Kill Jill

by John Locke

  “I need to tell you about my secret room.”

  Fifty-two minutes later, Jack’s cell phone rings.

  “Thank God you answered!” Jill says. “I’ve been scared to death for you. Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine.”

  “Tell me Fanny’s not with you.”

  “You mean Sugar Tits? She and Ziggy roared out of here before you were in the air. Where’s Mike?”

  “He took off a few minutes ago.”

  “Good. And the cab driver’s okay?”

  “Seems fine.”

  “I should hang up now, save the battery.”

  “Okay, but do me a favor?”

  “Name it.”

  “Call me before you take off.”

  “Of course.”

  Fifty minutes later Jack places the call. The cab driver answers by giving his name, then passes the phone to Jill.

  Jack says, “I’m climbing in now. I’ll see you in forty-five minutes.”

  “What time is it now?”

  “Two forty-five.”

  “Be safe.”

  “See you soon, pretty lady.”

  “Please hurry!”

  Jack climbs in the crop duster’s passenger seat. “Thanks for accommodating me.”

  “Thanks for the extra five hundred.”

  They take off without speaking. When they’re airborne, Jack says, “I can’t believe you can land this thing in pitch dark with just six lanterns to guide you.”

  Mike laughs. “Six lamps is a luxury!”

  Fifteen minutes into the flight Jack notices they’re losing altitude rapidly.

  “Anything wrong?” he says.

  “I need to make a quick stop.”

  “For what?”

  “Cargo.”

  “I thought we had an understanding.”

  “We do. But I’m in a jam.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “After dropping your lady friend off, my boss called and asked me to pick up a shipment. It would have taken me an hour to go there and come back to get you, but you wanted to take off immediately, and offered to pay me the extra five, which I really appreciate. Truth is, I need the money. So I owe you. On the other hand, my boss has been known to kill those who piss him off. So I decided to take you to Jackson, and pick up my shipment on the way.”

  “How long will it take to load the plane?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “That seems awfully quick.”

  “My hopper holds seven hundred gallons of bug juice. Of course, I don’t fill it with chemical spray.”

  “I’ll go out on a limb and guess you smuggle weed.”

  “How’d you come to that conclusion?”

  “You’ve got a crop duster you don’t use for spraying crops. You fly by night. Take off and land by lamplight on private runways. And your boss kills people.”

  Mike laughs. “You’re trying to sound all Sherlock Holmes, but the truth is Fanny told you about the weed. I know because she admitted it when she vouched for you. How it works is the ground crew has a five hundred gallon hopper they stuff with bricks of weed. When we land, all they have to do is fit the small hopper into the big one. Ten minutes to load, ten to unload. They’ve got it down to a science.”

  Moments later they touch down on a grass runway, and coast to a stop.

  Mike’s right. It takes virtually no time to load the cargo.

  What he failed to mention is where they were landing.

  Twenty miles from La Pierre.

  And who’d be there, holding a gun on Jack while the ground crew worked their magic.

  Jill’s husband, Bobby DiPiese.

  Bobby says, “There are two words you can say here you can’t say in a regular airport.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Hi Jack.”

  “You killed all four hunters?” Bobby says, forty minutes later.

  “I had the element of surprise on my side.”

  “Don’t be humble. That’s an impressive bit of killing. Unfortunately, your little pit stop cost me a fortune with Officer Hank.”

  They’re in Bobby’s den. Bobby’s goons, Bronson and Doug, confiscated his phone and wallet at the airfield. Bobby’s working hard to pretend nothing’s wrong, but Jack knows controlled fury when he sees it. He decides to play it cool, knowing that will piss Bobby off more than begging forgiveness.

  Bobby says, “You’ll stay the night?”

  “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

  “What kind of host would I be not to offer? You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to find my loving wife.”

  “In that case, I’d be honored to be your guest,” Jack says.

  They look at each other, aware Bobby’s holding all the cards.

  He says, “I understand Jill caught an earlier flight.”

  “She did. I assume she arrived here safely? That was the plan.”

