[Ambrose]

Author's Note: I feel like this story needs an introduction so here it is. I wrote the entirety of this story and divided it into nine parts for organization's sake. It's technically a novella, so beware, it's pretty long. I have high hopes for this one so please give me the most scathing, brutal feedback you can conjure--it will only help me improve. I'm talking descriptions that don't click, metaphors that don't "work", characters acting out of the ordinary, logic inconsistencies, anything at all. With that said, I believe my story to be good so hopefully it will be more a delight to read than a nuisance. Like I said, there are nine parts in total. I've edited each at least once but I'm not perfect. One thing I'll let you know ahead of time is that I originally did thoughts in italics, but am not going to go through it again and change everything back to italics. It should be straight forward enough. I'll post the rest in whatever intervals are necessary (so as not to flood the Fiction section with my story). So enough yammering on my part. Enjoy.

I. AN UNSUSPECTED ARRIVAL. THE DELECTABLE MISS JONES. THE KIDNAPPING.

Jonathan Cooper parked the car in the street across from the house. He had driven around the block three times now–or perhaps it had been four? If his goal had been to look conspicuous, he should have got an award. But oh well, what could he do? He took the keys from the ignition and slipped them inside his zip up pocket. Then he sat, with his hands on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. It was a miracle that he had not yet alerted the neighborhood watch, an abnormally tall older man with a dark complexion, no doubt accentuated by his going-on-three-weeks unshaven face. He resembled a recent divorcee, whose bloodshot eyes and manic features took on the appearance of a huge white sign with the words “restless” and “unstable” written on it in bold red letters. Sitting alone in his beaten Dodge pickup, his eyes fixed absentmindedly on some point in space, he now felt the weight of his goal full on his chest. Inside, his stomach squirmed like a sack of worms and his mouth felt uncomfortably dry. He thought more than once about getting the hell out of here–to just toss in the towel and forget the entire thing. What the fuck was he thinking? But then a confident voice came clearly from the recesses of his mind and told him to be cool, to keep his composure. It was a voice he had been hearing more often now. And once again, he decided to listen. In his best “oh what a pretty neighborhood” facade, Coop peered out the passenger side window at the house.

It was a beautiful white single story, complete with a large emerald green lawn and flanked by cypress trees. The multi-paned window in the living room was dark, and the morning light played on the satin drapery. His eyes could not help but wander over the yard which had all the characteristics of a Chinese garden. It was neatly manicured with bark mulch and around the perimeter there stood a wall of brilliant green hedges. In the middle, there was a tiered fountain which during the day would cascade water endlessly into a small pond. The house was perched on a hill and even from the street one could glimpse a view of Angel island and the bay. By the looks of it, the place probably cost a fortune. In lieu of a security camera, a cluster of plump gnomes stood sentinel beside the mailbox, grinning huge rosy-cheeked grins. Coop’s hands were trembling slightly as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

Closing his eyes, he went over the plan in his mind. As he did so, his hands began to regain their calm and his stomach relaxed, if only slightly. It was further proof, and what wonderfully assuring proof it was, that he was beginning to get used to that feeling of overwhelming anxiety and self-concern. It was the feeling you got when you ventured outside the boundary of the law. For there exists an invisible barrier, as Coop had come to discover, that stands firmly between all those things that are right and good and proper, and those things which are–beyond any reasonable doubt–oh so wrong. Going from one side to the other is like crossing a draw bridge that is half raised. One does not simply wander across, but instead must move with a certain deliberation. But that is not all, for at the top of the bridge there is a gap. Here is where many have turned back, have glanced down nervously into the depths of condemnation and retreated. It takes a truly determined individual to leap across and enter into the realm of the unrighteous. And once you are on the other side, the only way to go is down.

He scanned the street before exiting the car. It was 10:06 AM on a Saturday morning and the place was quiet. The air was sweet with spring flowers. A blue Honda Civic was parked in the driveway, its roof dappled in shade. A bumper sticker read “Save The Planet” and beneath that in huge block characters: R-E-C-Y-C-L-E.

The fence to the back yard creaked a little when he entered. Behind the house, there was a patio and a garden. A few weathered lawn chairs were stationed here, next to a grill which would soon be sizzling with hamburgers and hot dogs amidst the jovial noises of summertime fun. Even in the morning haze, the view from here was breathtaking. One could see the twin orange towers of the Golden Gate bridge, rising up in the fog. On the far side of the bridge there loomed the city and the outlines of sky scrapers, and on the other, stretched across the hillside, was Sausalito.

