by Dylan Tremont
(A Role Play by Dylan and Chase from THE STRANGER - TROUBLE AT STATE)
The window into Room 133 is dark. No lamps burning inside.
That means the informant was right that the room’s occupant would be gone until 9.
There’s money riding on the outcome of a game, and the corner bar has a hi-def screen.
If you’re gonna lose, might as well lose big and blown up to 75 inches.
So the target will be away until 9 PM.
That gives me thirty minutes to go through his stuff.
You're probably wondering who I am…
…about to break-in and toss some creepy stranger’s room at the Lazy-E motel…
The name’s Dylan Tremont.
You haven’t heard of me. Not yet.
But with any luck, you’ll soon be reading about me in the papers.
Well, reading my byline, anyway.
See, there’s a ring of kidnappers snatching up teenagers from wealthy Denver families.
They keep the kids tied until they can sell them back to Mom and Pop.
The kids return with a few eye-popping stories but not roughed-up too badly.
The nappers run a lucrative racket.
Of course, the cops don’t have the first clue how to shut them down.
Or even where to find them.
But I followed my nose, and it led me to this seedy no-tell motel
(apologies to fans of the Lazy-E everywhere)…
The guy rented the room under the alias “Mr. Black.”
I know he’s one of the kidnappers — maybe even the head napper himself.
See, I’m a Kid Reporter, just into my twenties, with a decent face, better body.
Everyone looks past my credentials and goes right to my age and looks.
But after this story blows wide, I’m gonna be known as the guy who single-handedly brought down a kidnapping ring — instead of that guy who always gets mistaken for a JC Penney male model wannabe.
I parked my beat-up Honda down the block and kept to the shadows hoofing it over.
I'm wearing my usual getup when I cover the beat:
Grey Kenneth Cole slacks, blue-grey vest, dark blue tie, sky-blue dress shirt, brown Oxfords.
It’s cold, so I threw a black Burberry jacket on top.
My cellphone, warming one of the pockets, is freshly charged and ready to record.
Oh, and I have on my trademark dark-rimmed glasses, per always.
I stroll by the front office. The hyper college kid and the old lady with the hangdog expression are working the night shift. I pretend to be searching for a cellphone signal, all the while running a latex-gloved hand along the inside rim of a cement planter, home to about a dozen dead pansy plants and discarded cigarette butts. Huh. My informant said he’d hide a copy of the guy’s key card somewhere in this — Got it! I pretend to give up on the signal and head down the walkway toward Room 133.
I pull on the other glove and check my cellphone. The digital clock turns over to 8:35. My heartbeat quickens. Once I slide the key card, there’s no going back. I hold my breath and do it. The access light switches from red to green. I push the door open.
I quickly slip in and let the door close silently behind me.
The room is pitch black. My eyes adjust to the dark.
The room smells of stale smoke and too much air freshener used to cover it up.
There are two beds, shared nightstand, desk with a wooden chair, ancient TV set, small mirrored clothes closet, vanity room at the other end with another mirror, door to a commode.
The place is still and empty.
I turn down the brightness on my cellphone flashlight, start recording, and go to work.
Over at the desk, I rummage for clues.
Empty Wendy’s burger wrappers, some toll booth receipts, a couple copies of today's Denver Post — for proof of life ransom shots, I figure.
Nothing corroborating.
I carefully step into the bathroom.
The moldy shower curtain is drawn closed.
I reach, hesitate, and slide it open.
Water stains ring the drain.
The shower head drips dumbly.
Empty.
Back in the main room, I head over to the closet.
It’s just big enough to stash a body.
A terrible thought crosses my mind. He could have a kid tied up in there!
I quickly open the mirrored door.
A couple of dark shirts and a worn jacket hang from a pole.
I’m met with a musty smell wafting off the guy’s clothes…
…uggh, and a more odious smell from the soiled socks he’s tossed at the base of the closet.
I look around the room.
There has to be proof somewhere in this…
There’s movement at the door.
I shoot a look to the clock on the nightstand.
8:40.
He’s not supposed to be back yet!
I quickly assess my options and fold myself into the closet, pulling the door shut as best I can.
The smell of the socks is nearly overpowering, but I endure it.
As the door closes and I power down my flashlight, I remember I left the chair pulled out in front of the desk.
Nothing I can do about that now…
He activates the lock and enters the room.
The dead bolt flips and the security chain is engaged.
A light comes on, glowing through the crack between door and closet.
I pull out my phone and start filming as I spy through the opening.
Mr. Black drops a duffel bag at the end of the bed.
He strips free of his jacket and drapes it over the bag.
Mr. Black is tall, blonde, muscular.
He’s wearing a black tank top which calls attention to his defined chest and arms.
There is power in those arms.
He moves out of eyeline.
I hear the desk chair push back into place.
The bathroom door closes.
Water runs in the sink.
I think to myself: this is my chance.
I creep out of the clothes closet, managing a few careful steps toward the door before I hear the water in the bathroom shut off.
I fumble at the lock.
He’s suddenly behind me.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“I…I guess the kid at the desk gave me the wrong key. This isn’t my room.”
“No shit.” He looks over at the open closet. “Were you...hiding?”
“Sorry…I must be the next room over.”
I turn the knob, crack the door, and he slams it closed with a powerful hand.
“Why the gloves?”
Shit, I still have on the nitrile gloves for the fingerprints. He snatches my phone.
“Are you recording this?!?”
I stammer as he shuts down the video and swipes through my screens. He holds on my home screen and name.
“Why are you here…Dylan Tremont?”
I peel off the gloves and shove them in my jacket. Cover blown. Nothing left to lose.
