DANCE TO DANGER

By Jeb

Chapter Two

Franny awoke with a headache. It was not the sort of sharp, piercing headache she got when she didn't bother with her reading glasses. It was a dull thudding that left her disoriented. Her mind seemed fuzzy and vague, and, for some reason, she seemed to be lying on the floor. Woozily, she stretched her legs to stand up, and felt some force pull painfully on her shoulders, while her body didn’t seem to change position at all. The feeling was so strange that her numbed mind simply ignored what the senses told it, and tried again. Nerve impulses went to dance-trained leg muscles, and they tried to straighten to rise; again, though, instead of standing, Franny felt the wrenching pain in her arms and shoulders again, and an icy clarity rushed over her.

Franny was lying on the carpeted floor of a room. Her hands had been pulled painfully behind her, and some sort of cloth was tying her wrists together. Though she lay face-down, she couldn't feel the floor with her legs, because they had been pulled up behind her back. Some harsh, unyielding material was fastened tightly about her ankles; it had been passed around her bound wrists, so that her wrists and ankles met near the small of her back, forcing her body into an uncomfortable bow.

Her memory began to clear. She had been attacked! She remembered being taken from behind by a powerful man; she remembered Brenda Joyce drugging her. She remembered seeing Madame Ulanova--

"Heeelllp!" Called Franny. Surely there must be someone to hear. Had she been able to yell "Help," perhaps someone would have heard. What came out, though, was not "Help." At best, it might have been "Haarrggh." Or maybe it was "Huugghhf." Either way, Franny's reawakening brain now sensed that something had been tied in her mouth. It was her scarf. The long acrylic had been tied between her teeth, and wound around her head; the scarf was long enough that it had been tied at least three or four times, filling her mouth with a huge mass of fabric. The scarf had been knotted brutally at the base of her skull, and was tied tightly over her long, now unbound hair, making it hard to move her head. She did her best to look up, though, and a voice came from behind her.

"She's awake." Franny turned her head painfully and saw a large man in a business suit looking down at her. His collar was still buttoned, but he wore no tie; Franny guessed that his tie was currently binding her wrists together. A glance at his waist confirmed that he had used his belt to tie her ankles. Madame Ulanova still lay bound and gagged on the floor. Franny had the crazy thought that she had never seen the woman's long, dark hair out of its bun before.

"Who is she?" asked the man.

Brenda Joyce answered, "She teaches some of the girls in the show. I don't know what she was doing snooping around up here."

"Who knows she's at the theatre?"

"She has a boyfriend, I assume he knows. If he was planing to pick her up when rehearsal was supposed to end, he'd be here in about twenty minutes." Brenda Joyce stepped to where Franny could see her. "So, miss nosey, I'll bet you're wondering just what's going on." She stepped toward the bound Madame Ulanova, and gave her a gentle push with the toe of her shoe. "Your director, here, is the wife of a very prominent Russian businessman, a man of, shall we say, 'independent means': what is sometimes known as the Russian Mafia. When he refused to divorce her, she decided to leave the country. That didn't sit well with her husband, and his agents have offered quite a handsome sum for her return, a sum which we intend to collect." She paused, and studied Franny. "You, however, are a complication which we had, frankly, not counted on."

The man approached Franny, and bent down to her face. "She's a very nice-looking complication, though. Maybe she and I--"

"Never mind that, now, Ted. We need to get moving. I guess we'll need to bring her along, too, and decide what to do with her after we're clear." The look on Ted's face made it quite clear to Franny just what he would like to do with her, and she went cold inside at the realization that they didn't care if she knew his name. What did it matter, since she already knew Brenda Joyce? Which meant that they didn't expect her to ever be able to tell anyone.

"All right, we'll see." The man leered at Franny and stroked a finger across her cheek, tracing the line of the gag. "Maybe there'll be time later." He stood up again. "Whatever we do, I need my belt back. See what else you've got to tie her with." Reflexively, Franny gave another pull at her bindings, and the man laughed. "You think you’re tied up now? Just wait."