Coop checked the sliding glass door and found it to be locked. Naturally, he thought. He produced a set of picks and a tension wrench from the backpack he carried and immediately went to work on the lock. After a couple minutes–of which he was constantly looking over his shoulder while his heart beat inside his chest like a locomotive–the tumblers fell into place with an all-too-satisfying click. He quickly returned his tools to his backpack and, with one final deep breath that took in both the sweet bouquet of lilacs and the overwhelming tang of sea water, he crept inside.

There is something distinctly discomforting about stepping into someone else’s home. When everything about your own home is so familiar, the colors, the shapes, the pictures on the wall, the creaky step on the staircase, the warm feeling of your bed at two in the morning, knowing how to jiggle the flusher on the toilet, it is hard not to feel suffocated by the different-ness of it all. In a way it is like stepping into a foreign country without having any prior knowledge of the culture. Indeed one could probably recite the smells of each room in his own home if he was given proper time to recollect. Here, even the air was different. The fragrance throughout was stiff and invading. It was the smell of expense, and with every whiff he caught he felt somehow in debt.

He walked into the kitchen which was neat and tidy. A bowl of nuts lay on the counter on top of a neatly folded tablecloth. There were some empty wine glasses sitting on the counter. One of them had lipstick smudges around the brim. The refrigerator was covered in assorted magnets and Polaroids. There was a picture of a young woman with auburn hair and entrancing blue eyes. Her hair was tied in a pony tail and she was crinkling her nose as she smiled, exposing a nice set of pearly whites. A caption had been written at the bottom in black felt marker: To My Sweet, Sweet Bailey.

The cogs of memory in his brain began to turn without warning: again the girl reminded him of something, or someone. Someone important to him. But the memory was cloudy, like a glass of warm tap water. And Coop did not possess the thirst or the desire to empty it. All he could see in that face were the beautiful rosy cheeks, not unlike the watchful gnomes outside. And that her skin was speckled with freckles, not too many, but just enough to give her that cute look that grandparents find irresistible. She was no doubt spoiled rotten by her parents. They must have bought her a million ice cream cones and My Little Pony dolls. And for Christmas, she had to have been given no less than a closet’s worth of designer clothes, along with enough candy and knick knacks to keep her sated and entertained for ages. And when she turned sixteen, she must have gotten a brand new car–perhaps the Civic sitting outside–and had probably took to towing her friends around town whist gabbing away happily on her cell phone. An oblivious beauty no doubt idolized by the guys. Her eyes gleamed like blue gems, as if to say, I know what you are looking at and that’s too bad. She was the kind of treat Coop used to dream about in high school, walking around all day in low-rise jeans and practically begging to be fucked senseless. One look at those imposing eyes and that self-righteous smile, however, told you that she never was. She had only been a tease. A thousand or so guys would have gladly circumcised themselves for a night with her, or even five minutes behind the bleachers. Even Adam would have forgotten all about his apples.

But it was not sex with the girl that Coop thought about–the girl whose house he was now an unexpected guest to. In fact, the more he gazed at this candid portrait, the more his resolve waned. The memory was now knocking at the attic door, ready to climb down into his consciousness. And with each knock, the pain in his head swelled like a red balloon, until it was raring to burst; he could not stand it any longer. He turned away from the refrigerator and stalked out of the kitchen.

Coop did not bother to search the house as he knew she was not there. In fact, he had planned it this way. Over the past couple of months, he had conducted numerous stake outs on her house. Coop discovered that during the week Bailey typically left for work or whatever her obligations were at around seven and usually did not come home till about five-thirty. On weekends, her activity was less predictable. But one thing that had always happened more or less consistently was that at around 10:00 AM a female friend would show up in front of her house in a red Suburban and they would leave together. On several occasions when Bailey had failed to come out and meet the Suburban, Coop had gotten a better look at her chauffeur. She was a tall pretty thing with long blonde hair and impeccably toned legs which were on display, along with another prominent feature, when she came prancing up to the front door in her spandex hip huggers. Often was the case that Bailey did not return on these days until eleven or a quarter till noon. He guessed she had an aerobics class or a Pilates class or a class for whatever other thing women concerned themselves with, and on some days she and her friend probably stopped and got coffee afterwards and came to chat about their expensive, trivial lives over low-fat lattes.

