No Place I'd Rather Be...

Nathan MacKinnon walked out of the Pepsi Center. He went through his normal routine in his head. He rode the subway tram often to within two blocks of his apartment. All the way on the crowded train, he’d had the feeling he was being observed. Watched.

And of course he was. Any attractively handsome man on a packed New York subway train was the object of female attention. Bodies pressed bodies. Sometimes, when the train jerked or swayed on its tracks, supposedly accidental contact was made. Nathan was used to that kind of thing.

But this was different. Or maybe he felt that way because he was tired. Or because he was a famous hockey player from the NHL.

The train lurched. Nathan slid a few inches across the plastic seat until his body met that of a man reading a folded Times in his lap. The man looked like the love child of John Scott and Sean Avery. He didn’t seem to mind. He found himself staring at the newspaper. He’d heard that perverts on the subway used newspapers to conceal things.

Don’t be an idiot! Don’t believe everything you hear. This guy’s probably a clerk or accountant or editor, taking his train home to his wife and kids.

Besides, I can take care of myself.

He wasn’t sure about that last part. Six weeks of karate lessons had made a difference, but not THAT much difference. Even though he was a tough hockey player, he still wasn’t all that strong. He wasn’t a goon, not quite like the guy sitting next to him. And it taught him just how strong some men really were. The smallest man could generate more strength than even a large woman. It had to do with percentage of muscle mass.

Knock it off, Nathan.

The train’s wheels squealed on iron rails as it slowed approaching his stop. He waited for the complete stop and then the sudden backward lurch before standing up and elbowing his way toward the sliding doors and the concrete platform.

Fear slipped away, as he pushed through the metal turnstile and climbed littered concrete steps to the upper world.

The evening was still bright and the sidewalks crowded with human energy.

About half the outside tables at Perfect Pizza were occupied. On impulse, he stepped through the opening in the iron fence that separated the dining area from the wide sidewalk and found a table, beneath the umbrella. A waitress named Emilee, whom Nathan knew somewhat, immediately came toward her. They exchanged greetings, and Emilee smiled the smile that could break the resolve of a professional mourner. Nathan was glad he’d decided to come here. He ordered a slice of pizza with ham and pineapple on it, and a glass of burgundy.

He sat back and let his gaze roam over the diners. What would really cheer him up, was if he could spot one of his fans. It had happened once before; a woman in the neighborhood had bought a T-shirt with a sequin design and asymmetrical neck, and a month or so later here the woman had been in Perfect Pizza, flaunting the proud lettering of his name. It could happen again, but the odds were long. Like a writer spotting someone reading his or her book.

After the pizza slice, and a second glass of wine, Nathan left the restaurant and walked the remaining block and a half to his apartment. He felt better now. Unafraid. The wine could do that; push lingering uneasiness away from the active part of his mind. Useful stuff, wine. He might have a glass or two tonight before bedtime.

When he reached his apartment building, he trudged up the worn stone steps with a cautious look left and right.

Nothing suspicious, he decided.

Besides me.

He reminded himself that he’d decided not to let fear do its inevitable damage. He would keep that commitment.

Nathan was actually humming, as he worked the three locks on his apartment door. They were all sturdy locks. Two of them set automatically when the door was closed. One of them was a dead bolt. He would feel safe on the other side of those locks.

He almost had them open, when the screech of tires sounded behind him. Before he could react or even whirl around, a burlap sack was thrown over his head.

“Hey!! What are you doing?” He gasped, fighting and struggling to pull free.

He felt a set of strong hands on him, dragging him somewhere. He felt himself get shoved into something. The floor was cold and not carpeted. The sack momentarily came off and he found himself inside of a black van. He tried to dive out, but a man blocked his path.

Instead Nathan did the only thing he could think of at that moment. He screamed. “HELP ME!!”

The man laughed and hopped in, slamming the door shut behind him. Then the vehicle instantly lurched to a start and sped off with him.

The sounds of Nathan’s struggle were soon muffled by a hand clamped over his mouth and by the van’s interior. Every time he tried to escape his assailant’s grip, his arms and legs would become entangled in material. He soon became swathed in the stuff. The karate lessons and on-ice tactics were useless. So were his screams, with his mouth tightly covered by a gloved hand.

Then some blunt object clobbered him over the head and he lost consciousness. He could see nothing but darkness.


Nathan regained consciousness in some unknown bed. It was still futile to try to move his arms and legs. He was on his back, with his wrists bound to the headboard. His legs were spread wide, his ankles tied to the bottom corners of the steel bed frame beneath the mattress. The rope was knotted so tightly, that his hands and feet were numb. He attempted to say something, but couldn’t utter more than a moan. His tongue probed and found a rough surface. His lips parted with difficulty, as he made the attempt, feeling the adhesive material keeping them together, underneath.

He raised his head to look around him. That was when he realized that he was shirtless. He became instantly frightened.

Fighting off panic, he let his head loll back. There was no pillow, so he was staring up at the headboard and the surface of the wall behind it.

Moving his head had caused a tremendous pain in the back of his neck. He remembered a hand clutching him there, squeezing. A goon’s grip. No woman or “pretty boy” could encompass his neck so and squeeze so hard. And even for him, it was difficult.

He let his eyes roll to the right and his gaze fell on an unfamiliar object on the nightstand, by the bed. A curling iron. It wasn’t his, though. This one had a white handle and a white cord that ran from the nightstand and disappeared. He knew the cord would be run to the socket just below where the lamp was plugged in. the metal brace was flipped downward, so the main shaft of the curling iron was suspended and inch above the surface of the nightstand. A tiny red light glittered on the white handle. It indicated that the curling iron was turned on.

Nathan sensed or heard a movement to his left, alongside the headboard and back where he couldn’t see who or what it was. He strained to see, but couldn’t; the pain at the base of his neck prevented him from turning his head far enough.

His body gave an involuntary jerk. Fingertips gently caressed his perspiring cheeks and then the vulnerable area beneath his chin. Someone brushed his short boyish blond hair back off his forehead.

“It’s possible that your hair is going to curl,” a man’s voice said softly and deeply. “But the curling iron will never touch it. Also, hello, Nathan MacKinnon, I’ve been wanting to have a “hockey player” tryout for one of my murders.”

Nathan squirmed on the bed. What was going on? How did this guy know him and what did he want with him?

“Hey, it’ll be over before you know it, sweetie.”

Notes

OH POOR POOR NATHAN!!!!!!
I'll try to be easy on him guys, after all he will eventually escape, but it depends on how bloody I'm willing to go with this. But no Nathan MacKinnons were killed or harmed in the making of this story. ;)


Next up: NHL Lockdown...of different reasons....