TFP504: Snake Bite - Layne Parrish Behind The Scenes

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Want the inside scoop on each Layne Parrish novel, including info on how it was created and the inspiration for each story?

Want to read the first chapter? You’re in luck!

Harry Boukadakis gasped for air. Strong hands pushed him along what he assumed was a hallway. He had to assume, because the bag over his head prevented him from seeing anything. One foot in front of the other, barely able to keep pace with the person or persons forcing him to some unknown destination.

He’d been able to gather a few pieces of intel about his current situation, though. They had snatched him last night, right after leaving his weekly Dungeons and Dragons tabletop gaming session with Ethan and Danny. The last time he would see his friends for more than a week before embarking on his planned vacation.

Harry had felt a pinch in his thigh walking out to his car, then a sudden and severe feeling of heat. Flushed, like pins and needles. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he lost control. He remembered the sensation of his legs crumpling, then blackness.

When he awoke, he’d been bound, gagged, and walking up stairs. Short stairs. Eyes too bleary and head too foggy to make anything out. The thrum of airplane engines had filled his ears. That led to an involuntary trip on an airplane, where he had been secured to a seat the entire time. Hard to say how long, exactly. Maybe four hours. The bag had been over his head for the duration, even when they had escorted him to the bathroom mid-flight.

Four hours was enough time to travel from Virginia to any number of destinations.

When he deboarded the airplane, though, he had a better sense of location. The dry air told him desert. Possibly. New Mexico, Arizona, maybe Utah. And then, a far off voice from a loudspeaker told him he was in Sedona. As soon as the loudspeaker had sounded, they ushered him along faster. He wasn’t supposed to know.

Then, a forced ride in a car, and now shuffling along a hallway. Until this point, his captors had not said a single word to him. They pushed him to his right and then turned him around. Rough hands shoved him down, and Harry felt the hard wood of a chair connect with his butt. A splash of pain worked up his back.

The bag whipped off. His eyes slammed shut from the sudden appearance of light. In a couple of seconds, he creaked them open, slowly letting them adjust. Chest heaving, feeling the weight of his belly push against his arms, still restrained.

“Good morning, Harry,” said a musical male voice.

He blinked a few more times until he could open his eyes all the way. He found himself in a bedroom. A single bed, queen-size, with metal piping for a headboard. Nightstands on either side, no clock or lamps. A small bathroom in a side room near the bed. There was a dresser and the chair he was sitting in, and a single piece of art on the walls. A framed print of a sun setting between two red rock spires.

His hands were cuffed together. Red welts covered his wrists. He didn’t remember trying to resist and pull free from the cuffs, but he had, apparently.

“How was your trip?” said the man. There were two of them. One, younger than Harry, maybe mid-thirties. He stood back near the door. Tall, white, a wiry frame with jet black hair and emerald eyes. A wicked sunburn had turned his light skin pink. Cheeks gaunt and hints of faded acne scars gave him dozens of pocks like dimples. His arms were crossed in front of him, a deep scowl on his face. Harry assumed this was the one who had brought him here.

The other, the speaking man, was older. Fifties, probably. A sharp black suit on his average build. Gray and thinning hair sat atop a wrinkly face, with patchy stubble poking through. Huge hands, though,. Too big for his body. This man had kind brown eyes and a warm smile.

He also held a copy of The New York Times in his hands, rolled into a tube. He was using those large hands to twist the paper, tighter and tighter. Harry listened to it crinkle as he tried to catch his breath.

“My trip?” Harry asked, and his throat burned. Something in that syringe they’d used to knock him out still lingered in his system. The room veered back and forth, and his stomach gurgled, like the effect of taking a little too much cough medicine.

“I know you had other plans for the day, but we don’t always get what we want, do we?”

The man had a certain vocal affectation, like a regal sort of mid-Atlantic accent. Not quite British, and not quite American, either. Harry hadn’t heard anyone speak like that since the movies he’d watched as a kid.

“What’s happening to me?”

The man kept twisting his newspaper, tighter and tighter. The smile on his face seemed tempered by his jaw, which suggested his teeth were clenched.

