Hot Blooded

by Lisa Jackson

  The smell was overpowering.

  She tried to scream but dragged in more of the drug. Blackness pulled at the edges of her consciousness. She clawed at his face and he laughed. The darkness came and went. Her arms and legs were so heavy, she couldn't keep her eyes open and the fight left her.

  She saw his smile and from the corner of her eye the twinkle of light, blood-red light cast by a string of beads.

  "We've got the wrong guy!" Bentz stared at the medical chart hanging from the end of Kent Seger's bed, then swore a blue streak. A uniformed guard was posted at the door of this private room, plainclothes officers situated at other points in the hospital, but it didn't matter. The guy in the bed with all the tubes and wires poking in and out of his damned body wasn't Kent Seger.

  "The wrong guy?" Montoya was eating from a bag of chips he'd bought at a machine in the cafeteria.

  "Look at his blood type."

  "But—"

  "I don't know who the hell he is but the guy's not Kent Seger and he's not John. It was a setup." Bentz was running out of the room. "Stay put," he told the guard. "Don't let anyone in or out. Not even a doctor."

  "But—"

  "Why the hell didn't anyone check his blood type?" Bentz yanked his cell phone from his pocket and found the nearest exit. Montoya was only a step behind.

  "So who is he?" Montoya asked as ran to his car and reached inside for his cell phone.

  "It doesn't matter. What does is that our boy is still on the loose."

  Bentz punched out the numbers for the dispatcher. "Call the Cambrai police. Send someone out to Samantha Leeds's house on Lake View Drive, pronto." He climbed behind the wheel.

  "I'll drive," Montoya offered.

  "No way. You're too slow. Get in."

  Montoya hadn't even strapped himself in when Bentz switched on the ignition and floored it, driving like holy hell through the parking lot and flipping on his siren as the cruiser bucked onto the street. He tossed Montoya the cell phone. "Call Samantha Leeds. Tell her what's up."

  While Montoya tried to get through, Bentz was on the police band, instructing other units on what was happening.

  "No one answers," Montoya said.

  "Damn it all to hell. Then try Ty Wheeler… at home or on his cell. Call information, just get the hell through!"

  He took a corner too fast and the tires squealed. The drive to Cambrai usually took twenty minutes. If he was lucky, he could make it in fifteen.

  He only hoped he wasn't too late.

  Ty saw Sam in the window. She was waving. No… she flung the sash open and called to him. Then he saw the shadow—someone was in the bedroom with her. Someone dressed in black. Someone wearing dark sunglasses. She was struggling. Screaming. Being attacked right before his eyes. And he couldn't reach her. Knowing he'd never make it in time, he lowered the sails, started the engine and pushed the throttle open full bore.

  He stared at the window, caught only glimpses of a horror he'd thought was behind them and knew that the monster was loose. Somehow the animal had escaped, and he was killing Samantha right in front of Ty's eyes.

  "You won't get away with it, you bastard," Ty vowed, his hands gripping the wheel, the sloop cutting through the water. "I'll kill you first."

  It was dark… so dark—she could tell even though her eyes were closed. And there were sounds… strange sounds… a deep rumbling hum. Her head pounded.

  She wanted to fall back to sleep, but something forced her to inch open her eyelids. The darkness persisted. She felt motion and realized she was moving, but… Her head ached and she felt like she might throw up. Where was she? She tried to sit up and felt woozy. For a second she thought she might pass out again and then she started to remember. Flashes of bright images. She'd been in her bedroom and she'd been attacked by a man in dark glasses… oh, God… John, somehow he'd escaped.

  She felt with her hands, took in deep lungfuls of air and smelled gasoline. She was riding in something, the trunk of a vehicle… no, there was too much room… she was in the bed of a pickup with one of those canopies over it, and John was driving, taking her somewhere… but where?

  He slowed and her heart, already racing miles a minute, went into overtime. She didn't doubt for a second that he was going to kill her. He just wanted to do it privately, so he could have more time. She thought of his victims, the torture they'd been through and knew she would endure the same hideous pain.

  If she could only get her bearings, and think… this was a truck… there could be tools. He turned quickly and she slid to one side… rolling against the wheel well, banging her head again. Think, Sam, think, where's he taking you? Somewhere remote. But he usually kills women in their rooms with a rosary… the police had finally made some of the details of the crimes public. She felt around, her fingers sliding over the bed of the truck until she came upon something… a toolbox. Could she be so lucky? She tried to open it, but it was locked. Don't panic, just think. She tried to force the lid open, but it wouldn't budge.

  Tires crunched on gravel. The truck was barely moving now. The tire jack! Where was it? Could she pry it loose? She went over every inch of the bed and along the wheel wells. All she found was a fishing rod. Nothing heavy. Just bamboo. Locked in place along one side of the canopy. Damn!

  The truck slid to a stop. She weighed her options. She could spring at him when he opened the back, but he'd probably be expecting that, no, it was better to play as if she was still unconscious and then if he tried to slip anything over her head, she'd react.

  It was all she could do to lie still, to try and relax, to make it look like her muscles and bones had melted when she was really so tense she was having trouble breathing.

  The engine died.

  Oh, God, help me.

  She heard the creak of the driver's door open, then the sound of footsteps crunching gravel.

  Stay calm. She lay still, breathed slowly, closed her eyes but didn't squeeze them, appeared to relax when all of her nerve endings were stretched taut.

  The back of the truck opened, warm fetid air wafted in and the sounds of bullfrogs croaking and insects thrumming through the night met her ears.

  Bayou country. Oh, God they'd never be found.