  Bobby smiles. “You got balls, I’ll give you that. Yeah, she arrived safely. But not here.”

  “No?”

  Bobby says, “You ever heard of synchronicity?”

  Jack says nothing.

  Bobby says, “It has to do with incredible coincidences. Like in this book I read, a young doctor’s driving along a Texas highway one night and witnesses a car crash. He jumps out and saves a kid’s life. That single event causes the kid to study medicine and eventually become a doctor. One night he’s driving the exact same stretch of Texas highway and witnesses a car crash. He jumps out and saves a man’s life. Turns out to be the same doctor who saved his life twenty years earlier.”

  “My opinion?” Jack says. “That’s a bullshit story.”

  Bobby shrugs. “If it didn’t sound like bullshit, it wouldn’t qualify as synchronicity.”

  “Since you’re telling me this, can I assume an incredible coincidence has occurred?”

  “Two, actually. The first is when you turned your phone off.”

  “How’s that a coincidence?”

  “It told me you had a change of heart. So I told my guys to put the word out to everyone in Louisiana and Mississippi who works for me. We started with off-duty cops, who set up phony roadblocks on the back roads. Then we called our truckers and pilots. Low and behold, one of our pilots got the call ten minutes after dropping Jill off at a private airfield near Jackson, Mississippi.”

  Jack works hard to keep his face from falling.

  Bobby notices the effort, twists the knife by saying, “Jill was in a cab, waiting for someone. Any idea who?”

  “Sorry. I don’t know her well enough to guess.”

  Bobby says, “According to Mike, she was waiting for you.”

  “But you know better.”

  “To be honest, Jack, I’m leaning Mike’s way on this.”

  “What’s the second coincidence?”

  “The cab driver at the Jackson airfield? The one sitting with Jill?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Vick Wamby. He works for me.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Synchronicity, Jack. There are twenty-two cabbies working that county, and a hundred who could have received a call for an emergency ride. But out of all those drivers, only one’s on my payroll. Vick Wamby.”

  “If that’s true, where’s Jill?”

  He smiles. “You’ll be pleased to know she’ll be here shortly.”

  “How?”

  “Mike went to fetch her.”

  “He’ll never get her here.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’ll run away. Or jump out of the plane.”

  “I spoke to her. She’s coming voluntarily.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “And yet, it’s true. I told her if she came straight here without incident, I’d let you go.”

  Jack pauses. “Why would she care if you let me go or not?”

  “That’s the same question I keep asking myself, Jack.”

  “I don’t buy it. She hates my guts. She spent the whole night tr
ying to get away.”

  Bobby goes quiet a few minutes. Then says, “Remember the word I taught you?”

  “Synchronicity?”

  “I have another coincidence to report.”

  Jack waits.

  Bobby says, “Tonight, I was all worked up. I get that way sometimes.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “Most people, actually. Not the way I do, at least. When I get all worked up I want to beat the living shit out of someone. Literally.”

  “Literally?”

  “That’s right. Take Jill, for instance. Tonight when you called and told me you were on the way, I got all worked up. I wanted to beat her, Jack. Beat her till she pissed herself. Beat her till she moved her bowels. Beat her till she literally shit blood. But I also wanted to fuck her, you know? Because you never lose those romantic feelings. So I worked it all out in my head. I planned to beat her, fuck her, beat her some more, fuck her some more, then beat her to within an inch of her life. Then you know what I planned to do? Fuck that last inch out of her. Make my dick the murder weapon.”

  “That’s so romantic,” Jack says, sarcastically. “You must have been stunned to hear she ran away.”

  “What can I tell you? She’s an ungrateful bitch.”

  “But you’ll show her.”

  “Damn right I will. Soon as she gets here.”

  “When will that be?”

  He looks at his watch. “An hour, maybe less. The coincidence is, I got all worked up, all ready for her, then you stiffed me. I go into my office, mad as hell, and notice a package was delivered earlier today.”

  He motions to Doug. “Get me that container.”

