A BRIGHT ARRAY OF MULTI-COLORED KITES, OF ALL DIFFERENT SHAPES AND SIZES, FLITTED HIGH THROUGH THE CRYSTAL CLEAR, BLUE, SATURDAY AFTERNOON SKY. They, and hot air balloons, were featured entertainment on the horizon.

Loud, carnival music blared from the boardwalk as Prairie Sage attempted to liven up the festive throng. Roller skaters, and skateboarders, mingled among many of the pedestrians crowding the walkways to the beach to catch the breakers rolling in. Segways could also be seen.

Jonathan knew his father would tan every ounce of flesh off his young hide for being there in the first place. And, although he was never brave enough to do so himself, something always fascinated the boy about this scene.

Perhaps it was the allure of the extremely popular, clothing optional, Wickham Beach that drew him. Or, was it the playful school of dolphins that hung out just off the shore, inviting swimmers to join them for a spot of tea, followed by a lazy afternoon romp, that held his attention. Whatever it was, Jonathan could not resist.

Meandering merrily along his way, and maneuvering through those that did, as well as those that did not, Jonathan found his favorite concession stand. It was there he ate a Coney Island dog smothered with mustard, ketchup, onions, and relish. He also drank the contents of a sixteen ounce cup of his favorite soda.

When Jonathan was done with his snack, and feeling good, he crushed the paper cup, and tossed it, along with the container the hotdog came in, into a nearby trash receptacle. Then, he continued on his way down the shoreline.

He liked checking the skimpily clad girls out. And, Jonathan enjoyed making time in the water, too. Like every red-blooded teen boy does.

Carefree, as was his nature, little did Jonathan notice his every move was being watched by somebody very familiar to him, or that danger lurked nearby.

He was a fourteen-year-old boy nonchalantly doing what fourteen-year-old boys do. Jonathan's world would soon change. Dramatically. He was about to enter a realm of terror he never knew existed before.

Tone Jenner was well aware Jonathan had strolled Wickham Beach on several occasions. He had even been there with him, and many of their mutual friends, including Tone's youngest brother, Kyle.

The last time they had shared experiences on Wickham Beach was before Tone's other brother, Mark, had been run down on his motorcycle by Rex Archibald.

That was a sweet revenge situation Tone was still formulating plans in his mind to extract from the arrogant piece of garbage who had murdered Mark, and was yet to come to trial for his actions.

As far as Tone was concerned every dog has its day. However, right now, Rex Archibald was not his desired target. The boy-next-door, with the sparkling, blue diamond eyes, Jonathan Dungston, was.

His meal ticket almost within arm's reach, Tone tightly gripped the handle of the wooden mallet he held in his hand. He contemplated one, well placed, blow would be enough. Two at the most. Jonathan could be a little bit hard-headed when he chose to be.

Tone needed a secluded spot in which to pounce. There was one coming up ahead, about thirty yards away, where he and Jonathan would be the only live bodies in the area.

Jonathan should have stayed home. He should have mowed the grass like his father asked him to do. He never should have shirked his chores to sneak off to the beach. What Jonathan should have done was not Tone's concern.

The closer he approached Jonathan the more Tone could feel his adrenaline rising. However, he could not allow it to escalate out of control. He needed Jonathan alive -- for now.

The blow he administered to his victim's head drew a slow trickle of blood. It also knocked Jonathan out colder than a block of ice, but he managed to survive the harsh strike.

Tone's return to Seattle had been a rousing success. Just for the thrill of the chase, he had knocked off a mom-and-pop grocery store in Idaho on the way over from Montana. That made three states his fledgling crime spree encompassed. He knew a pawn shop in Eastern Washington he would add to his collection on the way back to Montana.

Tone was indeed brazen, and becoming more callous, with each setting sun. The world lay right on the tips of his fingers, and he was about to grasp the brass ring. Perhaps, he would even pull its tail, for good measure.

