by Glenn Trust
“Time to wake up, hon,” he said gently, almost tenderly.
“Fine. Get off me.”
Annoyance on her face and something else in her eyes, Luther wondered what it meant.
“Not just yet.” He pushed his body harder down onto her. Naked, she felt the hardness between his legs rising and throbbing against her. “Thought we could take up where we left off.”
Pushing a knee between her legs, he forced them apart. She tried to raise her arms, but they were pinned to the mattress, his hands squeezing until there was no feeling left in them.
“Stop! Not like this!”
“Stop?” He smiled. “I will stop, hon, when we’re done. When I’m done.”
Grunting, he did what he wanted roughly, painfully. Each thrust, hard and ferocious, resulted in burning, tearing pain.
It took no more than two minutes, an eternity. With a final grunt, he collapsed on top of her, forcing the air out of her lungs. She thought she would suffocate and then he sat up, straddling her waist.
Angry, her hand flew up again, catching him on the side of the face. Staring into her eyes, his hands closed around her throat, ignoring the feeble blows she struck against his arms and side. The look he had not understood was in her eyes again. Now he saw it plainly. Disgust.
“So, you don’t mind fucking. Just not when I want, how I want. Just not me.” The hands around her throat tightened perceptibly.
Her eyes opened wide, staring. She could not speak.
“I’m not good enough for you, huh. Too dirty, too smelly too what…” He stared back into those eyes that were dimming now. “Don’t matter. You’ll get used to it…to me.” He relaxed his hands and moved off of her.
Sitting on the side of the bed, he watched. Her chest heaved, struggling to suck oxygen into her starved lungs. He reached a hand out, laying it gently on her stomach.
“Breathe. You’ll be fine.” The softness of his voice made him seem almost tender. The change was more frightening than if he had screamed at her.
She had experienced his brutality. The incongruity of his tone now was confusing. She brought her eyes up to meet his; they were wide open, the fear lingering. It was what he had intended.
“Let me explain how this is going to work,” Luther said. “You wanted to be partners, so now we are.” His eyes narrowed, looking down at her on the bed. “For now. But if you want to stay partners, we’re going to share, everything.” He smiled, showing his white teeth. “You know what I did to those two at the store in Kansas and the old man.”
He waited until she nodded.
“That’s’ what I do,” he said with a shrug. “That’s what I do when I have to. If I don’t have to then…well, you should make sure I don’t have to. You understand how things are going to be between us…partner?” He said the last word with a sneer, mocking her childish attempt to have him accept her on equal terms.
He stood up. “Get up. You’re going to go to the bathroom and clean up. There is no window so don’t even think about trying to get away. You have ten minutes. Then we are going to take a ride again. Understand?”
Lauren nodded.
“Good,” Luther said. He reached out and stroked the side of her face with a rough hand. “You know, this partner thing could work out.” He shook his head slowly from side to side. “Just don’t do anything to ruin it. If you run, try to get away, try to warn someone or call for help, I will hurt you.” His head motioned at the big knife sitting on the dresser. “I’ll gut you and hurt you worse than anything you could even imagine. Do you believe that?”
She nodded again, waiting for his permission to do anything else.
“Good. Now get up and get ready for the day, hon.” The frightening tenderness was back in his voice.
Swinging her legs off the bed, she stood unsteadily and walked towards the bathroom. He gave her a playful pat on the bottom as if they were a married couple on vacation. Turning away, he started dressing.
In the bathroom, Lauren looked into the mirror and saw the dark purple marks on her wrists where he had held her and the red line around her neck from his hands tightening on her throat. All right girl. Toughen up. Get through this. You’ve been in tough spots before. You’ll get through this one.
Running into this asshole was just bad luck. Stay alive. That was the thing. Alive you have a chance to escape. Do what you have to do until that chance comes. She splashed cold water on her face and told herself forcefully, you will. You will stay alive.
“Clean up! And be quick about it!” Luther said sharply from just outside the door.
Lauren turned the water on in the shower, as hot as she could stand it and stood under it for five minutes. Then washing and rinsing quickly, she walked out into the motel room, drying her hair on a towel.
Luther smiled, looking at her body, legs, thighs, hips, breasts. He had to admit, in some ways, she made a helluva partner.
21. A Trail of Dust
The Iowa State Patrol car sat alone in the gravel parking lot of an old church off I-29. Listening to the police radio, scanning the Iowa Patrol and local county frequencies, Paul Sorensen tried to put thoughts of the night before and the boy in the ditch out of his mind.
Sunlight poured in through the windshield warming the interior while the crisp morning air chilled his left arm resting on the open window frame. The pleasant contrast held his attention. He focused on that and nothing else.
Another car pulled off the road into the church lot, rolling up beside Paul's in a cloud of dust. Paul turned his head away letting the dust settle.
The car parked so that the two driver's windows lined up opposite each other. A grinning Stan Knudsen held a cup of coffee out across the twelve-inch space between the two cars.
“How ya doing, Sarge?”
Stan Knudsen's academy class graduated three years behind Paul's. Big, solid, reliable, a friend to all, most of all, Knudsen was Paul's friend. He reached for the coffee and grinned back.