Finding her had been a real “process” as his late father would have put it. Coop had once worked as a journalist for the San Francisco Chronicle. He had sometimes worked at home and for that reason kept a stock pile of old news papers in his attic incase he ever needed a reference, so as to save him a trip to the archives. Coop had never owned a computer so the internet was not in his vocabulary. One day he was searching for an old article–the subject of which was now long forgotten–and he came across her. The picture which was grainy and slightly faded was of her and her father in some parade. That picturesque face and lovely blue eyes held all the qualities of a coming-to-age debutant. He had discovered that her last name was Shrotabaker and that she lived in San Francisco. The article mentioned that she was a graduate student at UC Berkley and there was a brief bit about how she walked with her father every year in the parade. Clearly, she was the daughter of someone important, but Coop was not the least preoccupied by that fact. What did preoccupy him was having to go and check out all seventeen addresses listed under Shrotabaker in the phone book. Out of sheer bad luck hers had been one of the last he checked. Any sensible stalker would have called the numbers until someone young and female sounding picked up. But this being his foray into kidnapping, Coop wanted to do it by the book.

He had confirmed that she lived in Belvedere a couple of months ago. It had taken the better part of an afternoon to do it, but he had caught her coming home from work one day. He was parked a little ways up the street from her house and from his vantage point could only glimpse the back of her. He remembered she was wearing a gray sweatshirt, which looked rather unflattering on her but was sensible attire for the time of year, and she looked different somehow. Coop’s mind could not quite match up the newspaper photo to the real thing. He wondered, rather despairingly, if he had found the right person. And then she stopped halfway up her drive way, appearing to have forgotten something in her car. When she turned around, Coop saw it instantly. Those amazing blue eyes shone through that mask of lush brown hair and white skin with the perfection of paint on canvas. It was her. It could not be anyone else.

Coop went into the living room which sat adjacent to the entrance and the front door and crouched down behind a cream colored armoire. Over the course of the next hour, he continually checked his watch: 10:15, 10:20, 10:27, 10:36, 10:42, and finally 11:05. She would be home soon and then… in his mind a million fireworks went off. Never had waiting for something been so hard–so excruciating. Every now and then his eyes would leave the door and frantically peruse the house: was there something he had failed to consider? What if he had left the backdoor open? No, he remembered closing it. What if she recognized his car? If she had not recognized it so far, why would she now? What if she saw him from the window? At this thought, he checked to make sure his body was completely hidden behind the armoire. It was. All he could do now was wait.

He noticed that his hands were shaking now, as if they had caught hold of an invisible paint mixer. In his right palm, he was clenching a white dish rag and in his left, a small breakable capsule. Coop’s eyes were locked on the capsule. He held it carefully by cupping his hand, so that it was loose and could wobble in place as his hand shook. Inside was 400 parts per million of chloroform. If inhaled, it was enough to knock out a fully grown adult within seconds. There would be no pain, just a slight headache and then bam–lights out. As he was thinking this, he could feel the sweat running down his forehead like suds at a carwash. If by mischance he accidentally squeezed it too hard, it would be good night and hello copper.

Coop remembered the first time he had ever thought about kidnapping a person. Her name was Lacey Jones, or Lacey Jacey as he had liked to call her. He was a sophomore in college, studying to get a degree in journalism at Fresno State, and he always sat behind her in his Mythologies class. He had gotten a B in the class and how he had no clue, because all he could remember thinking about was how interesting Lacey Jacey’s hair would have felt if he could have run his hands through it and how lovely her skin would have felt if he could have kissed it. The thing he liked so much about Lacey was that she was pure and un-accessorized, the way God intended, not like so many of the other girls who wore masks of white powder and drenched themselves in perfume so strong it made your eyes water. On some days she would come to class with her hair tangled in unintentional dreads and sporting the same shirt and faded jeans as the day before, all the signs of having skipped a shower. Even in her natural state, she still outshined most of the other girls. Sometimes, when he felt particularly bold and he thought no one else was watching, he would lean in close to her so that his nose was an inch from the back of her neck and he would take in her scent. She never wore deodorant, which lent to her subtle yet distinct smell. She smelled like sugar-sweet sweat, and underneath, mixed in like a sultry fragrance was that piquant feminine aroma that could only have come from one place. It drove him crazy with desire and he knew he had to have her.