  A moment later, Doug returns with a glass jar.

  Bobby says, “Put it on the coffee table.”

  Bobby and Jack stare at the jar until Bobby says, “You’re here now, and Jill’s on the way. Rest up, Jack. I’ve got plans for you, after I’m done with Jill.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  Bobby smiles a thin-lipped smile. “Oh, it will be!”

  “That’s what counts,” Jack says, though his posturing sounds hollow, even to him.

  Bobby stares closely at Jack’s face while saying, “I’ll apologize in advance for Jill’s screams.”

  “Quite all right,” Jack says. “I’ve been driving all night. I’m sure I’ll sleep right through it. Have fun and forget I’m here.”

  “We’ll do that,” Bobby says.

  He makes a gesture, and Jack is instantly flanked by Bronson and Doug.

  “I’ll plan on sleeping in tomorrow,” Bobby says. “If you get up before me, go to the kitchen and tell Tilly what you want. But don’t leave till we have a chance to settle up.”

  “I’m on foot,” Jack says. “You think one of your guys can drive me to the Baton Rouge airport tomorrow?”

  “Like I said, you got balls, kid. For now.”

  He looks at the goons. “Gentlemen? Please escort Mr. Tallow to his quarters.”

  Jack stands, follows Bronson out the room, with Doug close behind.

  The shrieking starts thirty minutes after Jack enters his room.

  Three screams, female voice. Then it stops.

  He rushes to the door, tries to get out, but it’s locked. He bangs it with his fist.

  From the other side, Bronson yells, “What’s up, Jack?”

  “I’d like the door unlocked,” Jack says.

  “I’d like a bigger dick,” Bronson says. “What would you like, Doug?”

  “A smaller one.”

  “Funny,” Bronson says.

  Jack says, “What if there’s a fire in the middle of the night?”

  “We’ll put it out. You should feel very secure having two guards outside your door all night.”

  “You’re saying I’m a prisoner here? Is that how you want to play this?”

  “You’re our guest,” Doug says. “It’s our job to keep you safe till Mr. Dee says you can go.”

  “What if Mr. Dee tells you to fuck each other?”

  “We’ll let you watch.”

  “I heard screams.”

  “That was Mrs. Dee. I patched sound into your room. Mr. Dee wanted you to hear the beating he’s giving Mrs. Dee tonight.”

  “Sounds like family business to me,” Jack says. “I’d rather have a sandwich, maybe a glass of water. Can we visit the kitchen, let me make a snack? I haven’t eaten since noon.”

  “You’ve got a well-stocked bar and refrigerator in the little hallway between the bedroom and bath. I’ll put the sound on while you eat. When you’re ready to sleep, knock on the door, and I’ll shut the sound off.”

  Jack hears a small click, looks up, notices speakers in the ceiling. If his room’s wired for sound, he’s probably being filmed. He goes to the refrigerator, checks the contents, wonders if the food or water is spiked. He doubts it.

  The scream sounded like Jill’s voice, but it could’ve been anyone. Jack says a silent prayer that Bobby’s bluffing, trying to get him to react one way or the other, as he gauges how guilty Jack is.

  Which makes Jack that much more determined not to tip his hand.

  As long as he can believe the scream didn’t come from Jill, he’ll be able to maintain his cool. Eating’s the last thing on Jack’s mind, but for the benefit of the cameras, assuming there are some, he grabs a sandwich and a bottle of beer, takes them to the bed, sits and eats.

  Then he hears Jill begging Bobby not to hit her.

  Jack’s heart sinks. It’s definitely Jill.

  And she sounds desperate.

  He throws the sandwich and beer against the wall and screams her name.

  Jill shrieks, “I swear to God! There’s no one else! I’ve been faithful!”

  Bobby shouts, “You ran off! You fucking ran off!”

  The sounds of Bobby’s brutality are unmistakable. It’s a sound Jack has heard all his life.

  Fists hitting flesh.