Franny heard Brenda Joyce re-enter the room. The man then yanked hard on his belt to unfasten it, pinching her skin painfully; the sensation gave way to one of relief, though, as her legs, freed of their bindings, slapped to the carpeted floor. She was given no time to savor the feeling of muscles returning to normal, though, as she felt the man take a tight grip on her right arm, and pull her to her feet. Franny did her best to stand on legs buzzing with the return of full circulation; she was aided by the man’s strong grip as he removed the necktie from her wrists. As her arms were released, she tried to reach to undo the gag, but felt the woman’s hand slap her down; she settled for rubbing her chafed wrists. She had only a moment or two, as she again felt the man take her hands and pull them behind her. His fingers were like iron as he gathered her wrists into one of his huge hands, crossing her left wrist over her right. Franny then felt her wrists being bound together with what felt like soft clothesline. Soft though the fabric might be, the man was pulling it brutally tight. He yanked hard on the loop encircling her wrists, pulling them more closely together than his necktie had; there was no hint of any slack. She felt three more turns of the rope binding her wrists; the man then began passing the rope between them, around the loops already in place. Three more turns there, and her hands were completely imprisoned: the rope might as well have been a set of handcuffs, as the cross-turning had isolated each hand, giving no room to pull in either direction. He released her momentarily, but transferred his grip to her elbows, and there was a wrenching pain in her shoulders as her elbows were pulled closely together behind her back, and tied so they nearly touched. "UUUuuummmfff!" she shouted as the knots were pulled taut. There was a chuckle from behind her, and the man stepped into her vision, gleefully surveying her chest, rendered extremely prominent against her leotard by having her elbows fastened so painfully behind her back. Leering, he went back to work. Now, Franny felt more rope tied about her imprisoned wrists. She felt the new cord passed about her waist, and cinched tightly; her wrists were now pressed firmly against the small of her back. From behind, her captor’s breathing seemed to grow heavier, and the reason became clear when the next length of rope was passed around her body just below her breasts and tightened. She grunted into her gag as more lengths of the cord encircled her arms and torso, with the man ensuring that each turn was anchored either just above, or just below, her breasts. Franny doubted that she was really now any more helpless than she had been with just her wrists and ankles tied together, but the feeling of helplessness was far more complete: she had spent her whole life training to be in absolute control of her body; now, a stranger had taken that control from her. He could do with her as he pleased. Her only hope was that the woman would either take pity on her (which seemed unlikely), or would impress the man with the urgency of their task, and not give him time to carry out his dark designs on her.

"That gag won’t keep her quiet enough," said Brenda Joyce, and Franny couldn’t believe her ears. She felt that she had been completely silenced, and could hardly imagine anything worse than the feeling of the scratchy material that was currently stuffing her mouth. "I’m going to take this off you for a minute; don’t do anything stupid." Joyce paused, and held up an object that appeared to be a large red rubber ball with a strap attached to it. "I’m afraid this won’t be as comfortable as what Madame Ulanova is wearing, but we really hadn’t planned on having to deal with both of you." Franny’s eyes grew wide as she realized that the woman intended to put that thing in her mouth. The girl thought quickly—ungagged, she might have one chance to call for help, but she must throw her captors off their guard. She nodded her head slowly, trying to put a dazed, defeated look in her eyes. She bent her head submissively so that the woman might reach the knot in the scarf behind her head. As the scarf was unwound from around her head, Franny breathed as deeply and carefully as she could. When her mouth was finally free, she kept her eyes lowered, slowly licking her lips. As the woman bent to pick up the new gag, Franny threw back her head, and let out a shriek, "Hheeelllppp! Help!" Startled, Brenda Joyce tried to force the ball into her mouth, but the squirming girl moved her head and let out another yell, "I’m being kidnapped! Help!"

"Give me that." From behind came the man’s gruff voice. She saw his fingers pluck the ballgag from Brenda Joyce’s hand. Then, Franny’s head was imprisoned in an iron grip. He had taken hold of her hair, and was so much stronger than Brenda Joyce, that she scarcely registered any pain at all, just the sheer impossibility of moving her head even a fraction of an inch.

"Hheeaaauugghh!" Her final scream was stifled as the man’s other hand jammed the ball brutally into her mouth. His powerful fingers wedged the rubber back until she thought it would go right down her throat; she was afraid of choking to death, when he withdrew his hand from her mouth, and the ball settled in place between her back teeth. He tugged hard on the straps, and while that kept the ball from sliding to the back of her throat again, it cut nastily into her cheeks as he buckled it tightly over her hair at the back of her head. At that moment, Franny thought she had heard a sound; she stopped trying to scream for a moment, and her captors froze.

"Hello? Anyone there?" A knocking on one of the outer doors of the building accompanied the voice, and Franny’s captors knew who it was as soon as she did.

"The boyfriend," growled the man. "Get rid of him," he ordered Joyce. He turned to Franny, and drew an ugly-looking pistol from his pocket. "I’d rather keep things tidy, but if you cause any kind of a scene, I’ll kill both of you right now. If she can get him to go away quietly, I won’t have to kill him." Brenda Joyce went to the door, and Franny considered: certainly, if Erik saw her in this office, the kidnappers could easily kill both of them then and there. But, if he could be alerted to her plight while he was close to the front door, he might be able to get away and get help. But would he? If he saw her, would he know to run to the police, or would he rush in to save her, and just get himself killed? No matter—it had to be tried; this might be her last chance of rescue.

Franny gathered her strength. Her legs were still untied. As Brenda Joyce left the office, the man’s grip on her became more insinuating, but less tight. She could feel his hand caressing her shoulder, but his other hand was holding her more loosely. Franny closed her eyes and listened. She could hear the murmur of conversation: Brenda Joyce was telling Erik about rehearsal being cut short, saying Franny must have gone with one of the other girls. Since the schedule for this production had been so topsy-turvy, he’d probably accept that. Franny didn’t hear his reply: she was listening for the sound of feet. She knew she had been moved to a different room than the one where she had been attacked, and tried to guess her location as best she could from the sound of Erik’s feet going from the carpeted floor to the marble lobby. That meant he was almost to the door. Taking a deep breath, Franny pushed off hard on her right foot, leapt from the man’s grasp, and raced through the door.