In class, she’d often go off on rants about her mom and dad–likening them to the needy goddess Calypso and the self-absorbed Beowulf respectively. Her reasons being how they had practically disowned her for taking a week off from school and going to some event called Woodstock, and how they had never agreed with her life philosophy. She may have dressed like she’d been as poor as a church mouse but her parents, ironically enough, had been well-to-do. Her dad was a prodigious lawyer and, by the sound of it, quite the socialite–not some grungy deadbeat who’d get flat drunk and wander back home and beat his wife. And her mom had come from a rich family and had an all-too-prim-and-proper attitude about life that would have made her a great disciplinarian, if only she’d decided to lift a finger, that is. But Coop didn’t need to hear about her wealthy parents to know she’d been well off; you just knew she’d practically shit green her whole life by the eloquent I’ve-had-private-school way in which she spoke. Her vocabulary outclassed many of the authors he’d read. But it was the thoughtful, probing way in which she explained things that did it for him. Despite her upbringing, which had probably shot her into the clouds in terms of social standing, she’d managed to come back down to earth and wash herself of any residue of wealth and arrogance that had rubbed off on her. What an amazing girl. Who cares if she’d forgotten what soap was, or that she was a raging hippie? She was perfect in every aspect. And yet, for all her perfection, she was totally unappreciated by those closest to her. He began to wonder bitterly how her snotty parents would receive it if something were to happen to her, like if she were to disappear. He envisioned some shady stag picking her up after a concert and her being raped and killed and her gorgeous body cast into a ditch along side the highway. He wondered if her parents would really care. Perhaps, Coop thought in anger, they would do no more than sigh heavily upon seeing her name in the periodical and declare simply that “she had it coming.” Why then, he thought, should such a wonderful thing like her be wasted on such awful things like arrogant uncaring parents. If there was one person who could appreciate her beauty it was him. She belonged to him.

Then one day fate, as though in response to his thoughts, dropped her unceremoniously into his lap. It had been a rainy day in March, and also the first day of spring break, and he had been driving north on the interstate with the intent of going to San Francisco and then Oakland after that to do some sightseeing. He almost missed her, a lone dark figure plodding down the side of the highway. Her hair was all wet when she leaned in through the passenger side window. He was surprised by the face, the pretty brown eyes and wholesome features that needed no introduction.

“You headin’ through Napa?” She said with a hopeful smile.

Napa was about twenty miles further than he had intended to go, but it could have been a thousand. He had found Lacey on the side of the highway, but out of the ditch. He could not remember having ever felt such unbridled happiness and pleasure.

They got to chatting like old friends reunited. Even though she did not recognize him from Mythologies class, Coop felt a distinct joy at being able to have Lacey Jones and her beautiful words all to himself.

The conversation ranged from school to friends to pot (which Coop had yet to have the pleasure of trying) to ex-boyfriends. Coop believed he made women feel comfortable when they were around him. He had always been a good listener. Lacey confessed to him that she was headed to Napa to see Tray, some washout mechanic who happened to be her boyfriend. How the hell did a mechanic from Napa manage to snag a beauty like Lacey? Coop wondered. The answer came next.

“I met him on Spring break of last year. One night my friend Shelly and I, we were out partying late and we lost our ride. A slight miscommunication on my part, as I’d thought we’d had another ride already but that’s beside the point. It was dark and naturally, us being girls, we got a case of the jitters. We hadn’t a clue as to how to get back to her friend’s place where we were staying. Anyway, we must have looked like a couple of scared little freshman to him. He pulled up in a black Trans-Am, you know like the one what’s-his-face used to drive in that show–Night Rider? I remember the first thing he said to me: ‘Heya, sugga buns. You needin’ a lift?’ He wasn’t exactly a charmer, but I knew if he tried anything, I’d make him regret it. And quite frankly, he didn’t look the type that would take us behind a store or into a dark alley and rape us–and believe me, I do know the type.

