Free My Kind Of Crazy by Nadene Seiters Page B

Anastasia’s room without
losing my cool. Her cellphone is underneath her bed as if she tried to grab it
and lost her grip. I see two numbers in the screen, a nine and a one. I finish
dialing the number and hold my breath as I wait for the dispatcher to pick up.
Rage burns through my veins like a seductive drug and I feel myself starting to
lose control.
    “911, what’s your emergency?”
    “Anastasia D’Salvatore has been kidnapped, her dog has been
drugged, and I’m going to need a strait jacket.” My thumb hovers over the end
call flashing on the screen, and then I hit it. It’s amazing how surreal fear
and rage can make a person feel, and I’m going to use it to help me find her.
    I leave May at the foot of the stairs so that the police
will find her immediately, but I don’t touch the piece of meat in the kitchen.
Any evidence against me will surely look bad, and I don’t want to end up in
jail when I should be looking for Anastasia. As abrasive as she may be at
times, she’s a good person just like her father.
    Now that I’ve done what’s necessary, I let myself go, and
everything blackens as if a thick curtain has been pulled over my eyes.
    The next time this side of me is conscious, I’m in the
middle of the woods with scrapes on my arms, and I can hear sirens in the
distance. I have a scrap of cloth in my hands, which has blood on the end, and
I recognize it as part of the white, long sleeved shirt that Anastasia was
wearing this evening. The last of the sun’s rays are setting, and the air is
starting to grow noticeably cooler. It’s supposed to be in the sixties this
evening due to a freak cold front moving in, which is bringing thunderstorms.
    I stumble through the trees towards the sounds of sirens,
and burst through just in time to have guns shoved into my face. Three police
officers scream for me to get down on my knees and put my hands in the air. I
do as they say, with the scrap of cloth still tucked between my fingers safely.
One of the officers takes it from me just before the second puts the cold,
metal cuffs over my wrists. I’m starting to black out again, but I try to hold
off this time.
    “You have the right to remain silent,” the officer states my
Miranda rights to me as he leads me none too gently back to the cruiser sitting
out front of the farm house. He puts his hand on top of my head and bends me
down into the back, and then he closes the door. My claustrophobia starts to
kick in when I notice there are no door handles on the inside, and I start to
feel nauseous and light headed at the same time.
    I close my eyes against the onslaught of lights and put my
hands over my ears to block out the sound. That’s when reality slips away, and
I enter into the darkness that is my mind. Flashes of the bloody piece of shirt
and leaves under my hands come back to me, but nothing of importance actually
derives from the snippets of memory.
    “Jonah.” The voice is far off, but I can tell by the tone
that the owner of it is irritated by my lack of response. “Jonah Quinton, do
you want a lawyer present?” I try to find my way back to myself, but it’s like
trying to walk through a pool filled with Jell-O. “Jonah, I need you to answer
verbally for me.” Did I nod? Finally, it’s like someone has taken away the
Jell-O and I shoot back into consciousness, right into Hell.
    I’m sitting at a metal table with my hands cuffed in front
of me and chains dangling around my ankles. The chair they planted me on is
hard, and the room is freezing cold. I know that they don’t try to make these
rooms comfortable, but do they actually attempt to make them this uncomfortable
for a human being?
    “I don’t want a lawyer. I just want you to find Anastasia.”
The officer is standing behind me, so all I have in my vision is the large,
tinted glass window in front of me. This is a rather big deal, nothing like
shoplifting, so I assume that there are a few higher ups behind that thick
glass. I