps he’d die in the hall outside the room, perhaps in it, but he wouldn’t go along with them, a lamb to the slaughter, hoping a miracle would bring safety. Always and always he’d accepted what life had in store. Now was the time to stop. There at the desk, for the first time in his adult life, Jim Cross clearly faced the idea of his own death. He saw it, and knew quite clearly that it was inevitable, but he also rejected it. Unknowing, he slipped from his normal quiet acceptance of things as they were to a state near that of the berserker. Anger replaced his normal calm, and he rose, falling into the fighter’s crouch without conscious volition.

Once again he studied the room. This time as a hounded animal—taking in every detail in a glance, weighing everything in the room in terms of the damage he could do with it before death claimed him. He searched, too, for something to extend his survival time. Now he saw things missed before. The most important of those was that this was a new house, built with wallboard, not plaster and lath. Although the walls looked solid, in reality, they were a half-inch layer of gypsum, sandwiched between outer layers of paper—easily cut, or, kicked through.

His captors came from a country where wood was scarce, and where walls were built of stone and cement, solid things capable of deflecting an escape attempt. They were as much prisoners of their preconceived ideas as was he a prisoner of theirs. But he could quite literally kick his way through to the next room. The noise of a kick made it a bad idea, but there were other ways.

He stepped into the closet once again. The first thing he needed was a weapon. Looking around, he smiled. He’d guessed right. Expensive house or not, the closet was conventional. Clothes-poles were mounted front to back at each side of the doorway, with shelving above. Shrugging, he chose the one on the right. As hoped, the shelving lifted from the supports without effort. Had it been made of wide cuts of lumber, it could’ve been split into clubs. Unfortunately, the shelf was plywood, so he set it aside. The clothes-pole however was a different matter. A protruding tongue of metal rested on the shelf support boards at either end, supporting the bar. Tiny retaining screws held it in place, but they had little strength. A sharp rap upward at either end and he was holding the thing in his hand.

He pulled the telescoping sections of the pole apart, revealing them to be two thin-walled metal tubes. Too lightweight to swing as a weapon, if used as a spear to the throat it could kill. It was a start.

Tucking one section into his belt and discarding the other in the corner of the closet, he returned to the bedroom. Removing a drawer from the dresser, he squatted to inspect the interior. A metal drawer guideused to support the rear of the drawer as it traveled, was stapled to the frame front-to-back. In seconds it twisted free. A thing of folded metal, it had a flat support tongue extending from one end that would do nicely.

About to return to the closet, he stopped at the entertainment center. The television would cover the noise of what he had in mind.

Back in the closet, he turned on the light and closed the door behind him. There would be an indeterminate amount of time until the next visitor arrived, an event, he assumed, that would end in his death. He might have an hour. But since there was no way to predict that, it was in the hands of fate. If he was still in the room, or working in the closet when the room’s door opened, so be it. If doing his best to kill at least one of them before he went down was in the cards, that’s the hand he’d play.

Inspection showed that the closet and bathroom occupied half of that wall. The adjoining room, he reasoned, probably used the other half of the wall for the same function. So, the flat expanse of wall next to the closet, was, in reality, the back wall of the other room’s closet. He pressed his ear against the back wall of his closet for a few minutes, concentrating on hearing the smallest sound from the other room, trying to determine if the room was occupied. He heard nothing, which unfortunately proved little. Its occupant might be sleeping, or just sitting quietly. With a fatalistic sigh, he got to work.

Choosing the wall facing the adjoining room’s closet, he pressed the flat end of the drawer support against the wallboard. Then, like a giant screwdriver, he spun it, to cut through the wall and into the space between the supporting studs, plaster dust falling to the floor as it turned. Withdrawing the support after it had worked its way through to the hollow between the wall’s two opposing faces, and moving to the right a few inches, he repeated the operation. He did it again and again until he hit the nearest support stud, then did the same in the other direction, to define the space between two studs. Then, using the flat section of his tool as a scribe, he began to scrape the wall, outlining a doorway on the wall, dragging a corner of the tool over the line until it wore through the paper to the gypsum filling behind. Still, he continued, pressing harder, cutting gypsum till a sizable pile of white dust lay at his feet.

