by Chris Rogers
Picking his way carefully, he headed for the single bright path lit by the headlights. Above the drumming of the rain, a sound like someone coughing cut through the darkness.
He paused, listening.
“Who’s there?”
Probably a dog. The woman next door had three dachshunds, creepy, big-eyed, wimpy dogs, never barked. He thought she’d carved out their voice boxes until one day he heard one of them growl at a bird. Not loud, just a rumbling deep in its throat.
He moved toward the light again. That’s probably what he’d heard, one of those wimpy dogs—
Shit! What the—
His feet whipped out from under him. He grabbed hold of the Jaguar’s side mirror to keep from sliding facedown in the water—
“Uh!” Something—felt like a goddamn baseball bat-struck his head and this time he did fall. Water splashed over his mouth and nose. A figure standing over him grabbed his arms as he tried to push himself upright. Goddammit! Was he going to drown right here in three inches of water?
There, sitting up now, that was better. Hands behind his back, though—
“Wait a goddamn minute!” Something rough like burlap slid over his head, smelling of sawdust. “What the goddamn hell’s going on—Uhh!”
He was jerked to his feet, wrists yanked high behind his back, wrenching his arm and shoulder muscles as the cord tying his hands was looped around his neck, forcing him to keep his wrists high or strangle. Incredibly, he heard the whir of the garage door sliding open. It was working now?
Someone pushed him—stumbling—down the driveway.
He bumped against the Jaguar, felt it move. Must be two of them, then, one driving it. Couple of do-gooders, riled up by the trial verdict, planning to teach him a lesson. Well, he’d been taught by meaner fists than theirs. They better hope he didn’t get loose.
He heard a car door open, and he was shoved inside. Not the Jaguar, a backseat. Down on the floorboard, knees bent under him. The burlap bag scraped his face where it slid on the floor, and his head hurt where they’d hit him, the dizziness a red haze behind his eyes. A warm droplet trickled a path down his collarbone. Water? Or blood? His head hurt like hell, like it might be cut.
Someone pushed in behind him. He heard the door slam, then a pair of feet planted themselves in the middle of his back, pinning him down. The front car door opened and slammed shut, and then they were moving.
“Couple of goddamn vigilantes, is that it?” he said thickly, raising his mouth off the floor. “Getting even for Regan? Let me tell you something, she liked it. She liked every goddamn min—umph!”
One foot had moved from his back to mash his face to the floor again. His nose and mouth inside the bag ground into the carpet. He couldn’t breathe. He humped and struggled, trying to squirm onto his side, but the relentless feet kept him pinned. Finally, he stopped struggling and lay still. After a minute or so, the pressure eased off and he could turn his face enough to breathe.
The car stopped. He heard the doors open and close, one, two, three—no that was the trunk—
And then he was yanked out of the car by his belt, shins knocked against the door frame. The rain was only a light mist now as they forced him to walk, hands jacked agonizingly toward his shoulder blades.
His foot struck what felt like a curb and he stumbled, but they yanked him up again, shoving him forward. Wet scrub brush grabbed at his shirt and pants. They walked on and on, his shoes thuck-thucking on the soggy ground. Traffic sounds grew muffled, distant.
They were taking him into the park—
“Uhh!” His middle struck something solid.
“Sorry, Larry.” A coarse whisper, close to his ear, deep and seductive through the burlap bag. “That’s a park bench. You know about park benches, don’t you, Larry?” A hand struck his back, knocking him forward.
He had done Regan Salles on a park bench, pale, goose-fleshed skin inviting against the dark wood. Not at Memorial Park, though, not that close to home ground. Left her tied there when he was finished.
“Regan, is that you, darlin? If you wanted more, why didn’t you tell me?”
The rope jerked tight, yanking his head back, cord biting into his throat, cutting off his air.
“This isn’t Regan, Larry. But I’m a friend of women like Regan everywhere. Women who trusted you, might even have loved you, given a chance.”
She—it was a she wasn’t it?—let the cord go abruptly.
