"Come with me a minute," Officer Lansing said. He led Frank through the office to a desk where a young officer with a crew cut was at a desk in front of a computer. "Can I borrow your computer for a moment, Doug?"
"Sure" Doug moved aside, and Officer Lansing sat behind the terminal.
'In my right-hand drawer there is an arrest file on a citizen's arrest by a Mr. Caleb Smith. Can you pull that for me?"
Doug retrieved the file and Officer Lansing flipped through it. He entered Mr. Smith's name and address in the system, hit a key, then waited. A moment later, a message appeared on the screen: NO MATCHING RECORDS FOUND.
'Shit' Officer Lansing retyped the information as Frank peered over his shoulder at the screen. The query returned the same message.
Officer Lansing turned to Frank.'"Ihis system hooks up with the DMV's central database. I should have gotten Mr. Smith's DMV record, which would have included any outstanding warrants or other records, but there's nothing."
Frank looked at Officer Lansing. "You saying this guy gave you a false address?"
"1'm not saying anything yet." Officer Lansing handed the file to Doug. "Run a complete check on Mr. Caleb Smith, then run a DMV check on his vehicle. When you're done, bring the printouts to me. I'll be in Ken's office." He rose from the desk and began heading toward an office at the rear of the building. "I'll have to get back to you, Mr. Miller. Will you have a seat in the waiting room for me?"
That had been the longest wait in Frank's life. When Officer Lansing came back, he was accompanied by a lieutenant. The lieutenant appeared to be his age, with salt-and-pepper hair and ruddy features. "We're sending a pair of detectives to the Days Inn now, and another to talk to your son!
Flank had risen to his feet. "Does this mean you can let him go?"
For the first time, he realized that Officer Lansing looked embarrassed. Lieutenant Young gave Officer Lansing a cursory glance, then looked back at Frank.'Un- fortunately, because your son was placed under citizen's arrest in pursuant of a felony, we can't release him until Monday morning."
"Christ!" Frank ran a hand through his thinning hair.
"We're doing everything we can to find Lisa," Lieutenant Young said, trying to muster a positive smile. "We'll find her. Don't worry."
Frank relayed all this to his son that afternoon, trying to break the news as gently as possible. Brad could only listen with a growing sense of dread; he didn't know how, but somehow Mr. Smith had something to do with this. He could feel it in his gut.
Brad's parents stayed with him at the jail until five PM. By then a search had been conducted at the motel room, and no signs of foul play had been found. Officer Lansing had remained at the station to ferry the news back to the Millers and comb through the files for any information on Mr. Smith. He broke the news shortly before five o'clock. "Something happened to her," Brad said, his voice threatening to break. "Find this Mr. Smith guy and-"
"We're working on it," Lieutenant Young said. "Believe me, we want to find this guy ourselves."
"What's his story?" Frank asked. "Did you run his license plate? Was that fake too?"
Officer Lansing looked grim. Me DMV check we ran on his plate came up reported stolen six months ago. The plates belonged to a Chevy Suburban in San Diego. I didn't get a PIN number on Mr. Smith's vehicle at the time of your arrest because… well.. "
"I was the criminal yesterday, not him," Brad said, feeling the cloud of anger return.
Officer Lansing ignored the comment. "Every check we've done through the DMV has resulted in a dead end. I've got a sketch artist coming up with a composite now, and we'll put that over the bulletin by this evening. Don't worry, we'll catch him!
"What do we do till then?" Brad asked. His eyes were bloodshot and he was exhausted.
Officer Lansing sighed. His face had an empty, haunted look. 'There's only two things we can do. Wait and pray."
Eight
The sound of a car engine pulling up in the driveway woke her up.
Lisa snapped out of a light sleep, her senses alert. She heard the slam of a door and then footsteps. The sound of a door opening and then a rattling sound. Her heartbeat quickened. He's back, and this time he's with those other guys, thatAnimal and whoever else, and then they're going to start. They're going to rape me and kill me and my baby and film it and-
The footsteps sounded across the gravelly driveway and up the front walk of the cabin. She held her breath as a key was inserted in the lock of the front door, and then the door was opened and the footsteps were clicking across the hardwood floor of the cabin. "Hello?" Her heart leaped in her throat, because at first she didn't recognize the voice. Then the man said "Hello" again and recognition flooded in: It was Mr. Smith. - —
He walked into the bedroom bearing something in his arms. He bent down and set it on the floor with a clanking of metal and stood up, smiling. "How are you this fine morning?*
Lisa opened her mouth to answer, but all that came out was a dry hiss. Her throat was dry. Mr. Smith nodded. "Want some water?"
