Seven Months and Seven Hours

I hike higher and higher, determined to reach the top of the crag. Sweat is pouring off me like a gentle rain, and my body screams for a break. “You’re almost there, Prairie.” With the internalized pep talk, I feel my second wind kick in at full force. I take the last steps in exaggerated strides, reaching the top quickly. Finally, I get to see the view from way up here. Before I can enjoy the view, I spot movement in the clearing below. My heart starts racing as I squint my eyes, trying to make out the shadow I see there.

Beep! Beep!

My eyes gratefully open to the sound of my alarm; my heart’s racing as if I’m trapped in that dream world. I place a hand on my chest, forcing myself through the panic attack breathing exercises I learned from a friend not too long ago. Once my breathing is under control, my hands come up to my eyes, perpetually attempting to rub away the exhaustion showing underneath. I miss the time when the night came with peaceful sleep and sweet dreams, things I haven’t had for the past seven months.

I toss my covers aside and swing my legs over the side of the bed. As I stretch and twist my body, I hear the accompanying cracking noises followed by a bit of relief. I wish this mattress was more comfortable, but a mantra-like statement echoes in my head. Be happy you have a bed to sleep in. My desperation for comfort laughs hysterically at my attempt at contentment.

Standing up from the bed, I slowly trod into the nearby bathroom, robotically moving through my usual wake-up routine. Back in the bedroom, I struggle to figure out what to wear. Usually, I would throw on a sweatshirt and sweatpants; there isn’t anyone to impress with my fashion sense. I can’t leave the house, and the only one who sees me is Griffith. I don’t know if it is a subconscious feeling or nostalgia, but I finally decide to change things up and throw on a typical hiking outfit.

The smell and sound of bacon cooking greet me as I walk into the living area. Griffith is cooking breakfast in the kitchen, whistling as he manages multiple pans on the stove. Since I met him seven months ago, Griffith has always been someone I could count on. Of course, with my present non-existent social life, I might be incredibly biased. But I know these months could have been worse if I didn’t have someone like Griffith.

“Prairie, you’re up.” Griffith gives me a quick once-over, noting my apparent sleepiness. His face holds a mix of slight concern. “Same nightmare?”

My head bobs in response before I speak. “Although, maybe it should be called something else. The word ‘nightmare’ downplays how many times I’ve relived the whole thing.” The part I relived wasn’t even the scariest part, yet, my heart was ready to leap out of my chest.

Griffith gives a sad smile as he hands me a plate of food. “It’ll be over soon. I promise.” I grab the dish, mouth watering at the pile of food. I go to sit down at the table when Griffith gently grabs my arm. “Hey, only 2 hours left.”

Yeah, 2 hours until I have to sit on the stand in front of one of the worst people in history and testify. We eat breakfast in congenial silence; Griffith is focused on his phone while I allow my thoughts to wander. While I’m petrified of leaving this haven and seeing the monster again, I am equally happy to finally ensure the man’s lifelong imprisonment.

Griffith suddenly stands and roughly pulls me out of my seat, interrupting my daydream. I am about to scold him when he orders, “Go to the bedroom and lock the door. Now.” I don’t question him; I turn on my heel and run to my room. Locking the door behind me, I get on the floor in front of me. My hands search for the latch that will open to the secret crawlspace below. It’s tight, but I much rather deal with a mild freakout than potential death.

Footsteps stomp to my bedroom, pausing when they reach the door. I slow my actions, not wanting to give away my position. I then hear three solid knocks against the door, the signal that all is okay. I get off my knees and hurry to the door. Unlocking it, I find what I like to call Secret Service Griffith. He’s not wearing a suit and tie like one, but his body stance and emotionless face perfectly match the secret service. We may be safe for now, but something is wrong.

“We have a situation,” Griffith states. “We may have to leave the safe house.” He turns around and walks away as I follow him closely. A plain brown box sits on the table, along with some of Griffith’s bomb equipment. My eyes widen as my anxiety spikes.

Griffith notices, and he reaches out to reassure me. “It’s not a bomb; I checked before I came and got you.” He softens some, though he doesn’t flash me one of his comforting smiles. “A proximity alert came up on my phone. Some drone carrying this package crossed the boundary, dropped off the box on the porch, and flew off.”

I note a bit of regret in his voice. He must feel terrible for handling me so aggressively earlier, even though I knew he was doing his job. I’m not going to be upset at him for that. Griffith may be a top U.S. Marshal, but he can be a bit of a teddy bear as long as no one is in danger. Considering the reason he’s been protecting me, it amazes me that he has more carefree moments than stern and aggressive ones.