“Okay, Stan. How about yourself?”
“Oh yah, just great, you betcha,” he said in his best Minnesota accent.
Paul chuckled and sipped the hot coffee. The Swede's voice and seeing his smile made things better.
They performed the morning ritual. Most cops do something similar. The location might be a shopping center, a back alley or a shady tree on a country road. The place is not important.
The talk might be about work, cases, department gossip, or plans for the next fishing trip. Mostly the time drinking morning, or evening, coffee provided a way to bring a sense of normalcy to a job that dealt with the abnormal.
“So, how'd it go last night?” Stan asked.
“Rough.”
“Yeah,” Stan said nodding and sipping the hot coffee.
There wasn't anything else to say.
Paul changed the subject. “Where you gonna be working today?”
As the sergeant, he could give Stan direction and tell him where to patrol, but as a leader, he let Stan tell him. A seasoned trooper, he would be in the right place.
“Work north up I-29 towards Sioux City,” Stan replied.
“We still have the BOLO on the car from Kansas...the old Toyota.”
“Yep. Right here.” Stan patted the clipboard by his side. “Don't think there's much chance of running across it.”
Paul grunted in agreement.
They sipped their coffee for a few more minutes, enjoying the morning and the quiet. Finally, Paul put his car in gear and said, “Well, guess I'll head back out on the road. Gonna stay around here most of the day.”
Stan took the cue, poured the rest of his coffee out the window and said, “Sounds like a plan. Take care, Sarge. Catch you later.”
They pulled away from each other and circled, racing each other back to the entrance to the church lot. A trail of dust hung in the air, settling gradually back to the earth behind them.
22. Breakfast on the Road
Two cheese and egg biscuits sat on the ben
ch seat beside him, half unwrapped for easy access as he drove. Barry balanced a large black coffee between his legs. The old truck lacked a cup holder. He loved breakfast on the road, seasoned by the adventure, the excitement of movement and new sights.
Leaving the Chopra family's Seven-Up Inne, he pulled into a local convenience store and gas station across the street. A full tank, some biscuits, and coffee, and he rolled down the entrance ramp to the interstate.
The biscuits were thick and delicious, with real fried eggs, dripping melted cheese and wrapped in wax paper, not some cardboard or plastic container. Homemade and packaged locally, Barry figured by the elderly lady behind the counter.
He took a massive bite from one of the biscuits, savoring the salty butter flavor mixed with the melted cheese and fried egg. He put the sandwich down on the wax paper and washed the mouthful down with a gulp of the strong black coffee. The combination resulted in an exquisite blend of tastes and textures.
Everything about this day filled him with pleasure. The sun, the deep blue sky, the fresh air, water reflecting off the grass, the biscuits and coffee. The elements of living blended in exquisite perfection.
Something changed in him, or, something changed for him. He didn't know what exactly, and he didn't want to analyze it too closely for fear of losing it. More than contentment, he utterly accepted...everything.
He shook his head. Stop. Don't analyze...enjoy...accept. He had crossed a bridge. No need to burn it, but don't go backward. Move forward. That was the key, to maintain forward momentum.
Sounded like a football play, forward momentum, and the referee trying to decide where to place the ball. You're analyzing again, he warned himself.
He let his eyes wander along the endless fields straddling the highway. Some were rich with tall corn, others already harvested, the stalk stubble lying in rows on the bare ground.
The scent of the black earth mixed with the autumn air blew in through the open truck window. He breathed it in, immersing himself in its musk. He wanted to lie down in the fields, the way he did in the yard as a boy, blanketed by the fragrances of cut grass and honeysuckle sweetness.
He enjoyed the feeling so much that he took his foot off of the accelerator a little. No hurry. No worry. He took another bite of biscuit. He loved breakfast on the road.
23. Watch Old Bandit Run
Luther spread a roadmap out on the bed and sat on one of the room's plastic chairs to examine it. He leaned over, peering at it, tracing possible routes with his finger.
“Which way we headed?” Lauren said pulling her shirt over her bra. She smiled, pushing the earlier fear aside, reminding herself to be part of the plan, to be part of what happens.
She reminded herself that her survival depended on his recognition of her as a person, someone to be reckoned with and not just a victim. She had to exert her influence on what was happening.
“Shut up and get dressed.” His finger moved back and forth over the map, first one direction, then another.
“Fine, whatever,” she said, pulling her slacks on. “Thought we were going to work on things together, that's all.”
He looked up at her, his eyes trying to read what went on inside her brain. Was she playing him, planning something of her own, just trying to survive? He harbored no illusions about her motives. Luther knew that she would be his partner only as long as it kept her alive.
“Okay, partner.” The sneer was back. “Which way do you think we should go?”
She shrugged. “East I think. Take I-80 east to Omaha.”
He shook his head, snickering, and said, “East. Yeah, east if you want my ass dead or in jail by tonight.” His eyes hardened. “That what you want, girl? Me dead or in jail?”
The dingy motel Luther picked sat at a country crossroads near the interstate in the middle of Nebraska. East would take them to Omaha and then across into Council Bluffs, Iowa, all the way to Teaneck, New Jersey if they wanted.