“Mr. Black…if that’s even your real name….I’m from the Star Daily. I wanted to speak to you about your involvement with the kidnapped teens…”
Suddenly, there is a knock at the door.
I detect a quick flash of fear cross his eyes.
He grabs my wrist and pulls me into him, snaking a thick arm around my torso and clamping a hand tightly over my mouth.
The knock comes again…followed by a male voice on the other side of the door.
“Uhm, front desk, Mr. Black. Mr. Black?”
I squirm and try to call out behind the thick hand.
He increases his pressure and shushes low and threateningly into my ear.
He answers back.
“What do you want?”
“Oh, I forgot to ask when you checked in. Would you like extra towels?”
“Nah, I’ve got everything I need now.”
“Okay, uhm. Have a good night, sir.”
He gives the front desk clerk enough time to walk back toward the office before flinging me onto one of the beds.
He turns the bolt and chains the door.
“Take off your jacket.”
My heart beats in my throat.
“Mr Black, if we could talk about the case…”
He pulls a gun tucked between his waistband and the small of his back.
He levels the barrel.
“Take off the fucking jacket.”
I go silent and wriggle out of the jacket, letting it fall to the bed top.
“And the tie.”
“Mr. Black, I just have a few questions…”
He steps forward and presses the barrel against my temple.
My Adam’s apple throbs.
I unknot the tie and pull it from my collar. It gathers on the bed.
His other hand goes around my throat. Squeezes slightly.
Then his fingers pop the top three buttons on my shirt.
He stretches his hand to open the shirt wider.
He glides his fingers across the upper part of my smooth chest.
He gestures with the gun.
“In the chair.”
I pull out the desk chair and sit heavily.
“Hands behind.”
I do as he says, wrapping my arms around the chair back.
He grabs the duffel bag and drops it closer on the floor.
Unzips it.
It’s full of coils of rope and other items I can’t make out.
My heart explodes at the sight of the clothesline.
“You can turn yourself in, Mr, Black. You confess, they’ll go easier. You don’t have to do this…”
He quiets me by pushing the gun barrel deep into my mouth.
I gasp, breathing-in sharply.
“You want me to do this?”
I shake my head with conviction.
“Then keep fucking quiet.”
He selects a coil of rope from the bag, puts my hands palm-to-palm, and begins to tie my wrists.
“You thought you’d get a big scoop, huh, kid? Thought you’d break the story wide open?”
The ropes pull tight and pinch my skin.
“That’s too tight…” I mutter quietly.
“Too fucking bad. You didn't expect to end up like this, did you?”
“Mr. Black, please, if we could…”
He slaps the back of my head.
“No talking!”
I can feel him cinch and tie off my wrists to the bottom rung of the chair.
He returns to the duffel bag for more supplies.
He loops rope around my upper shoulders, laces the strands through the sides of the chair back and knots off.
He pushes my legs apart and begins to tie my ankles to the front chair legs.
“What…what are you going to do to me?” I ask after a few tense moments.
“Just like a good reporter — always asking the important questions.”
“Are you going to hold me for ransom?”
“You think your paper would pay to get you back??? Don’t fool yourself. They’ll replace you at the drop of a hat. But, I’ll give you this much. You're pretty. That's got value. It’s already doing something for me just looking at you tied like this.”
He cups my groin, and I try to squirm away. He can tell it’s doing something to me, too. This makes him smile.
He finishes wrapping my ankles and ties the excess rope to the underside of the chair.
He drapes my tie across my lap and opens the closet.
He grabs the soiled socks.
“I backed a loser team and tried to drown my troubles with cheap beer. I need to sleep off this headache. Open up.”
“What? Why?”
“So you don’t wake me up.”
“No…no, please, those are disgusting…don’t put them in mmmmmmpphhhhf —”
He begins to stuff the rancid socks in my mouth. And I thought they only smelled bad. The taste is like nothing I've ever experienced. Salty and tart and bitter and thick. It’s kind of how you imagine licking the underside of a public toilet seat would be like.
“You reporters spout filth every chance you get,” he says, packing the putrid cloth deeper into my mouth. “It’s time you got a taste of it for yourself.”
When he finishes packing in the socks, he takes my tie and pulls it between my teeth, wrapping it around my head twice before tying it off tightly behind my head.
I try to cry out in protest, but I only emit muffled, frustrated “mmmmppppffs” behind my gag.
He watches me struggle and moan, and it makes him smile again.
“You’re even hotter moaning like that. But a reporter needs a proper gag. Old school.”
He digs in his bag and pulls out a long white cloth. He folds it in half and tightly wraps it over the tie and sock gag and cinches it with a knot in back.
“That looks better. Don't you think? Oh, right, you can’t see. Your generation…always need visual stimulation 24-7.”
Mr. Black closes the closet door and drags me in front of the mirror. I fix on my own image.
He leans in close, strokes my hair, and kisses my cheek.
“Here’s our Kid Reporter. All bound and gagged and helpless at the hands of a sadistic, horny kidnapper. What perils await our intrepid truth sleuth? I’ll dream a couple for us, while you compose a few of your own. We’ll call this story: “Kid Reporter — In Too Deep.”
He falls into bed and is almost immediately asleep. I begin to hear him snore.
I don't move. I stare for several long minutes at my reflection in the glass. Tied hand and foot, lashed to the chair, triple gagged silent. The image is hypnotic, transforming, deeply erotic. I fear I might explode right then and there.
I start to squirm and wriggle and pull at the ropes.
Then I feel some give in the line holding my wrists to the bottom rung.
Yes! The hero reporter always escapes.
I get busy working to free myself…
...to be continued...