The box seems innocent enough, an indication of what could be its nefarious nature. Plus, only a few people are supposed to know this address; groceries and necessities are delivered once a month by the same person every month. All utilities were off the grid to avoid detection. This safe house and the attached property are supposed to be a fortress.

Despite the possible danger, the box triggers my curiosity, the irony of which is not lost on me. My curiosity is the reason I am dealing with this package in the first place.

Before I can enjoy the view, I spot movement in the clearing below. My heart starts racing as I squint my eyes, trying to make out the shadow I see there. All I can make out is a person, or maybe it’s two people. Wanting a closer look, I make my way down the clearing, ignoring the similarity to an episode of one of my favorite criminal shows. I can’t remember the exact details, but part of the reason for one of the victim’s death was they took a closer look when the unsub was disposing of a body. Can anyone say ‘curiosity killed the cat’?

“We are not opening the box, Prairie,” Griffith sternly says. This man knows me too well.

“You’re no fun,” I whine, feigning annoyance at his curiosity dampening.

Griffith narrows his eyes, causing me to look away awkwardly. “Considering the trial's close, this could be an assassination attempt. That box could be filled with poisonous powder or gas set to activate when opened.” Or it could be harmless; maybe Grocery Guy is pranking us. I’m not going to volunteer that thought since Griffith is on high alert and not feeling up to any joking.

“Sorry, but if you are on that theory train, why bring it into the house?” I question.

“It passed all the usual tests we must do before bringing anything in,” he states as if it’s obvious. “I’ll have someone check it when they pick us up soon.” The finality comes through in his last statement. Leave it alone.

The Tell-Tale Heart comes to mind. Instead of a body under the floor as a guilt trip, the box will sit there, mocking my unquenched curiosity. I grab my half-empty breakfast plate and take it into the living room; if I don’t see the box, it won’t bother me.

Suddenly, a wave of dizziness hits me, causing me to drop my plate. I can barely register my falling or the thump of Griffith’s body when he hits the ground. Everything feels heavy and fuzzy; I keep trying to fight it, but I am failing miserably. The sound of the door hitting the wall is the last thing I remember before I black out.

As I get closer, the figures become more defined. A tall, buff man is dragging the body of a newly deceased woman to a freshly dug, rectangular hole. I drop my hiking pack to the ground, hoping the man doesn’t hear or see me. Digging around in it, I search for my phone and find it in one of the pack’s outer compartments. I feel like my body is vibrating from the adrenaline and fear coursing. Willing to stay still, I open the camera app and aim the phone at the scene before me. I press the video button, recording everything I can.

Once the recording reaches ten minutes, I stop the camera. I quickly glance at the guy to ensure he is distracted so I can look the video over. Thanks to my phone’s high-tech cameras, I can see the man and the dead woman. Now, to call the police.

I start walking away from the grave and the man, getting as far away as possible. Knowing my cell phone does not have service, I grab my sat phone and dial 9-1-1. While the phone rings, I secure my cell phone to my person. If I end up running, I want to keep this.

“This is 9-1-1. What is your emergency?” I don’t even get a chance to respond when I hear the sound of a gunshot. I duck, the bullet missing its intended target and grazing my left shoulder. I bite back an agonized scream as I toss my pack and run.

“Hello? Did I just hear a gunshot?”

I scream into the phone as I find somewhere to hide. “Yes!” I don’t allow the woman to talk as I continue. “This is Prairie Andrews! I am near the overlook trail marker on Rattlesnake Ledge Trail!”

The woman’s voice remains calm. “Praire, I have already dispatched police and medical to your phone’s location. I need you to stay on the line as long as possible.”

“I’ll try,” I breathe out. Another round of gunshots rings out, some of them hitting my hiding place. “I think I’m going to die today.”

Cold water hits my face, yanking me from memory. Sputtering and gasping, I look around, taking in my eerily familiar surroundings. I am sitting on a chair, arms tied behind my back, in front of a short caucasian woman with blood-red hair. Smirking, she puts down an empty glass.

“You’re awake. Finally.” Her voice, I recognize it. I could never forget it even if I wanted to, though it doesn’t have the calming effect it did before.

“You’re the lady from 9-1-1 seven months ago,” I accuse, my voice strengthen by my anger. “Who are you?!”

Her mouth twists to a deranged grin. “Abigail Bellanova.” My mouth drops in surprise at her revelation; it is the same last name as the man who almost killed me in the woods all those months ago. “You’re–”

“His daughter,” Abigail spits out, “and a very scorned woman.” Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. “I’ve been looking for your sorry butt since you got my father arrested.”