“So we got in. I could tell Shelly kind of liked him so it didn’t surprise me any when he invited us back to his place that Shelly immediately said ‘yes’. So we went to his place and he gave us some weed–really fine stuff too–and we started talking. I only had to talk to him for a couple of minutes to ascertain the important stuff: he’s an auto mechanic, been in that business for a couple years. Some girls only want a man with dollar signs for pupils, but I myself have never been too preoccupied with that.

“In strong light, I could not help but think he was the prettiest grease monkey I’d ever seen. Light stubble, dark handsome features. Oh god, I sound like such a girl! I could hardly believe it when he started to come on to me.”

Coop already did not like the man Lacey was describing. He sounded too much like all the other uneducated, high school burnouts he had come across in his life. And the way she talked about rape as if it were dinner table conversation surprised him. And what had she said? I’d make him regret it. In his mind, the image of her as a peace-loving sage collided with one of her wearing an American flag themed bikini and toting an automatic rifle, like in those absurd gun ads. In an instant, that veil of innocence that had hung around her had been torn away and he suspected this was one girl you did not want to fuck around with.

She stopped mid-sentence all of a sudden and stared at him. A thought had occurred to her. “You know, I really owe you for picking me up. I don’t know what I would have done–it’s absolutely pouring out there.”

It’s these spring showers, Coop thought absently before throwing her a smile that was a little too embellished and lingered a little too long to be casual. Smooth move, Slick. Now she would surely feel uncomfortable, the smile no doubt having confirmed for her that he was just another horndog at heart–a sexually repressed English major who’d never seen pussy that didn’t come with whiskers and four paws. And when Lacey got uncomfortable she made people regret things. He suddenly began to sweat.

Coop half-expected her to say “what was that look about?” or perhaps even “you know what, I’d like to be dropped off here” in a stern, uncompromising voice, her face containing the recipe for disapproval flambe. But Lacey said neither of those two things, and in place of a look of disapproval she now wore a serene almost stoned look. Coop wondered in fact if she was stoned but that seemed a trifle silly. Then again, she could have ducked under the trees alongside the interstate for a moment and…

“You’re an interesting guy, Coop,” she finally said, which surprised the hell out of him and made his cheeks turn a darker shade of red.

He tried to chuckle playfully but it came out sounding more like he had a caterpillar stuck in his throat. He could not see her face, but he could feel her eyes resting on him. His eyes focused on the rain-swept body of the blue minivan in front of him. The water spraying off it created a halo of mist which at any other time he might have thought was neat or cool-looking but now the fascination left him. His head pounded not out of pain but growing awareness. His brain felt like an engine running low on oil, and now the heat there evaporated all thoughts but one: she is looking right at me.

“What’s on your mind?” She said. Coop did not dare glance over at that face. He imagined her mouth was now slightly crooked and her eyebrows were cocked to show puzzlement or perhaps even curiosity.

What Coop said next he could not believe and later he realized that the only reason he had was because of how much raw honesty it contained. The realization that his jaw was a mechanical tool, and that it took effort to move it became all too clear. He liked this girl; no, he was obsessed with this girl. The fruition of knowing how he had spent all those hours thinking about her in Mythologies class and how she was now sitting right next to him was almost tangible. It seemed like a bitter joke that he should be taking her to see some other guy. It was like winning a prize and then finding out that you could only have it temporarily.

What he said was: “To be honest, I was thinking about kidnapping you.”

It might have sounded tongue-in-cheek if his tone of voice had not been so flat and even. Even before he’d said it, he guessed he was about to drive the one and final nail into their conversational coffin. But what scared him even more was that he did not seem to care how it would sound. It was what he had been thinking ever since that long-ago day in Mythologies class when she had confessed her hatred of her parents and he consequently realized his love of her. And there was no keeping it bottled up any longer, even if she would make him regret saying it in whatever dubious way she had meant.

Coop waited for the aftershock, but it never came. Finally, not being able to stand being held up in the dark attic of his mind any longer, he shot her an apprehensive glance. What he saw almost stunned him. He nearly forgot his hands and let the Dodge drift off the side of the highway. She was smiling, by god, she was actually smiling.

“You know, I kind of feel like we have a connection as well.” She said, looking him square in the face. All he could think of was how lucky he was that women could make the wildest of interpretations. He had said he was going to kidnap her but she had heard simply that he wanted her.

Then her smile slowly faded into an esoteric frown. “I wish we could have met under different circumstances, John. You know, before I met Tray and all. You seem like a really good guy.”