It wasn’t Regan Salles. Nothing sexy about Regan’s voice, even her whisper would sound whiny. At the end she’d begged him, in that nasal whine, not to hurt her anymore.
Something hard and metallic pushed behind his collar at the back of his neck, scraping the skin. “Ow!” He snapped his head forward; the cord yanked tight across his throat.
“Got to get these clothes off you, Larry. Can’t have any fun with all these clothes in the way. You remember that part, don’t you?”
He felt his collar being half cut, half ripped. They should use a box razor, he thought uselessly as he gasped for air, a box razor sliced clean and fast. The cord slacked momentarily, and he sucked in a greedy breath through the dusty burlap.
Hands worked at the front of him, loosening his belt, jerking his pants down, while the whisperer cut away his coat and shirt, all the time murmuring in his ear.
“How does it feel, Larry? How does it feel to have your decency stripped away, to stand naked to the world?”
“Don’t you know, darlin’?” He tried to keep the fear out of his voice. “If I haven’t done you yet, I apologize for the oversight. I’ll make it up to you, first chance I get.”
“I don’t think you’ll be playing your clever games anymore, Larry.”
He was naked now, except for his shoes and socks, testicles small as acorns in the cold, damp air. He always left a woman’s shoes and stockings on, too. If she wore panty hose, he ripped out the crotch and buttocks, cut away die panties. The meager cover on a woman’s legs and feet made her feel even more exposed in the places that mattered.
He shuddered at the thought of being found like this tomorrow morning. That’s what they meant to do, knock him around, then leave him tied, naked and humiliated. But he was not some stupid broad. He’d find a way to get loose. He wrenched away, trying to free himself from his captor’s grasp.
The baseball bat hit him across the shoulder, hard. A moan escaped his lips.
The whisperer jerked the cord, forcing his head back, mouth so close to his ear he could feel warm breath through the burlap. She would have to be tall, wouldn’t she, to be right at his ear like that? He was nearly six-two.
“That was a dumb move, Larry. Do you feel this?” Her hand under his scrotum, knife blade pricking the skin.
“Yes—” he managed.
“My partner is going to tie your feet now, and I don’t want you moving a muscle. Understand?”
“Yes.” He hated the sound of his own voice, thin and reedy.
His foot was tugged sideways, almost throwing him to the ground. A scratchy rope wrapped around his ankle, tightened, cutting off circulation. When that foot was secured to the bench leg, the bat struck his other anklebone, knocking his legs apart. Tears of pain sprang to his eyes—and for the first time he wondered if they meant to kill him—but he refused to give his tormentors the satisfaction of another moan.
As they tied his other foot, he felt damp wood brush his penis. He humped away from the contact; must be facing the back of the bench.
“Now, Larry, we’re going to untie your hands. Remember, don’t move a muscle.” The knife bit into his scrotum.
“Okay! All right, take it easy. I won’t move.”
Feeling his hands released, his throat mercifully free, he considered a quick jab with his elbow, fast and hard in the gut, then grab the knife—
But one upward thrust from that blade would castrate him.
They shoved him forward, over the bench, yanking his arms wide, the injured shoulder screaming with pain.
His exposed privates pressed against the wet bench slats as someone retied his hands, one to each corner.
This was how they planned to leave him, spread-eagled over a goddamn park bench. He pictured himself being found, maybe by his neighbor walking her wimpy dachshunds. His cheeks burned with humiliation.
He tugged against his bonds. They couldn’t leave him like this! Not right here in his own neighborhood.
A hand slapped the side of his head, sending a bolt of pain through his ear. The whisperer, in front of him now, grabbed his head with both hands and put her face close to his. He could smell her breath through the burlap, the sweet, yeasty odor of beer.
“That’s more like it, Larry. Show a little spirit here. Give me a reason to hurt you.”
He wrenched his head away, jerking on both wrist bonds. They held tight, the rough twine cutting into his skin, but he scarcely felt it, so hot was his anger. When he got free, this cunt would wish she’d never laid eyes on Lawrence Riley Coombs.