Lisa nodded. "Yes," she rasped.
"Coming right up." Mr. Smith disappeared into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a glass of water. He held the glass to her lips while Lisa sipped at it slowly. "Better?"
Lisa nodded. "Yeah "
"Good" Mr. Smith glanced down at the mattress. "I see you couldn't hold it last night."
Lisa felt the tears spring to her eyes again. The pain in her bladder had grown unbearable by late last night and she had been forced to void it. The smell and dampness that had spread under her buttocks and settled into the mattress had kept her awake the rest of the night.
"Don't worry. There's a spare mattress in the next bedroom that fits this bed frame just fine. We'll replace it. And you won't have to worry about making wee-wee in the bed anymore. I've found a solution to your problems." He picked up the thing that had made the metallic clanking sound, holding it up for her to see. It was a piece of chain.
Lisa started to cry.
Mr. Smith ignored her as he went about his work. First he attached a device on the windowsill, screwing it on with heavy-duty screws; it looked like a pulley. Then he payed out the heavy line it was attached to and fastened a metal ring to it. A piece of short, heavy chain was attached to that, and another device was attached to that. Then he drew out two pairs of handcuffs, one which he attached to her wrists, the other to her ankles. He attached a piece of chain to the thin but sturdy chain of the handcuff and ran that length of chain to the heavy pulley on the larger chain. He did the same thing to the hand cuffs attached to her ankles. When he was finished, he untied the rope that secured her ankles and wrists to the bedposts. Lisa was barely aware of what Mr. Smith was doing; she lay on the bed crying uncontrollably, hysterical in her fear.
Mr. Smith tested the strength of the chain by tugging on it. Lisa felt a sharp bite of steel in her wrists and ankles and stopped crying. Mr. Smith smiled. "There. Why don't I help you stand up now"
He helped Lisa sit up by moving her shoulders and upper body into a sitting position on the mattress. Then he helped her move her legs over the side of the bed. "Stand up now and let's see you walk." She did so, and Mr. Smith kept a close watch on her, grinning and nodding. Lisa's cries had reduced to sniffles, and she walked around the room, testing the new contraption that would keep her prisoner in this room. The shackles around her ankles were barely a foot apart and forced her to shamble along like a prison inmate. She stumbled as she tested the limits of it. Mr. Smith reached out to help her up. "Whoa, watch out there! I can't lengthen the chain on the cuffs down there. Wouldn't want you trying to kick me or Animal." "
Lisa glared at Mr. Smith but said nothing. "How far can I move in this thing?"
*Let's head to the bathroom and find out" He held his arm out, as if escorting her like a gentleman. He led her to a door she had barely noticed before that was set against the wall. He opened the door, and she saw that it was a small bathroom, complete with a tu
b and a sink. Lisa walked into the bathroom. "Can you sit down at the john? Let's try it"
Lisa turned around and sat her naked buttocks on the lid of the toilet. The payout of the line attached to the pulley grew taut. Mr. Smith smiled. "Wonderful! Just like I thought. You have enough line to reach the toilet, which means you probably have four feet beyond the bedroom door and that's it. I'll board up the window to keep you from smashing it and trying to escape, but then I've got you pretty well trussed up"
Lisa looked at Mr. Smith, feeling defeated and beaten. She had been doing some thinking last night and resolved herself to not even try to plead with him. He had told her last night that it wasn't personal, he was only doing this for the money. He had picked her up because she was what his unknown clients were looking for to be the star of a snuff film. She had been thinking about that last night, and while the implications of what was going to happen to her were petrifying, she had a thousand questions to ask him. She had been debating on whether to try to draw him into some sort of conversation. Part of her felt that she needed the human contact of conversation to keep from going crazy, while another part of her held the dim hope that perhaps if she evoked enough compassion in him, Mr, Smith would let her go. She seriously doubted that, but it was worth a try.