And with that the conversation petered out. They sat in comfortable silence, occasionally exchanging a friendly glance or taking a moment to remark again on how hard it was coming down, all one hundred and five miles to Napa. When they got there, he obeyed her request and dropped her off in front of a drab two story apartment complex where Tray was somewhere inside watching TV or getting high–or both. She leaned in through the passenger side window for a second time, not caring that her gray t-shirt and blue jeans were getting spattered by rain all over again.

“You’re a really good guy Jonathan,” she said again. Her eyes were focused and unflinching. A smile cracked her face, widening until it stretched from cheek to check. “I mean it.”

He felt himself blush. “You take care of yourself, you hear?”

She stayed leaning through his window a moment more and the two of them locked eyes. He found himself wishing that moment could go on for eternity. A brief and unexpected bubble of laughter rose up in his chest when he thought about what he had said to her before. To be honest, I was thinking about kidnapping you. Ain’t that swell? And she had just smiled back at him genuinely, like she was smiling now. Finally, their eyes exchanged silent goodbyes and Lacey Jones was turning and walking toward the apartment building and out of his life for good.

And then, as though the time machine had run out of batteries, he was suddenly back in Belvedere, back in the home of one Bailey Shrotabaker, and back to sweating bullets while he thought about what lay ahead of him.

The sound of a car door opening and shutting at 11:23 sent a bolt of electricity through his nerves. His heart came alive, and he felt vaguely like a toreador looking into the stout face of a raging bull–a bull that happened to have beautiful blue eyes and a gorgeous smile, but a bull nonetheless. Any moment, that bull would charge and he would have to make his move. If he faltered now, he would surely regret it.

The door swung open and Coop heard the suburban pulling out of the driveway before it slammed shut again. Then he heard, rather than saw, a person walk unknowingly past the spot where he was crouching and into the kitchen. It was all happening so fast that it took him a moment to catch up. His eyes were still glued to the cream-colored upholstery of the armoire when he heard what sounded like a glass being brought out of the cupboard and the faucet turn on. It was time to make his move.

He slid out from behind the armoire, like a cheetah from the bush, all his senses working furiously to direct him toward the gazelle. When he stood outside the kitchen, he peeked around the corner. A petite girl was standing there dressed in green shorts and a matching sport tee. She was looking out at the back yard. A glass of water was held to her lips.

It happened quicker and more easily than he expected and when it was over he wondered what all the fuss had been about. With the dish rag in his right hand and the capsule in his left, he moved quickly behind her. In swift motion, his left arm clamped down around her chest, pinning her left arm to her side, while the right came over her right shoulder, his palm with the rag clutched in it masking her face as though they were playing “guess who”. She let loose a startled shriek. The glass she was holding slipped from her hand and hit the floor with a loud crack; a piece of it broke and rolled around on the tile. She had enough time to gasp before Coop broke the capsule against the rag and held it firmly over her mouth. She put up a brief and half-hearted struggle. Her hands, transformed into claws, rapped the back of his head and she kicked wildly with her legs. Then seconds later, her body went limp, her head hitting his chest like a medicine ball, and she was down for the count.

He quickly disposed of the rag, being careful not to inhale any of the chemical, in the kitchen waste basket. Then he went hunting for a blanket, leaving Bailey lying unconscious on the kitchen floor. When he found one from her bedroom (it had a nice floral pattern on it, which Coop noted absently), he came back and wrapped her up in it. He carried the blanket with her inside out the front door and over to his pickup. The blanket was probably a weak cover, he thought, but it surely looked better than him carrying only her. After he had gotten the cotton cocoon situated in the back of the truck, taking extra care to make sure he did not bang it up against anything in the process, he slid into the driver’s seat and let out a long sigh of relief.

He had been sitting here, in this exact spot, a little over an hour before, feeling like a goalie before a penalty kick. The anxiety was suddenly gone and he felt a wave of success pour over him. The crowd was cheering. He had guessed the right direction to dive and in a single deft motion, he had stopped the ball. His job was not done yet–there was still time on the clock–but the hard part was over. Without further hesitation, he put the truck in gear and drove out of sight.

[Jimbalaya]

Very cool, Ambrose.

