William David Thorndyke closed the door of his 1978 Chevy Nova behind him, and beamed at the handsome face walking toward him. "Helloooo, Joe!"
They jogged toward each other and threw their arms around one another. "Hi, beautiful!" Joe said.
Moving to Los Angeles the moment he turned 18 had been the best decision Bill Thorndyke had ever made. Back in Akron, Ohio, he'd been under constant torment from his shrew of a mother and his two snotty sisters. The former seemed to take her resentment of his estranged father out on him, and the latter had never done anything but make fun of him. True, he hadn't gone to college or a trade school, but living off odd jobs in the low-rent district beat staying in that hell hole. If not for L.A., the women in his family might have turned him outright misogynistic. With two-thirds of the continental U.S. between himself and the family he'd left behind, he could finally come out of the closet to them. It had still been scary to send that letter, but it was also liberating. And ... exhilarating.
And then, he'd met Joe, the love of his life.
Joe was in even worse straits than himself. While Bill was poor, Joe was homeless. Despite this, Joe still refused to move in with Bill. He considered it a matter of fairness, not wanting to be a burden to his better-off boyfriend. In truth, it was more a matter of pride — the same reason he refused to accept handouts. This didn't keep Joe from letting Bill take him out to dinner, quite often, but he convinced himself that this was "different" because it was "dating."
"I was thinking of taking you to a fancy French restaurant today," Bill said. "It's called Jacques . . . in the Box."
Joe snorted. "I've always wanted to try their specialty, the Jumbo Jacques. You know, to see how the other half lives."
"You know me," Bill said, "Always living high on the —" He patted his left back pocket, and realized it was flat. Darn it, he'd done it again. "Hold on, let me go back to my car and get my wallet."
He jogged the short distance back to his '78 Nova. Opening the driver's side door, he looked back over his shoulder; Joe blew him a kiss from the other side of the block. He was bending over to pick up his wallet off the passenger seat when a black van skidded to a stop right next to Joe. Three guys got out, all wearing white skin-tight Lycra with twin blue stripes down each arm, the kinds of outfits bicycle racers might wear. Two of them grabbed Joe, who screamed before the third assailant threw a gag over his mouth, and the three threw him in the back of the van and piled in behind him.
The van took off again before Bill could take two steps.
Bill's heart raced in near-panic. Holy crap. They'd just kidnapped Joe! He dashed into his front seat, slammed the door shut, started his car, and took off down the road after the black van. It was nearly a block ahead of him, and just about to turn the corner to the left. He couldn't afford to lose sight of it. He gunned his engine, dodged a Toyota Corolla, then screeched left around the corner. He barely caught sight of the van again before it turned right down another street. Once more, he zipped around the corner. This time, the van was only half way down the next street. He was catching up to them. He got right up behind them two blocks later . . . then stopped closing.
What could he do to them if he actually caught up to them? He didn't have a gun to shoot their tires with. He couldn't block them with his car, the van doubtlessly weighed a lot more than his old Nova. Maybe he could try something desperate, like slamming into their front wheels from one side; but even if he brought the van to a stop, they could get out and overpower him, maybe even shoot him. And even if they didn't, they still had his boyfriend as a hostage to use against him. No. All he could do was follow the van and see where they were taking Joe.
A mile later, he had the answer. The van turned into a dilapidated parking lot in the Warehouse District.
Damn. Why did it have to be the Warehouse District? That place was so rough, even the police steered clear. Calling the cops to come rescue Joe would get nothing more than a polite "We'll put it in our record sheet." How could he save his boyfriend? Hmmm . . . wait, kidnapping was considered a Federal crime. Maybe he could call the FBI. That might work, assuming they believed him. He'd need to find a pay phone. Maybe that gas station he'd passed along the way would have one. He jotted down the only address he could see on the block, then made a tight three-point turn and took back off down the street he'd come in on.
Stuff I intend to have happen in this story:
Send comments regarding this Web page to:
Roger M. Wilcox.
Roger M. Wilcox's main stories page
Roger M. Wilcox's Homepage