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AC is back up! This morning the site would not allow updates. My story came up blank. But it's back now!

I'm so sorry guys. My computer is really disliking me. It erased this chapter six times from Word and then my internet went down. I hate technology!

CHAPTER TWO

If he stood on the moldy wicker chair–and on his tip toes at that!–Nick was able to reach a small crack of fresh air through the musty basement. It was from a window that had been filled in rather sloppily and he would stand there, his hamstrings hurting with the pressure he put on them, seemingly for hours just breathing in the crisp air. With his nose pressed against the crack and with tears streaming down his face he would inhale deep and slowly exhale. The crack was barely an inch wide and four inches long but it gave Nick something to hold onto.

Time moved slow for him. His entrapment was rolling into its second week and although he was fed and able to be washed Nick still felt dirty and violated. The sliver of air he breathed in from the crack was almost like a hot bath. It cleansed him, though he still felt that nauseated feeling you get when you feel so desecrated. He at least was on the verge of clean. It was the only thing keeping him going. That and the small blankie he clung to at all hours.

He felt like he was being watched.

The very thought made his skin crawl and he turned away from his beloved air and looked around the dimly lit room. The feeling was hard to shake and although he searched each hour of the day, he could never figure out exactly WHY he felt eyes upon him.

Turning back to the crack Nick breathed in deep. As he exhaled he could hear the distinct sound of a child laughing. With his eyes struggling for some visual connection he screamed.

"HELP! Please! Somebody help me!" The laughter paused and he saw two sneaker clad feet scamper by. "HEY! Hey! HELP ME! Please, I'm trapped!" But the child had run, afraid of the sounds he was hearing. Nick's pleading was in vain.




Her husband had refused to eat a nutritious meal for the last time. Ginger furiously chopped the vegetables and at the same time kept an eye on Bob. He was shriveling away, living on quick Seven-11 snacks and soda. She tossed the carrots into the pot beside her and picked up an onion. Bob had the new cast on every hour of the day. Switching back and fourth between Fox News, CNN, MSNBC and the local broadcasts in hopes some form of information on Nick's disappearance would be released. But each day it was the same. Some overdressed anchorman would say, "Still no news on the case of the Missing Backstreet Boy, Nickolas Carter. Missing since May fifth, police have found no leads..." And each night Bob's hope would falter even more.

Ginger placed the pot onto the stove and set the timer. She could hear the baby waking up from his nap.

"B.J., sweetie, can you get a new package of diapers from the basement?" Her step-daughter nodded her head, too sullen to express any words and retrieved the wholesale Pampers.

As she was making her way down the cellar steps B.J. recalled what her brother had last said to her. "I wanna be a child again Bubba," Nick had taken his jacket off and handed it to his sister. It was windy and she was cold. "I can't help it sometimes. Don't you ever feel like you just wanna be a kid again. Not knowing shit from shit?"

She pulled the diapers from the shelf and muttered to herself. "Yeah Nick, I don't wanna know shit from shit anymore."

The steps creaked as she returned upstairs and handed the Pampers to her step-mother. Outside the birds had gone elsewhere and the early spring bugs were noisily taking there place.

Stepping outside B.J. let the cool evening air blow her blonde hair around her face. She looked just like him, she knew that. The eternal bonds of siblings written on their faces long before they knew what conversation was. They were often mistaken for twins rather than Nick being the older brother. Across from where she stood was an antique mirror Angel had brought at a thrift shop. B.J. stared restlessly at her reflection hating that whatever glance she made she would see her brother in her face. She wondered where he was now–If he was alive at least–and if he was afraid. She wondered what he was thinking and if he missed her. The long strands of her hair flew around her with the wind and she grasped it, the soft locks caught in her hand. The porch was where Nick loved best to sit and B.J. could not help but think of him sitting there just a couple of weeks ago, his hair flying around just like hers was doing.

Closing her eyes Bobbie Jean Carter sent a silent message to her brother. “Nicky...hold on.” She thought she could feel his heart beat, steady and strong. “He’s alive I know it.” Sibling Bonds take more than a kidnapper to break.




He heard the door open. He had been waiting. Pretending to be asleep for nearly five hours. When his kidnapper was close enough to his bed that Nick was sure he’d get a look at him he jumped up and grabbed the man’s wrist. “I demand you let me go!” He had more planned to say but shock had quieted him. The kidnapper pulled from Nick’s grasp and backhanded him.

“You are never to touch me!” The tears sprang into Nick’s eyes quickly. Looking at the man he felt defeat wash over him. The plan was remember the kidnapper’s face so that if he escaped he would be able to track the man down. But instead of a face he saw a mask. A cheap plastic Bill Clinton mask one could easily pick up at a Party City or some other party store.

Nick cowered. Two weeks of entrapment had worn him down. He had lost a substantial amount of weight and most all the color had faded from his cheeks. His hair had dulled and his lips looked ghostly. He had turned as grey as the walls. The only color left were in his eyes. The blue still burned brightly and somehow he knew that the color was his hope. It was a fool’s hope, all he had left. But sometimes, as A.J. had once told him, a fool’s hope was the only kind of real hope. And life without hope just wasn’t worth living.

“I want you to understand something. You are never to lay a finger on me. I own you now. You are mine. Got it?” Nick’s eyes fell to the floor. “Look at me! I said look at me when I’m talking to you!”

Briefly a thought of defiance passed through Nick’s mind but the realist inside him told the young singer that going against this madman’s claim would most definitely meet him an untimely end.

Nick looked up. “Who are you? What do you want from me?”

“Just call me Padrone. Do you know what that means?” Nick shook his head. “No matter.” He handed Nick a text book from a box that had been set on the floor. Oggi in Italia “Learn something while you’re down here. It means today in Italy. A college level textbook. When you’re done with that I have other languages.” He kicked the box. “You’re supplies,” and left.

Further inspection saw that the box contain the usual food supplies–Water, bread, sandwich condiments, three Twinkies, a small tubbaware with breaded chicken cutlets, a thermos of milk, and a box of Cheerios.–but that week it also held a large drawing pad with pencils and colored pencils. A leather bound notebook with a pen attached was in addition to the box.

The first thing Nick did however, was look up Padrone in the Italian textbook. He was shocked but not surprised to find that it meant Master.

He tossed the textbook to the side and laid back on the bed. Picking up A.J.’s old blankie he pulled at the loose threads, lost in his thoughts. Why had Padrone chosen that name? Or better yet, was there a reason for the Bill Clinton mask?

Nick picked up the pencil and the drawing pad and started sketching a face. He was used to drawing cartoons rather than actual people but he just didn’t feel like creating funny veils of humans.

He didn’t know who he was sketching, he just let the pencil take the paper away. As he finished and realized whom he had drawn the leftover tears from when Padrone had entered the room began their long awaited dance down his cheeks. He had captured A.J.–no–Alex. He had set to paper the true insights to his friend. The ache that had been forming in his heart grew and Nick signed the drawing with his usual signature and titled it, in neat letters at the bottom, ‘Fool’s Hope.’

The light in his eyes dimmed. Even the precious blue was starting to fade.