The rectangle stretched from knee to shoulder. Big enough, when complete, to step through if he squatted, and small enough to keep the cutting time short.

He stopped before the section fell and alerted the occupants of the house. With a muttered, Here goes nothing, he slipped his fingers through the holes he’d originally punched, then pulled. The section tore free, exposing the pale brown paper that formed the inside surface of the opposing closet’s wall. He was halfway there.

He was setting the removed section on the floor when a lull in the television program brought the sound of voices outside the door.

With a muttered, Damn! He snatched the makeshift spear from where it leaned against the wall and tucked it into his belt behind his back. Exiting the closet and closing the door, he slipped off his dusty shoes and kicked them under the bed—out of sight—then flung himself onto the bed, the clothes-pole spear uncomfortably pressing into his back.

A man he’d not seen before opened the door, a servant, pushing a loaded serving cart. In the hall stood one of the four men who’d been in the van with him, gun at the ready. The thought occurred that he could, indeed, recognize his captors again. Not that it would do him any good, it still seemed something of a small victory.

Bowing, the servant left the cart and backed from the room. The food meant they’d allow him at least fifteen minutes to consume it.

Back in the closet, he began work on the final barrier to the next room, spinning the tool at the bottom of the opening. But when it cut through the wallboard it struck something hard. Something was blocking his exit. Perhaps a cabinet?

With a muttered curse, he raised the height of his exploration, trying to define the limits of this new obstacle. It took several tries, but he finally breathed a sigh of relief. It ended at just under waist height. He’d have to raise the top of the opening, but aside from the lost time, and having to climb past whatever was blocking the wall, there was no real problem. Five minutes later he stood in the darkness of his first objective: the opposing closet.

Cautiously cracking the closet door, he found a room that mirrored his own, except this one seemed to be used for storage, rather than reluctant guests. Boxes and crates were stacked everywhere.

The room’s door was secured by a boxy lock. It should be possible to release it from the inside, but he had to assume the door was alarmed. Once again he was in trouble.

Muttering a string of unimaginative damn’s, he retreated to the closet to check for a trap door in the ceiling. He was in luck. Above him was the rectangular opening of an inspection hatch. What going up there would accomplish was uncertain, but it was an option, perhaps his only one. Handicapped by their preconceived notion of how a house was built, the terrorists might assume he’d escaped via the door of this second bedroom, and not think to search the space above the room. A long shot, yes, but hiding there until late at night might be a better bet than a run for the door, now. The guards, assuming he’d already left, would be searching for those trying to break in not out.

As a plan, it was poor, and depended too much on luck, but it had the virtue of being the only plan he had.

° ° ° °

Chapter 3

As he searched for something to use as a ladder he found the nature of the goods stored in the room: hand-grenades, machine guns, and a carton of what he was afraid might be nerve gas. Why someone would store such a hellish mixture in the bedroom of a house was unknown, but there it was.

Searching the cartons cost time he couldn’t afford, but he couldn’t stop himself. Fascinated, he lifted one of the guns from the protective over-wrap. Black, and almost beautiful in its cold functionality, it had a seductive charm, cradling in his arm as though it’d been waiting for him, alone. If the room held ammunition, too, he might just be able to take a few more with him than anticipated.

Further search showed a box of empty clips, but no ammunition. About to give up, he noticed several dozen small cardboard boxes stacked by the door. In these, he found, someone had placed fully loaded clips of ammunition for the Uzis. Grimly he loaded his pockets. He also found room to tuck in several hand-grenades, on the theory that you never know when something might come in handy.

He made a final check of the room, going to the dresser last. The lower three drawers were empty, but the top drawer was filled nearly to overflowing with money.

Canadian and American currency filled most of the drawer: neat bundles of hundred dollar bills. A cloth bag tucked at one side held the bright gold disks of South African Krugerrands.