Her fists clubbed both sides of his head.
He butted forward, hoping to connect with her race, bloody her goddamn nose, but his forehead barely brushed her.
“That’s good, Larry. Give us a fight. Let my friend see you’re not a wuss.”
She clubbed him again. His ears rang and a grayness expanded inside his head, like dirty wet cotton. He sagged across the bench, the top of his head grazing the seat, the back slats cutting his gut in half.
Through the grayness, he heard them whispering and didn’t give a damn what they said. Suddenly the whole world seemed distant, a cruel echo of life outside this bubble of pain and rage. Whatever punishment they had in store for him, he’d have to endure it. Fighting only made it worse. If he ignored them, maybe they’d get bored and not kill him, leave him alone.
The whisperer cupped his chin, lifted it.
“Don’t fade out on us, Larry. It’s not as much fun when you won’t play. You remember that, don’t you?” She fingered the longish hair in his armpit, twisting a strand round and round. “Remember how much you enjoy a woman who puts up a fight?”
She yanked the strand of hair, ripping it out by the roots.
“GODDAMMIT!” He bucked, straining against the ropes. “You better hope I never find you, cunt, because I’ll tear the goddamn hair out of your head AND THEN I’ll tear the hair out of your goddamn TWAT!”
“Oh, that’s good, Larry. Now you’re playing the game like a real man.” The throaty voice low and seductive, so close he could feel her breath warming the burlap. “You are a real man, aren’t you, Larry? You wouldn’t be a little swishy, would you? My friend thinks you’re more than a little swishy.”
“Your friend is full of shit,” he mumbled.
The bat struck him across the ass with savage intensity, driving his privates into the wooden bench slats. The jolt shuddered through him with sickening impact.
“Oh, Larry. I’m afraid my friend is getting bored with the foreplay and ready to move on to the main event Do you understand what I’m saying, Larry?”
He couldn’t reply. Even if he could get his breath, he was terrified of the answer, had never been so terrified in his life. Inside the burlap bag, he felt incredibly alone.
“You do understand, don’t you, Larry?” The whisper no longer sounded seductive.
His mind wanted to fold in on itself. His bladder felt heavy, the muscles holding it wanted to let go.
“Remember the woman you raped with a Coke bottle, Larry?”
It was so dark inside the bag that he could almost imagine the world outside had disappeared. The fibrous cloth scratched his skin. His breath filled the enclosure, and he smelled the Scotch whiskey he’d drunk in the car.
“For you, Larry, we have something better than a Coke bottle.”
In the distance, he heard voices, a couple arguing. The voices drew nearer, until he could almost make out the words.
What would happen if he cried out? Would they hear him over their own heated conversation? Would they come running? Would they try to help? Or would they pretend they heard nothing, refuse to get involved? This wasn’t New York City, for God’s sake. Houston still had its share of Good Samaritans.
Part of him wanted to scream for help, but another part saw his helplessness, his nakedness, and was too ashamed.
The whisperer seized his chin and slipped her other hand under the burlap, fingers cool against his neck. She stuffed something into his mouth that smelled of oil and tasted gritty, like a dirty shop rag.
“Just a precaution, Larry. We don’t want anyone to horn in on our game, do we?”
Something heavy and cold as steel pressed between the cheeks of his ass. He flinched. But incredibly, he was hard; it quivered against the wooden bench.
“Easy, Larry. The more you fight, the more fun it’ll be for us. Isn’t that what you tell your victims?”
Strong fingers gripped his shoulder as the person labored behind him, trying to press the heavy object into an opening too narrow and tight. The oily rag sickened him, and he was lost in fear, fear like a hungry rat gnawing at the base of his brain. But fear wasn’t all; humiliation burned inside him like a yellow bug light.
The heavy object thrust his cheeks apart. A horrible, tearing pain ripped upward, a pain like nothing he’d ever felt, a pain like no other in the world.
He stared into the blackness of the burlap bag and heard the distant sound of traffic, heard the voices of the arguing couple drifting farther away, and the rat in his head gnawed faster.