“I hope Cornelius wasn’t too rough with you. He does great work, but sometimes, he can be a bit of a brute.”

The man standing beside the door deepened his scowl, but he said nothing.

“My name is Ronald,” the smiling man said. “I’m sorry that it had to come to this, Harry. But, desperate times, you know? And, we find things get even more desperate as the clock runs out, but that’s the way it always is.”

Harry tried to keep his breaths even and calm, but it wasn’t working. The fact that his captors had said their names didn’t bode well. If they’d intended to let Harry walk out of here alive, they wouldn’t have shown their faces, either. When this fully dawned on him, he had to close his eyes to keep the room from spinning.

“Harry, you look upset.”

He pushed out a few deep and deliberate breaths, and the room stopped moving. When he opened his eyes again, his captor was still smiling.

Ronald reached inside his jacket pocket, then he frowned. He turned to the muscle standing by the door. “Corn, do you have them?”

Cornelius pulled a couple of Polaroid pictures from his back pocket and passed them to Ronald.

Ronald sighed. “Ahh. That’s right. We thought we might need these last night, but you were easier to bag than we had expected. You can never be too sure how this will go. It’s a bit like one of those games you play at summer camp, you know? When you have the egg on a spoon, and you’re racing to carry the egg to the other side of the field. Hurry up, but be careful.” He turned to his partner again. “Corn, would you mind? This might be a little unpleasant.”

Corn crossed the room and drew another set of handcuffs from his pocket. He latched one around Harry’s ankle and attached it to the chair. It tightened until Harry could feel the metal cutting into his flesh.

“Now,” Ronald said. He placed one of the Polaroids on the bed next to Harry, face up. Harry’s heart thumped against his chest when he saw the picture. A photo of his wife, taken from outside, through the kitchen window. She was standing at the sink, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing lasagna from a plate. Complete lack of awareness on her face, she had no idea she was being photographed.

This picture must have been taken two days ago. That’s when they’d had the lasagna. Harry could see the blurry hint of branches in the foreground. Someone had been in his backyard, perched in his spruce pine tree.

Ronald hoisted the other Polaroid, facing away from Harry.

“You know what’s on this one?” Ronald asked.

Harry shook his head. “Please don’t.”

Ronald turned the picture around. Harry’s son, sitting on the couch, a video game controller in his hand, eyes glued to the television. Harry could even see the reflection of the person taking the picture in the French door window.

Harry felt ill. He thought he might throw up. Nausea in his stomach swirled, and his head felt light. He closed his eyes for a ten-count to calm himself, but it didn’t seem to do any good.

Ronald set the photograph on the bed, next to the one of his wife. Harry didn’t know what to say. He gritted his teeth, trying to keep himself from passing out.

Ronald cleared his throat and again dug a hand into his jacket pocket. This time, he found what he was looking for, apparently. He drew a small piece of paper and unfolded it. Those large hands set the paper in Harry’s lap.

From the side, Corn approached, cell phone out.

“Control,” Ronald said. “Isn’t that what you call Daphne Kurek? Like in that old book?”

Harry hesitated, then he nodded. There was no point in trying to deceive this man. He knew everything already. “Yes.”

“Good. We’re making progress.”

Harry realized his jaw was clenched so tightly, the pain had radiated down into his neck.

“We’re going to call your boss, and you will read what’s on that little piece of paper. I don’t expect it to work forever, but it should buy me a day or two, at least. Enough time to wrap up another project before we give you our full attention.” Ronald leaned forward, and a grave look crossed his face. The newspaper in his hands creaked as he tightened the tube. “You are going to read exactly what’s on that page. If you deviate or add in strange pauses, I will know. If you try to pass across a message some other way, I will know. And, if you do,” he let the words hang in the air as he glanced down at the Polaroids sitting on the bed. “Do you understand?”

Harry gulped, but he nodded. His ears buzzed. Corn stood next to him and placed the phone up against his ear. It rang, and a few seconds later, Daphne’s voicemail picked up.