"How did you get into what you're doing?" She asked him, her voice submissive but not pleading. "You know… the whole snuff film thing." "-
Mr. Smith shrugged as he worked at the window. He had gone into the living room and come back with several five-by-twelve pieces of wood, which he proceeded to erect across the window and nail to the wall, boarding it up. "I never really got into it. It's just something I do for money."
*But you had to fall into it somehow."
Mr. Smith turned to her. "Why do you want to know?"
Lisa shrugged. "I figure as long as I'm going to… you know.-.. I might as well know more about it!
Mr. Smith turned back to the window and continued boarding it up. "I admire that. You'd rather face up to things than run away from them. I like that." "
Except for the pounding of nails as Mr. Smith boarded up the window, there was silence for a moment.
*1 was a producer for a while," he said, finishing up the window. "I produced a lot of hardcore porn back in the seventies. That's how I met Al, one of the guys you'll meet later. He's a director. He shot a bunch of films for me. I specialized in a lot of extreme hardcore S&M and bizarre shit-golden showers, fisting, bestiality, blood sports, scat films, rape films, a lot of kiddie porn-you name it. I had an audience that ate that shit up"
Lisa listened, feeling disgusted with Mr. Smith. He looked, acted, and sounded like the stereotypical pervert. Middle-aged, balding, overweight, glasses, small beady eyes. It was easy to picture him sitting his girth on a director's chair, pulling his pants down, and telling the naive teenage giggleboxes who came to Hollywood with dreams in their eyes that, sure they could have a part in his film, but first they had to get down on their knees and show him how much they appreciated him.
"So how did you come to be a part of making snuff films?' Lisa asked, hiding her revulsion.
Mr. Smith was finished boarding up the window. "I don't do just snuff films. I do a lot of stuff on commission. Al and 1, we do a lot of extreme hardcore S&M shit. And I ain't talking your everyday, run-of- he-mill slap-andspanking shit that bored yuppies and trendy goths are into, either. All that rope bondage and whips and chains shit that people are into? Forget that. You can get crap like that at your neighborhood video store. The stuff I'm talking about that Al and I deal in is extreme, sick shit. Most of it is near-death stuff: mutilation, a lot of asphyxiation. Al's tapped into the extreme hardcore community real well. Some of the people he shoots for privately, they're into this kind of shit. Whenever we get a job, he comes to me and I… well, I sort of comb through the girls I know of that would fit perfectly."
"What kind are those?"
Mr. Smith looked at her. "Not like you, that's for sure."
"Why's that?"
"You're not like them, that's why. You got a life. A career. You're a lawyer, right?"
Lisa nodded.
"The chicks I usually get for extreme hardcore films and snuff films," Mr. Smith said, regarding her calmly, "they've got nowhere to go but down. Sometimes we get a request for a guy, and they're just as easy to get because they fall into the same shit. Most of them are hardcore druggies; runaways, hookers, people that aren't immune to turning some pretty sick tricks, you know what I mean? I find them, take them out, buy them clothes, show them some money, they fall all over me. Turn them on to a bit of blow or smack-most of them are already fucked up on drugs anyway-and they'll keep coming back for more. Once they get a taste for a shitload of money and free drugs, they'll do anything. They'll even come back for more. Shit, some of them are so fucked up when we use them for an extreme hardcore film, they actually like it! Can you imagine that? Getting off on somebody cutting your tits or burning you with cigarettes? Well, some of them get off on it, and those are the ones we use for the films. Like I said, they got nowhere to go but down, and they don't give a shit what happens to themselves anyway. Shit, most of them are too fucked up to care. And most of them have the same sob story to tell: Daddy abused them, or they ran away from a shitty home life or some other shit. It don't matter where they come from as long as they're on the way down. Long as they been on the street for a while and they got nowhere to go, no mommy and daddy to go to, no boyfriend or husband that will give a shit about them, they're the ones we use. Long as nobody misses them, that's all that matters.' '
Lisa was disgusted, but she tried not to let it show. "So why me?"