“Well, well. What have we here?” Cool fingers encircled his engorged penis. “Are you going to come for us, Larry?”
This can’t be happening, this can’t possibly be happening.
The steel thrust harder. For one agonized second the pain was so bad he was sure the shaft would come bursting through his belly.
Then he exploded in a torrent and sagged against the bench. Laughter crowded his ears as the intrusive object pulled out of him and he heard it fall to the ground. He felt wetness all over and knew that only part of it was blood; another part was surely semen.
Inside the burlap bag, in the darkness, he saw the faces of those who would discover him. He saw contempt and disgust. And he heard their voices. Look at him. He liked it, didn’t he? Why would he have jism all over if he didn’t like it?
He wanted to weep, but there were no tears inside him, only humiliation and a crushing sense of worthlessness. He tugged uselessly against his bonds and listened for his captors, heard nothing, knew they’d gone. A cool breeze ruffled the hairs on his exposed skin, dried the fluids that had run down his legs. If he could pray, he’d pray for rain to wash away his shame. But the cold front had blown in. The rain had finally stopped.
Chapter Twelve
Tuesday, February 11
Dixie entered the elegant Four Seasons Hotel at six fifty-five A.M. When she’d called Belle Richards the night before to accept the job and get the principal’s background and itinerary—with the intention of scoping out the destinations in advance—Belle was rushing out the door. Dixie managed to get the name of the kid she was hired to protect, Sarina Page, and not much else.
Standing now in front of the VIP suite, Dixie raised her hand to knock. She’d barely touched the door when it opened an inch.
Snapping alert, she leaned her crutch against the wall and loosened her jacket around the Smith & Wesson holstered beneath her arm. From somewhere inside the suite, a TV commercial battled the drone of a hair dryer.
Dixie placed her knuckles firmly against the door. Tapped. The door opened another inch.
“Hello!” she called.
She heard a third sound—someone weeping? But the hair dryer drone blasted over it.
The TV commercial segued to cartoon music.
Between the door and the jamb, a sliver of an opening offered a skinny view of the far right corner of the living room. Dixie eased the door wider. A floor-length mirror reflected the sofa—and someone lying on it. Crying. D
runk, maybe. Or hurt.
Sliding the gun from its holster, Dixie eased into the room. Back to the wall, she scanned as she moved, the .38 locked with her probing gaze. A woman lay facedown on the sofa, wearing a robe, long, glossy hair draped across her face. A red scarf trailed from her neck.
Swinging her cast around a wet spot on the floor, Dixie crossed the room in three strides. Still scanning for movement, she placed one hand on the silky kimono, near the shoulder.
“Lady—?”
The body was cold … and … rock hard.
She nudged the blond hair back. A goddamn dummy! Then who was crying?
The mirror flickered with movement—the door inching open!
Dropping to one knee, Dixie aimed. As the door swung wide, a mass fell from above it and thumped to the floor.
But no one was there.
She swiveled: aimed at the mirror.
Something wrong with that mirror. It looked … wavy … as if floating.
“Come out of there!” Dixie cocked the revolver. The click was barely audible over the hair dryer drone. “Now!”
“Okay! Okay, okay, okay.” The mirror rolled up like a window shade, revealing a metal stand, a bedroom doorway, and a scrawny teenage girl. “That cannon looks totally unfriendly. Would you mind pointing it somewhere else?”
Dixie steadied the gun. “Who are you?”
“I’m her … me!… I’m Sarina Page! Stop pointing that thing at me.” She fingered a black object in her hand, and the crying stopped. Then she turned her back on Dixie, folded the metal frame, and shoved it into the bedroom.
A trick mirror. A goddamn crying dummy. Where did she get all this stuff? What the hell was going on? Dixie holstered the .38. If anyone but Belle Richards had hired her, she’d walk out right now.
“What’s with the practical joke?”
Sarina pointed a remote control at the door. It slammed shut against the stuff that had fallen—which now looked like a trapper’s net.