Spilt Wine

40. A Desperate Situation Worsens

Catherine and I remained quiet, listening for sounds. Any sound at all as clues to where we might be. In the background, a low whining hum had started, or maybe was already there, and I was just attuning to it. A steady hum. "The low, steady, whining hum," I said quietly, "I can't think what it might be. Does it sound familiar to you?"

"I've been trying to think what it is myself."

"Do you hear anything else?"

"No, do you?"

"No."

We remained quiet and still, saving our energy, thinking it might be a long wait. I sensed we had been stopped here about an hour and a half, maybe a bit less, when Catherine quietly said, "Good thing I peed after breakfast before we left the house, but I need to pee again."

"Try not to think about it. It'll be noon shortly and whatever is going on out there should stop then. We haven't left France, so everything will stop, and the workers will go for lunch."

"How do you know it's almost noon?"

"I was just calculating it to myself. I remembered making a mental note for the deck log that it was zero nine thirteen when I finished mooring Vrouwe Catharina to the bourne."

"You did that? Even under threat of imminent death, you did that?"

I chuckled softly and continued, "It was for Vrouwe Catharina's logbook. Your watch isn't over until you have completed the logbook, were the stern words of my training officer when I was beginning my bridge watch-keeping training. Lieutenant Summers would be pleased to know I still comply."

"Okay, but how did you remember the time, zero nine-whatever?" She sighed. "I can't even remember it after less than a minute."

"I remembered the time because, for decades, I've used the dates of coins as tags in my mind. Memory tags to use later. Canadian coins are a natural for this, most of the dates from their beginning in 1858 had scarce or rare varieties or were the beginnings or ends of a series or a design change. Decades ago, I assembled a tag for every number from one to a hundred, having to use a few rare US and foreign coins to fill gaps. So, anyway, I finished mooring Vrouwe Catharina at Thirteen Broad Leaf, the scarce variety of the 1913 ten cents piece, and I tagged that to my brain."

"Your mind works in strange ways."

"As I have often been told. So, from the time of our mooring, it was only ten or twelve minutes until we were locked in the trunk. The drive took us Design in Six minutes ..."

"Design in six minutes?"

"The 1946 Fifty Cents piece had a chip in one of the dies in the loop of the six. It slowly enlarged until it filled the entire loop before the die cracked and was discarded. The coins struck from the last stages of that deteriorating die are quite scarce and very rare uncirculated."

"Okay, so forty-six minutes for the drive, how'd you know that?"

"I counted the seconds. So it was nine thirteen plus ten or twelve plus forty-six; that takes it to between nine and eleven minutes past ten when we arrived outside here – when we stopped in front of what I imagine as a gate and then a roll-up door. I sense we are in a garage or shed, and by my count, we've been here now an hour and a half, now a bit more."

We were quiet for another quarter-hour or so, then, "There!" I said with a start. "The pitch is decreasing – quickly running down. The pump has been turned off. It's lunchtime."

"That's it, a pump," Catherine said. "When it wound down, it reminded me of the transfer pump we use to move wine from the cuves to the pièces."

"This one has been running steadily since we got here. It's connected to a very large tank. Wine is already in pièces from the last harvest, so this is a much simpler wine than yours. Could be white, could be a Village red. They could be blending tanks. We're probably in a winery, one with large tanks. If it weren't for that horrid stench in here, we'd probably smell the wine."

After a long pause, I added. "My bet is Philippe will move us to a more hidden place."

Then, we waited in silence. Waited another ten, maybe twelve minutes before there was the click of a door latch and the sound of footsteps approaching the car.

"Time to stretch your legs," a voice sounding like Philippe said from the other side of the trunk lid. "Remember, only one of us has guns here, so don't try anything stupid."

He opened the lid, and both Catherine and I took deep breaths as the fresh air entered the trunk, accompanied by the smell of wine. "Slowly, move slowly." he prodded my ribs with the gun muzzle. "Climb out of there."

"My right leg is asleep, I can't even move slowly until I can get it working again, and then I'll have to get some of these kinks out of my joints."

"Move!" He prodded the gun more forcefully into my back.

"I'm trying." I couldn't sit up, my head was under the low rear part of the trunk. I strained to unfold my left leg and roll over. Slowly, with moves I had never used before, not even in snaking and grovelling up chimneys too narrow on mountain faces, I levered with a shoulder and an elbow and then with my head, my neck muscles screaming as I lifted to draw my left knee up under my chest.

I managed to swing my still partially numb leg over the lip of the trunk and hop it along while coaxing my other knee sideways with a press of my neck, my head mashed into the burlap bag of rotting potatoes.

"I said get out of there! Don't just squirm around." Philip laughed with obvious joy. He grabbed my taped arms and a leg, flipped me out and let me fall to the concrete floor.

I looked at the tires of several trucks. I was right. We're in a garage, a large truck garage. Then I thought, that means so little right now, so ... I winced in pain as Philippe hauled Catherine roughly out of the trunk and dumped her on top of me, thankfully, cushioning her fall.

"Get up, you wimps." Philippe prodded my ribs with his pointed toe. "Grovelling at my feet won't win either of you any favours from me."

He directed us ahead with his pointed gun, up two steps and in through a doorway to a hall. Then following us in, he closed the door and locked it behind him.

"I really need to pee," Catherine said. "Can't hold it much longer."

"Women! Your plumbing is always such a problem." He pointed the gun toward an open door. "Over there, leave the door open. Remember I have a gun on your stud."

"My hands are tied, I can't get my pants down."

He mumbled and cursed unintelligibly, then dug a pair of scissors out of his bag. "Remember, there are many other things I can cut with these – maybe neuter your stud." He laughed as he turned to poke the scissors into my crotch.

Philippe turned back to Catherine, grabbing an arm to turn her. "Stupid me – why cut you free?" He ripped her slacks open and hauled them down over her hips. "Let's see Louis' little playground." He snipped her panties at both hips and yanked them away. "Now your pants are down." He spun her and shoved her toward the doorway. "Keep the door open, we'll try not to watch."

After she had finished, he directed us to another doorway. She moved slowly, hobbled by her slacks now at her ankles. Inside he ordered us to sit on straight-back chairs, and keeping the gun pointed at Catherine, he taped my ankles to the chair's legs and elbows to the spindles. He then did the same with hers. With us both secured, he put the gun in its holster and used both hands to reinforce the taping.

Then spreading Catherine's legs, he groped her privates and said, "So, you really are a redhead." After a cackling laugh, he added, "Stay here folks; be good, I'll be back in a while."