An easterly direction held something else...people, lots of people, and lots of police. West would take them to Colorado, across southern Wyoming, into Utah, across Nevada to California and San Francisco. California's dense population meant that the law enforcement presence was also dense, but in between Nebraska and the Golden State, open spaces dominated.
“No, I don't want either of us dead, or in jail. You don't want my opinion, fine. I'll sit here, shut up and wait for more orders.” She plopped down on the other side of the bed and crossed her legs, waiting.
“Okay, fine. Why east? Say something or shut up.”
“There's more people east. We can blend in, disappear better. Out on I-80 going across Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, that old car is gonna stand out. If they're looking for the Toyota, it'll be pretty easy to spot.”
It took a few seconds, but the scowl on his face changed into a grin. “You know, that's about the first smart thing you've said. Makes sense.” The grin broadened. “You might have earned yourself a little extra special attention tonight.”
Great, she thought but kept any expression from her face. She sat looking into Luther's eyes, trying hard to establish herself as an equal, as a person that he needed for more than a fuck when he felt like it.
She harbored no illusions about that. There were plenty of other girls to fuck, and some would be happy to have the thrill of being fucked by an outlaw. Her survival required more than that.
“What's your decision?” Give him respect, but be part of the team. “East or west?”
He grabbed the map and balled it up. “Let's go.”
Half an hour later, the old Toyota cruised eastbound on I-80. He whistled again, an old Jerry Reed song. She recognized this one.
'Eastbound and down, loaded up and truckin', we gonna do what they say can't be done. We've got a long way to go, and a short time to get there, I'm eastbound, just watch old Bandit run.'
24. Guilt
The aroma of a late hay cutting drifted in through the open window, filling the patrol car. Paul Sorensen took a deep breath, savoring the rich fragrance. He was at home amidst the cornfields and rolling hills of rural Iowa.
A quarter mile away, across the black dirt rows, a farmer on an old Massey-Ferguson tractor disked a field. Dust rolled out from under the round steel blades, dissipating in the morning breeze.
Paul settled into his seat awash with contentment. This country was where he grew up, a place of eternal cycles. Planting, harvest, wind, rain, snow, summer heat and winter cold.
The only difference now, the interstates crossing through the thick, green fields. Fifty years ago, these hills and fields were barely out of the horse-drawn plow age. Today's cars and trucks whizzing through at seventy miles an hour would have befuddled the farmers and mules that worked the land for a century before them.
Befuddled, he thought, smiling. Now there's a word suited for old time farmers.
He moved to the left of a minivan on the interstate, glancing to his right as he passed. A young boy with his face pushed against the window stared at him. His heart almost jumped from his chest to his throat. Round face, tousled hair, wide staring eyes. It could have been the boy in the ditch from last night.
The boy in the van grinned and waved. Paul raised his hand in return and continued around the van.
The feeling of contentment evaporated. The two little boys might have been friends had they known each other. One made a face at him through the window of the family van. The other lay covered by a sheet in a hospital morgue in Des Moines.
Another emotion came over him. Guilt. Guilt for not having been able to do something for the little boy in the ditch. Guilt, because since last night he thought to himself a thousand times he was glad the other little boy lay in the ditch and not his son, Danny. Guilt about summed things up.
He accelerated past the minivan. He surged ahead not looking at the faces in the cars he passed.
25. Respect
Her right wrist stung. The belt he had used to secure her to the seat frame the day
before had cut into her skin and had rubbed a raw spot that burned. His rough treatment that morning in bed had aggravated the pain.
She sat with her head leaning on the passenger window. The glass was streaked with dust. She found that, if she focused on the dust spots, everything else blurred and eventually faded so that all she saw was the pattern of the dust up close at the end of her nose and all she heard was the rush of the wind on the other side of the window.
He put his hand on her thigh. Lauren ignored it and focused on the dust streaks. His hand moved up higher, between her legs. Her body stiffened.
“Hey, hon. You ignoring me?”
She tried harder to focus on the dust streaks and the sound of the wind. In fact, she was trying as hard as possible to ignore him.
“Oh, hon,” he said in a taunting, lilting voice.
Pushing his hand away, she turned towards him. “Why don’t you just pay attention to your driving? Last thing we need is to get stopped for grabassing in the car.”
Faster than she could react, his hand arced upwards and backhanded her across the face leaving a bright red print on her cheek. Holding her hand to her lip, she dabbed it gently and then looked at the blood on her fingertips.
“You asshole.”
The hand moved with lightning speed again. She had expected it this time and was able to jerk her head back enough so that the slap was only a glancing blow.
“You got a nasty mouth, girl. You better mind your tongue and your manners.” He ran his fingertips over her face. “I’m afraid that’s gonna leave a mark.” He poked a finger into the side of her face. “How about a little goddamned respect for your partner.”
Respect. That’s what she was fighting for. Without it, she was not going to stay alive. He couldn’t just use her and throw her away when he was tired of their game. She had to be someone, a person, to him. If she had to take a few slaps, and be knocked around some to earn respect, so be it. She’d been through worse.