In the second paragraph you use the word brilliantly to describe a hedge, I think you could probably tak off the 'ly' and just leave it a brilliant. It's just a thing with me I guess. There was something else I noticed in the middle somewhere, but i can't remember what it was, I'll have to go back and find it if I can.

Overall, given the length of the piece, I found almost no errors, but I'm no professional. I enjoyed this opening part very much. It was engaging and you pumped out a great backstory for Coop. It's hard to tell yet if he's a good guy, or a bad guy, but I'm sure you'll get to that. Also, I had no sense of how old he is. I get the impression that he's maybe in his forties or thereabout, but nothing in the story really tells me.

Very nice job. I'm looking forward to part two.

[Venomous Vixen]

Another great read. The only thing that tugged at me through this was the civic. It is obvious that is not the car she was driving now, as she was gone when it was there and a car pulled up when she got home but, being as rich as you made her out to be, a honda civiv? I would expect an old beamer or mercedes, perhaps even a Lexus. Otherwise brilliant and as soon as I have time I am on to the next installment!

[xtremelady]

Few thoughts – when he looked at the picture – why didn’t he inject what he already knew about her into his surmising of what her life was like? He knew a few things from staking out her house etc.

Lacey – description of meeting the mechanic...didn’t flow well for me.

Other than that the character’s motivations were clearly defined – the threads there – voices – impulses – and how he rationalised his actions. Like that not once did he question if what he was doing is wrong. Makes 1 wonder how he expects her to react to being kidnapped. There is also a lack of emotion which grabs you 2 – but not sure if this is intentional – because he displays awkward responses – blushing etc.

Very interested to see how this plays out.

[RENA HANDS]

Possibly consider bolding and or underlining and bolding the Author’s Note. For me anyway it mixed in with your tale.

Should it be ‘zipped up pocket?’

I am not certain but is ‘and’ necessary here? …complete with a large emerald green lawn (that was/were) flanked by cypress trees.(?) *I removed the original ‘and,’ does it matter?

Maybe…The fence to the back yard creaked a little (as) he entered.(?)

Maybe…One day (while) he searched for an old article-the subject of which was now long forgotten-and he came across her.(?)

Maybe…That picturesque face and (those) lovely blue eyes…(?)

Maybe…which looked rather unflattering on her but (it) was sensible attire for the time of year,(?)

Possibly change this sentence…He was a sophomore in college, studying to (earn) a degree in journalism at Fresno State,(?)

Maybe something like…I could tell Shelly kind of liked him so it didn’t surprise me any when he invited us back to his place. And to that invitation, Shelly screamed ‘Yes.’ (I am not certain of punctuation or grammar, please consult an editor.)

What about…After he ha (placed or positioned) the cotton cocoon (securely) in the back of (his) the truck, (?)

I am engaged! You have created such a suspenseful story here! I made a few change suggestions only (for me) to enhance your elegant tale. Though you are speaking of kidnapping and possible murder, you have executed (for me) literal sophistication.

For Chapter/Part 1, I give a rating of 5/5!

[Gurdit]

It was a miracle that he had not yet alerted the neighborhood watch, an abnormally tall older man with a dark complexion, no doubt accentuated by his going-on-three-weeks unshaven face. He resembled a recent divorcee, whose bloodshot eyes and manic features took on the appearance of a huge white sign with the words “restless” and “unstable” written on it in bold red letters.

This part confused me slightly about who the "He" in the second line is -- the neighbourhood watch or Coop. I understand that the neighbourhood watch is "an abnormally tall older man...". So, at that point, the "he" pronoun points to the watch. Yet, when you describe Him as resembling "a recent divorcee, whose bloodshot eyes...", I wondered -- Why is Ambrose describing the watchman in such detail instead of moving the story forward. I don't think the watchman has a very big role to play in this story...oh wait, he could be describing Jonathan Cooper...ah yeah, that could be it!

a view of Angel island and the bay.

Is "Angel Island" a place? If so, should not the "I" be uppercase?

his hands began to regain their calm and his stomach relaxed,

I understand that "calm" seems to fit there better, but technically, shouldn't it be "calmness"?

Going from one side to the other is like crossing a draw bridge that is half raised. One does not simply wander across, but instead must move with a certain deliberation. But that is not all, for at the top of the bridge there is a gap. Here is where many have turned back, have glanced down nervously into the depths of condemnation and retreated. It takes a truly determined individual to leap across and enter into the realm of the unrighteous. And once you are on the other side, the only way to go is down.