A laugh falls out of my mouth. “Your father should have chosen another line of work.” Abigail’s hand cuts through the air, smacking me across the face. My head lolls to the side, allowing me to peek at the clock. I’ve been out for an hour. Maybe I have a chance; more U.S. Marshals should be almost here to pick Griffith and me up for this maniac’s father’s trial.

Griffith, I don’t see him. “Where’s Griffith?” Abigail ignores me as she focuses on a small bag behind her. “Where is he, Abigail?!”

She snickers as she rummages through her bag. “Griff’s still alive,” she turns toward me, turning a knife in her hand, “although he’s the least of your worries.” Abigail approaches me slowly, the knife twirling around in her hand. “So, where should I start?”

I have got to get this chick monologuing; it’s cliched, but maybe it will keep me alive until the marshals arrive. “The box!” Abigail pauses, her face scrunched in confusion. “Come on, it can’t just be a coincidence that a random box was delivered here before you showed up.”

Her face lights up with glee scurries over to the kitchen, bringing back the mystery package. Taking the knife, Abigail opens it up, revealing a homemade piece of equipment. “I’m pretty proud of this. I put this machine together to bypass any radars and release a knock-out gas as soon as it registered you and Griffy in its vicinity.” Good, she took the bait.

I fight with my bindings, pleasantly surprised to find them loose. You would think the daughter of the most notorious mafia hitman would be better at this. “That’s pretty amazing.”

Abigail mumbles an agreement as she tosses the box aside. “Now, back to the task at hand.”

I almost have my hands free as she comes close again with her weapon. “Wait!” I yell out, desperate for a couple more seconds. “Why didn’t you just kill me? Your father might go free if I’m dead since I’m the only eyewitness.”

The redhead starts guffawing, giving me the slightest distraction. I break free from the last of the rope and grip the chair. Abigail wipes away imaginary tears. “You’ll die soon enough, but first, you’re going to have a taste of my pain.”

Swiftly, I stand up, lift the chair, and crash it against Abigail’s body. The collision knocks her out cold, hitting me with a sense of deja vu.

Another round of gunshots rings out, some of them hitting my hiding place. “I think I’m going to die today.”

The woman replies: “The police are already in the area looking for you.” I know she meant it to raise my spirits, but I can hear the man getting closer. He’ll reach me before the police do. I search for anything I can use as a weapon, and my heart soars as I find a huge tree limb.

“Any last words, little girl?”

My eyes take in the male pointing a gun in my face. The fear crawls up and grabs my throat, preventing me from responding. The man chuckles, “no matter.” Sighing dramatically, he says what I think are the last words I’ll ever hear.

“You should’ve run away, little cat.”

I see the slight motion of his finger pulling the trigger, closing my eyes to brace myself for my immediate demise. But instead of the gunshot, I hear the clicking noise of the gun misfiring. Dropping the phone, I grip the limb tightly in my hands and swing. The limb makes contact with the man’s head, knocking him unconscious.

Taking the opportunity, I grab the gun and my phone. The woman’s voice crackles over the phone. “Prairie?”

Aiming the gun at the prone body, I put the phone to my ear. “Please tell me the police are close.”

“They see you. Toss the gun and run to the closet officer.” I don’t waste time ridding myself of the gun and sprinting to a nearby officer.

Right before I reach the officer, I tearfully whisper into the phone. “Thank you. You saved my life.” The woman lets out a sigh of relief before responding: “You’re welcome, Prairie.” I hear the click of her hanging up the phone. The officer softly smiles at me as she tucks me underneath her arm, leading me to a paramedic.

“You’re safe now, Prairie. He won’t hurt you anymore.”

Four hours later

“This is Bridget Chavez with KIRO 7 outside the courthouse, where the trial of the century has just ended. The mafia hitman, Nico Bellanova, has received the guilty verdict for multiple counts of first-degree murder, amongst other charges. He will serve his sentence in an unknown, secure location.”

“In related news, Bellanova’s daughter, Abigail, has been arrested for the attempted murder of a key witness, Prairie Andrews. This happened two hours before Andrews took the stand against Bellanova. Abigail’s failed assassination attempt was based on revenge and hope of Andrew’s death leading to her father’s release.”

“We got a comment from Andrews about her feelings about the events of seven months and seven hours ago. She states how thrilled she is to be done with everything, and no, she doesn’t plan to lose her adventurous and overly-curious nature. Andrews says, and I quote: ‘I don’t plan on losing myself and things I love because of something traumatic.’”

Prairie Andrews also hopes she is not a mafia family magnet; the Bellanovas were two too many. I am Bridget Chavez. Back to you, Jesse.”