*1 told you. The guys that commissioned this film, they got tired of watching a bunch of junkie cunts being raped and sliced up. To tell you the truth, a lot of those chicks get so fucked-up-looking they look real skanky by the time we use them. The clients wanted something fresh. Shit, they woulda used a bitch like that Britney Spears chick or Heather Locklear if they could get away with it. They wanted somebody that was pretty and healthylooking, somebody that didn't look like they had been shooting dope for the past five years, or who had too many fucking scars on their bodies from S&M mutilation " or size-fourteen assholes from too many fisting sessions."
So in other words, I'm nothing to them and to you. Lisa thought, digesting the information slowly. If she had heard this yesterday, she would have gone into hysterics. Now she merely processed the information and shifted gears. "I'll be missed, though," she said. "My husband… my parents, our friends. I'm not just some nobody. People will want to know what happened to me."
Waybe." Mr. Smith shrugged and headed toward the entrance to the bedroom. "But who gives a shit? What matters is that nobody will know afterward. That cop that pulled you over yesterday? He's got nothing on me. And when this is all over, this here," he pointed to his scruffy beard, "gets shaved off and I wear my contact lenses for a while. Maybe lose a few pounds. Trust me, we had this planned for a while. The van I used last night is already in Mexico, the driver's license I used was fake. In short, the cops got nothing on me. And this place?" He swept his hands around the cabin. "It's so far off the beaten track nobody will know anything. Nearest neighbor is a mile away, and-"
"Nobody will hear me if I scream," Lisa finished.
if they do, they'll think it's just the coyotes howling at the moon." Mr. Smith grinned. And besides, you'll be too fucked up to do any screaming. The shit Al will shoot you up with… you'll be conscious, but you won't be able to scream."
Lisa was silent. Mr. Smith watched her for a moment, then bent down to pick up his toolbox., He started heading outside.
"What about the people who are into this?" she asked. Mr. Smith stopped at the doorway and looked back at her. "The people that… pay to watch. I mean…" She gestured vaguely. "What kind of people are into this? Why? Why do they do it?"
Mr. Smith appeared to ponder the question before he answered. "More than fifty percent of the
people that watch snuff films are weak, inadequate, high-profile people with high-profile jobs, mostly people in the business community: corporate executives and CEOs, bankers, people like that. Some of them are high-priced lawyers. The others are participants in the extreme hardcore scene just looking for something they haven't seen or done. As to why they do it.. " He paused, stroking his chin. "It's a power trip," he said, looking directly at her. "It's a rush for them. It gets them off. Extreme hardcore and snuff isn't just about sex. It's about owning someone, making them beg for mercy, deciding whether or not they're going to give it. It is the ultimate power over someone. When the… people who are into this kind of stuff… when they watch a snuff film, they like to imagine what it's like… what the killer feels. They like to pretend they're him, doing the things he's doing. They get a tremendous sense of power, knowing they orchestrated the torture and death of another human being."
The thought terrified her, but she tried not to show it. "What about the guy that will be doing it… the Animal? — Why does he do it?*
Mr. Smith grinned. `1 guess you'll have to ask him." He turned and left the room.
Lisa sat on the bed, all hope draining away. She had no idea what time it was now. There was no clock in the bedroom, and the sun had been up for how long? Two hours? Three? All sense of time was a blur. She had barely slept last night, especially after being forced to pee on the mattress she slept on. She had started crying after soiling her mattress, and the next thing she remembered, the sun was coming up. She supposed it could be anywhere between eight and eleven o'clock in the morning by now.
Her bladder felt full again and she stood up, walked into the bathroom, lifted the toilet lid, and sat down. She peed, then flushed the toilet. The urge to wipe came, but then she thought, why should 1? Mr. Smith was bringing the Animal to rape and kill her anyway. Why clean up for him? She stood up and moved to the sink, sobbing quietly as she washed her hands. Even though she had just found out she was pregnant, she was already picturing what her and Brad's baby would look like. And now it was all going to be snuffed out. She took a deep breath and hung her head over the sink, trying to calm herself down. When her sobs trickled down, she looked in the mirror at her reflection. There were large, dark circles under her eyes, the whites red. Despite not sleeping much last night, and everything else she had gone through, she didn't look that bad.
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