The unconscious Jonathan was a heavy burden for Tone to drag off the beach, and unceremoniously toss into his fixer-up pickup truck. Somehow, he managed to accomplish the daunting feat. He had come too far to allow his dream of the good life to slip away.

Tone examined Jonathan's sprawled out body, that lay draped across the backseat of his maroon F150. For a fleeting moment he sympathized with the fact they had been friends for several years.

Almost.

Psyche!

He decided Jonathan's accommodations in the shed in Montana would be suitable, at least, for the short term.

Getting the message to Professor Dungston about Jonathan's little excursion, and his urgent need to cough up the ransom cash, in exchange for the safe return of his lone progeny, occupied Tone's thoughts as he climbed into the truck.

Tone inserted the key into the ignition, and the vehicle's engine roared to life. Then, he slowly pulled out of the parking lot, and headed east to destination Easy Street.

Back in Montana the mandolin rain drummed down on the tin roof of the shed in a rhythmic pattern. Ominous dark clouds littered the sky overhead. Lightning flashes, of a variety of exciting contributions, illuminated the blackness like strobe lights in a discotheque. Only, it wasn't music Jonathan was grooving to.

Blinding pulsations of throbbing pain, cascading like a waterfall crashing its contents on to the hapless rocks in the river below, tormented him. That, and the still dazed state Jonathan felt himself floating around in.

Clueless as to where he was, of what had befallen him, Jonathan believed he very well may have been in Concussion City, for all he knew. He had never had one before, and was totally convinced he never wanted to have another one again.

If crying would have made him feel better, he would have bawled like a newborn baby. But, tears would not come.

No matter what position Jonathan moved into, when he challenged himself to roust at all, the pain was unbearable. The whole universe seemed to be moving in fast forward. Only, Jonathan wanted somebody, anybody, to stop the spinning world so he could get off.

He forced himself to reach up, like the Itsy Bitsy spider crawling up the side of a water fountain. Gently, Jonathan touched the side of his head, and felt his matted blonde hair.

Reacting like he had grabbed a burner on a red hot stove top, Jonathan just as quickly jerked his hand back down. Then, once more, he reached for the massive knot on the side of his head.

If only he could remember where he got the monstrosity from maybe he could find a way to better cope with his condition.

But, his absent memory cells must have gone on a small vacation. Jonathan definitely had no independent recollection of the state of affairs he had endured. The vacuous notion he could recall was a relaxing dip in Wickham Beach.

There was no sand or water. No pelicans dive-bombing a tasty fish morsel. No waves washing over him, unless he counted the relentless nauseous symptoms welling up deep inside him. And, no warm sunshine bearing down on his shoulders, either. Just the awful, unrelenting, pounding in his head.

Then, Jonathan noticed the cold, metallic chains that bound both of his wrists and ankles. They certainly proved he was not on the beach any longer. He wondered if he had severely banged his head on a sandbar, while frolicking in the water, and wound up in this nightmare? None of it made any sense to him at all.

As his bearings started returning in each moment that slowly crept along, Jonathan realized his bed was made of straw. Good thing he wasn't allergic to the pieces that covered the cold cement floor he soon discovered he was laying on.

No, Jonathan Dungston, now a prisoner of who, he did not comprehend, wasn't going anywhere any time soon. All alone, with the raging storm brewing outside, he wondered how long his sentence would be?

There was nothing else Jonathan could do but lay where he was at and count the raindrops as they fell. One...two...three...

Snuggly inside the dilapidated, rustic cabin that stood next to the shed Jonathan was confined in, Tone Jenner popped the top on an ice cold brewski. He felt proud of himself. Mission accomplished.

He picked up his cellphone and dialed a number he knew well.

On the third ring Professor Dungston answered the call. At first, he thought Tone was playing a prank. But, then, the conversation rapidly became deathly serious.

Intensely, Professor Dungston listened to every word he was being told.


@Copyrighted November 9, 2015 by Brett Matthew West
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