Mezzanine. Just as she’d feared. Franny had hoped she might have been in one of the rooms behind the box office; instead, a short flight of stairs lay between her and the lobby. So did Brenda Joyce. "Erik!" Franny tried to call out. At the "EEEaaaauuuggg!" sound that was the best Franny could manage, Brenda Joyce turned around, startled to see Franny racing towards her. The girl was hampered by having her arms bound so tightly to her body, but she still gave Joyce only a split second to react.

"UUUggghh!" Franny continued to shriek into the gag; it distended her mouth so thoroughly that there was no point in even trying to form coherent words. And she could SEE Erik! Down below the landing, just opening the door. He wasn’t looking in her direction, though. She had waited too long, and had too far to go to reach him. Erik disappeared from her field of vision as her world turned upside down: Brenda Joyce had tackled her with a shoulder to Franny’s midriff. Both women tumbled to the carpet. With a speed born of desperation, Franny scrambled to her feet, and raced to the stairs. It was only a short flight, and carpeted; her only chance to outdistance pursuit was to forget trying to maneuver the steps, bound as she was. Instead, she went to her knees, tensed her body, and rolled sideways down the half-dozen steps. Spinning crazily, she hit the bottom of the stairs, and raced to her feet, ignoring the pain. The door had closed, which meant Erik was already outside. Head down, Franny raced for the big glass lobby door, Brenda Joyce’s footsteps getting closer behind her. Now, Franny’s slippers were on the marble of the lobby floor, and she tried to adjust for the difference in footing. Joyce was wearing heels, though, and Franny heard her curse as she slipped and crashed to the floor behind her. With a last desperate surge, Franny lunged for the door. She tried to strike the door release bar with her hip, but going so fast, she missed, and her shoulder collided painfully with the heavy glass. And now she could see Erik’s car! It was pulling out! She moaned into the gag, and tried to feel for the door release with her fingers, but it was no use. The car slowly rounded the corner of the darkened driveway, disappearing, and Franny slumped, weeping, against the glass. Had he seen her? She couldn’t kid herself—if he had, he’d either have come back, or driven off for help a lot faster than he had. She gave one last try at the door, and felt herself spun around by the shoulder. Brenda Joyce, panting and perspiring, glared savagely at her. The woman used the back of her hand to give Franny a brutal slap across the face; through the pain, the girl took some satisfaction from seeing the woman give herself a nasty scrape when her hand made contact with the strap which held the ball in Franny’s mouth. That satisfaction dwindled as Joyce hustled her back up the stairs. Franny fought the woman’s grip, but though Brenda Joyce was far less strong than Ted, she was more than strong enough to manage a tightly bound and gagged young woman.

Back in the office, the man was laughing at the sight of the two disheveled women. Joyce snapped at him, "Let’s get them to the car." The man took Franny’s arm in one hand, Madame Ulanova’s in the other, and led them to the elevator. This time, there was no point in even attempting resistance; Ted’s grip was inescapable. As they emerged into the underground parking, Franny could see that there was only one car still here, a large dark-colored sedan. The man held the two women, as Brenda Joyce opened the trunk.

"Hope your accommodations aren’t too cramped," laughed the man, "but we were really expecting only one of you for this trip." He let go of Franny’s arm, and lifted Madame Ulanova into the trunk. Franny could see that two extra lengths of clothesline dangled down from the woman’s bound wrists; these, Ted used to tie her ankles to her wrists, as they had done to Franny while she was unconscious. Franny felt herself lifted and placed in the trunk, her body wedged up against that of the captive director. The man pulled at her ankles, and used a similar excess length of cord to fasten Franny back into a stern hogtie. The lid of the trunk slammed, and she was in darkness. She could hear the Russian woman sobbing into her gag. Franny tested her bonds. Even more than before, she could feel the way that tying her wrists to her ankles rendered her completely helpless: every part of her body was firmly anchored to another; she might have been a parcel packaged for delivery. That didn’t stop her trying to find some slack in her bonds: muscles strained against the rope hugging her body, trying to find enough space in her tiny prison to work one of her limbs free, but every attempt to pull one part of her free just yanked painfully on another. The huge ball in her mouth tasted foul, and was making her jaws ache. She closed her eyes, and pictured her one ray of hope: when they had ungagged her, Brenda Joyce had thrown Franny’s scarf, dampened with her own saliva, to the floor. It had still been there when she had made her try for the front door. The man hadn’t been carrying it when they went to the elevator, so it was possible that, in the confusion, it had been left there to be found! She didn’t know how much of a clue it might prove, but as the big car drove on with its captive cargo, she clung to it as her only hope.


Chapter Three

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