  Jill’s sobbing. Begging. But Bobby’s relentless. He hits her. Hits her again, harder. Her body slams into a wall. She cries out in pain. There are short pauses, punctuated by sharp slapping sounds, and Jill’s screams.

  For ten minutes it continues.

  Finally, there’s another sickening smack, another crash against the wall, and the crying stops.

  Two minutes later, Jack hears Jill whimpering like a child.

  “Please!” she says. “Please don’t.”

  Bobby’s grunting, not speaking.

  Jack can’t guess the details of how it’s going down, but based on the sound alone, it’s clear Bobby’s raping her. As if he needs further clarification, he hears Bronson and Doug cheering.

  Bronson yells, “Give it to her, Mr. Dee!”

  Doug hollers, “Take it, bitch! Take it all!”

  Bronson says, “You hear that? That’s anal! I guarantee you, he’s giving her anal! God, I wish it was me!”

  “You wish Mr. Dee would give you anal?” Doug says.

  “Funny,” Bronson says.

  “I think so,” Doug says. “But I wonder if Jack does.”

  The grunting continues. Between each grunt, Jack can hear Jill’s cries of pain.

  Tomorrow I’m going to kill them, Jack says to himself. I’m going to kill them all.

  “Jack, you look terrible!” Bobby says, with a mocking tone. “Did you not sleep at all?”

  It’s ten a.m. They’re sitting at Bobby’s kitchen table. Tilly the cook has prepared an assortment of food for their breakfast. Under different circumstances, Jack would be all over the biscuits and sausage gravy.

  Bobby’s kitchen has three doorways. One leads to the dining room, one to the butler’s pantry and bar area. The third leads to a hallway with a bathroom, laundry room, and an exit. Three goons are guarding the doorways, and none of them are Doug and Bronson.

  Bobby’s right. Jack didn’t sleep last night, didn’t even attempt it. Jill’s beating was horrific, endless, and featured distinct rounds, like a boxing match. Round
one? Verbal abuse. Round two? Physical assault. Round three? Sexual assault. Round four? A quiet period, where the sound was turned off. Rounds five through eight? Repeat. Rounds nine through twelve? Repeat.

  Bad as the beatings were, and the sexual assaults, the quiet times were even worse. When the sound went dead, he prayed to hear her scream again, knowing that even though she was in pain, at least she was still alive.

  As long as Jill was alive, there was hope.

  But that was then, and this is now, and Bobby’s gloating.

  Jack’s face is impassive, but only one thing is preventing him from leaping across the table and strangling his host to death.

  He’s tied to his chair.

  A rope binds his feet and ankles to the chair legs. Another rope binds his lap to the seat. Another binds his stomach and chest to the chair back. Another binds his right hand to the chair arm. Only his left hand remains unbound, so he can eat.

  The idea being, if he decides to throw something at Bobby, his left hand won’t be as accurate. Of course, Bobby’s hedged the bet by removing all metal utensils, the salt and pepper shakers, the gravy bowl, and the china from Jack’s limited field of reach. If Jack’s going to throw something, his options are limited to a plastic fork, a paper plate, and whatever food he can grab.

  “I didn’t get much sleep either,” Bobby says, holding his hands up so Jack can see they’ve been taped. He adds, “It’s not as easy as you think, beating a defenseless woman all night. Really bruises the fists and hands.”

  “I know she fought back,” Jack says.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, sport, but she wasn’t as feisty as you’d like to think. She cried, begged, and accepted most of the beating in a fetal position. Of course, I stretched her out time and again, to inflict the maximum pain possible. I pounded every inch of her body with my fists.”

  “You’re a sick bastard. I wish I’d killed her yesterday, to spare her the pain and humiliation.”

  “I don’t blame you for feeling guilty, Jack. You let her down, no doubt about it.”

  Bobby puts some biscuits on his plate, splits them in half, ladles gravy over them, grabs some bacon, fried potatoes, and onions.

  “You should eat,” he says. “Want me to call Tilly in? Have her prepare a plate of food for you?”

  “I don’t eat with psychopaths.”