Nice metaphor, although I think you've fleshed it out just a tad too much. I might have restrained it thus:
Going from one side to the other is like crossing a draw bridge that is half raised. One does not simply wander across, but instead must move with a certain deliberation. At the top of the bridge there is a gap, where many have glanced down nervously into the depths of condemnation and turned back. Only a truly determined individual would leap across and enter into the realm of the unrighteous, and once the leap is taken, the only way to go is down.
I might have made a couple of technicall errors, but I think it gets the point across.

At this point, I should probably mention before I forget, that I notice how you constantly use "there was...". It just stikes me as being a very plain method of describing something.

stretched across the hillside, was Sausalito.

Just thought I'd mention that I had no clue what Sausalito was, until I looked it up on wikipedia. You should probably mention somehow that is'a town/city for international readers such as me wouldn't otherwise understand the "local" reference.

But the memory was cloudy, like a glass of warm tap water.

I don't get this metaphor. How is a glass or warm tap water cloudy?

And Coop did not possess the thirst or the desire to empty it.

Since it's a negative sentence, should it not be "nor".

town whist gabbing away happily on her cell phone.

typo?

no doubt idolized by the guys.

idolized? I would think she would have been more craved for, or fantasized about...perhaps she could have been described as the stuff that most guys' fantasies are made of.

the girl whose house he was now an unexpected guest to

I'm not 100% sure of this myself, but should it be "to" or "in"?

But this being his foray into kidnapping, Coop wanted to do it by the book.

But this being his first foray into kidnapping, Coop wanted to do it by the book?

The thing he liked so much about Lacey was that she was pure and un-accessorized, the way God intended, not like so many of the other girls who wore masks of white powder and drenched themselves in perfume so strong it made your eyes water. On some days she would come to class with her hair tangled in unintentional dreads and sporting the same shirt and faded jeans as the day before, all the signs of having skipped a shower. Even in her natural state, she still outshined most of the other girls. Sometimes, when he felt particularly bold and he thought no one else was watching, he would lean in close to her so that his nose was an inch from the back of her neck and he would take in her scent. She never wore deodorant, which lent to her subtle yet distinct smell. She smelled like sugar-sweet sweat, and underneath, mixed in like a sultry fragrance was that piquant feminine aroma that could only have come from one place. It drove him crazy with desire and he knew he had to have her.

This is brilliant, absolutely brilliant.

...like a couple of scared little freshman to him.

freshmen?

The latter part of the writing, right through the flashback and after it, really seemed to pick up the tempo. Up to that moment, the story seemed to be more like a narration of events rather than action in the form of words. But right then, it seemed to come alive, which is great, because you got my heart beating a little faster (ok, it helps that I actually have to go out in a bit and I'm getting late, so that's a tiny, yet extra burden on my mind right now). Despite the assistance, I think the writing still did its job pretty damn well.

Now, I would have questioned the inclusion of the flash-back. I don't see what purpose it serves to the plot (unless maybe later, the similarity between Bailey and Lacey might affect the story). But to be honest, it certainly had a positive effect on the writing. That's because you ripped us right from the flash-back into the action, which is a great ploy. The flash-back itself was very well written with the reader trying to anticipate what might happen, with John thinking about kidnapping Lacey, yet not really doing so. Actually, I think that part is brilliant because your characterization is flawless and the lack of attempt on Jon's part to kidnap Lacey fits perfectly well with the character of John Cooper.

I shall read more for sure.

Don't forget to let me know you've read this comment, and I'd love a response to some of the points/suggestions/questions in this critique.

[Ambrose]

Wow, thanks Gurdit, how could I not acknowledge such a thorough and thoughtful response. You too, Rena.

I keep saying I'm going to go back and do some more revising to this some day. My ultimate goal as a writer is to find that much talked about balance between brevity/detail. I think I tend to be a little wordy, and you caught me with the cross bridge analogy.

I'm glad you enjoyed the flashback. It does come up again in the story, but it may have been too long just the same. I guess you'll see for yourself if you continue reading.

Oh, and I don't like the first paragraph (the neighbor watch) anymore than you do. I remember feeling like it sounded forced (well it still does actually) when I wrote it. Ah well...