With a shake of his head, he closed the drawer, only to reopen it and extract several bundles of bills and a handful of coins, which he stuffed in his pockets.

Since trying to shoot his way out of the house seemed suicidal, it made sense to investigate the crawl space. Perhaps something there would add to his existing options.

Standing on stacked crates, he surveyed the space. Particles of fiberglass insulation dislodged by lifting the access port drifted in the air, tickling his throat and making him want to cough.

As his eyes adapted, he found himself at one end of a wing at the rear of the house, the wing forming a tee with the main part of the roof. The light, supplied by an air-vent in the end wall, was dim but adequate to show a forest of roof supports rising from bare rafters that were brimming with blown-in insulation. The roof over the house formed an inverted V, resulting in enough height to stand and step from beam to beam. Fortunately, the room under him was at the end of the wing, and the air vent was between that room and his prison cell.

With crossed fingers he climbed through the entrance, puffing with effort and wishing he’d kept himself in better shape. Cautiously he stood, and using the roof supports, beam-walked to the vent staying above the wall separating the rooms—which also acted as a support for the beams he was walking on, and would prevent creaking support beams that would alert the guard.

The slats of the vent looked down from the end of the wing and appeared to be facing a stretch of mowed lawn, with the carved gingerbread of a stone bordered gazebo visible at the upper edge of his view. No guards in sight, so if he could exit the house this way, he might stand a chance. That possibility, as slim as it was, redirected his priorities toward life rather than death.

A closer investigation of the vent yielded more good news. It was secured by two screws. Moments later, after a trip back to the room, these screws yielded to the screwdriver-like end on the drawer support. He smiled. That piece of folded metal was useful. A push and the vent would be free. Now, if he could find something to use as rope.

Clothesline? Who in their right mind would buy clothesline for rope? He stared at the box of braided clothesline he’d found in one corner of the closet. Apparently, his hosts had little experience with the American variations of cordage, mistaking the cotton clothesline at the local big-box hardware store for braided rope. Little chance they planned to dry laundry on it.

He suppressed further complaints and shrugged. When handed lemons, make lemonade, Jim old boy. Make lemonade. He was already well beyond the fifteen minutes he allotted himself, so there was no choice but to use what was at hand. Even the time to search further couldn’t be spared.

Working quickly, he doubled two hanks of the rope over a roof support and left the ends by the vent, then made what he hoped was a close approximation of a rappelling harness, to avoid having to climb hand over hand. Limited in resources, he tied loops in the rope in place of the metal fittings normally used, hoping he got it right.

Gathering the courage to leave, a sudden and evil inspiration stopped him—one that brought a grim smile. It might get him killed within the next few minutes, but given the low probability of survival, even should he successfully leave the house, it was worth taking the chance.

Back in his original bedroom, he surveyed the possibilities, then nodded. It was not only possible, it would be easy. Getting it done before someone came to check on him was the problem. But since he could neither predict nor control that, time spent worrying about it was wasted.

Pushing worry aside, he tied a slipknot at the end of a length of rope and placed it around the doorknob, tightening it carefully, to avoid rattling the knob and alerting the guard. He ran the rope behind the dresser on the knob side of the door, and brought it out of the bottom, passing behind one of the dresser’s legs. Opening the room’s door would translate into a pull on the rope. He guided the rope into the closet and dropped the end on the other side of his makeshift doorway. He added several more ropes to the knob, paralleling the course of the first, and tied each to the pull-ring of a hand-grenade. Those he placed in the box with their brothers—tied there in such a way that opening his room’s door pulled the pins free of the grenades, to give his new friends a nice surprise. True the grenades would be in the other room when they blew. But if they set off those in the box, it would make a very nice bang.

Finished, he eyed the arrangement. Something wasn’t right. Finally, nodding with satisfaction, he returned to his room and moved furniture in front of the door, blocking it. That would force them to push hard against the door as they tried to open it and not feel the drag of the rope being tightened. With luck, he’d get one or more of them to throw their