  "You awake yet?" he said in his seductive tone. "Dr. Sam?" He wiggled her bare foot, a hot hand on her toes. She didn't react. "Hell, wake up would ya?" His voice was more agitated. Still she didn't stir. "You'd better not be playin' possum." He tickled the bottom of her foot and she forced herself to stay limp. "Come on." He pulled her out of the back of the truck and she slumped against him, her legs dragging. It took all of her willpower not to kick him, but she let her toes scrape against the ground. He packed her across the gravel road for a few feet before the crunching beneath his feet changed to a hollow ring, like boots on bare wood.

  She slitted her eye open just a bit and caught a glimpse of the bleached boards of a dock.

  "Maybe it's better you sleep," he said, as if to himself. "Because we're going to have a party later." He dropped her into a small boat tied to the dock. She crumpled into a boneless heap, though she was scared to death. "Kinda like the party I had with Melanie… only this time we won't be listening to you on the radio. No, we'll have to play a tape. And I've got them, all your shows. I've brought one along."

  She thought she might be sick. This monster actually planned to kill her while they were listening to her voice as she took calls on the airwaves. No way in hell, she thought as he began untying the small boat from its moorings. She needed a weapon, any kind of weapon. As his back was turned she let her eyes open just a hair and began to search the sides of the tiny craft for something… anything. Through the slits she noticed a fishing creel tucked under the bench but that wouldn't do… then she saw the oar. If she moved quickly, she could reach it, whack him on the back and slide into the swamp.

  In that split-second she thought of the creatures of the bayou—alligators, snakes, bats… but which was worse? Nature or this unnatural monster? H
er mind was still fuzzy. Sluggish.

  He began to shove off.

  Now!

  She sprang, stumbled, grabbed the oar and swung hard.

  Crack!

  The oar smacked the back of his head.

  He roared in pain, stumbled forward. She whacked him again, but he turned on the third attempt.

  "You bitch." Grabbing her makeshift club, he ripped it from her hands. "You stupid, stupid cunt!" He lunged at her and she dived over the side. Thick water submerged her and she tried to swim, but she was caught. He'd snagged the hem of her robe, dragging her back. She tried to loosed the knot of the tie, but it was cinched tight. Wet.

  Swearing loudly he yanked her backward to certain death.

  She kicked, tried to hold her breath, worked the damned knot, but she was losing ground. His fingers scraped against her ankle.

  No! No! NO!

  Her lungs were aching, her head cloudy, her fingers fumbling with the damned tie.

  He pulled hard. Again reached for her leg. She kicked. The knot came free. Driven by terror she slid out of the robe's arms and dived fast. Deep. Swimming naked through the thick water far under the surface. Her lungs burned but she ignored the fire, kicking hard, sliding farther from the dock until she thought she would explode.

  In a splash, she broke surface, barely twenty feet from him. Gasping for air, she dived again, but not before he cast the beam of a spotlight upon her and spun the damned boat in her direction.

  How could she outmaneuver him? How could she save herself? She dived into the sluggish, murky water again, kicking hard, swimming blindly away from the light. Faster, Sam, go faster. Get away! Her lungs were about to burst when she scraped her fingers on the roots of a cypress tree and pulled herself to the far side. Slowly she surfaced and took in long, deep breaths while trying to remain silent and get her bearings. God help me, she thought desperately, then knew she had to help herself. No one was out here. This was pure, raw, Louisiana wilderness.

  She had to escape somehow or kill him.

  Either way would do.

  Naked and shivering, her head finally clearing, she could barely hear over the drumming of her heart and had trouble tamping down the sheer panic sending adrenalin through her blood. She felt something slippery brush against her leg, but she didn't move, didn't cry out, didn't dare. The smell of the swamp was heavy in her nostrils, the feel of the sultry air cool against her skin. She heard the sound of his oars slicing through the water, watched as the spotlight flickered on, then quickly off again, teasing her, causing her pupils to dilate and narrow, making it more difficult to see.

  "You're not going to get away, you know," he drawled, his voice low and sexy and far too close. Where was he? Where?

  Then the light flared again barely five feet away. Silently she slid under the water, swam stealthily beneath the lily pads and surfaced in a grove of tall, skeletal trees and flattened against one bleached cypress.

  "You can't last long. The gators will get you. Or somethin' else. Come on out, Samantha," his voice was coaxing, meant to be seductive over the drone of insects, but she heard the edge of frustration in his words, the hint of his psychosis. "You started this, you know. You told Annie to confide in someone and she told Mother." He clicked his tongue. "Mother didn't believe her, though. No, she didn't think I would actually fuck my little sister." He laughed. "And Annie… she liked it, whether she admitted it or not. She got wet for me… just like you're going to."

  Terror struck deep in her heart. She had to get out of here. Now. Before he found her. Before exhaustion overtook her. Before her luck ran out. She managed a peek around the bole of the tree and caught a glimpse of the outline of his track, the metal shining in the moonlight. It was her only chance.

  Noiselessly Sam slipped beneath the surface again. She swam silently away from his voice, toward the dock. Had he left his keys in the truck's ignition? Or had he pocketed them? Had he locked the doors?

  She needed some means of escape, some kind of transportation. How far could she get, naked and barefoot?

  Just swim. Get to the shore. Get away.

  Her lungs were burning, threatening to burst as she propelled herself through the slimy duckweed. Finally, she surfaced, silently dragging in air.

  The spotlight flashed on.

  The beam caught her square in its hideous brilliance. Somehow he'd been tracking her and realized she'd double back to the dock!

  Quickly she slid underneath the water again, swimming frantically, seeking cover beneath the dock, and surfacing on the far side. Peering over the edge of the rotted wood, she saw the spotlight glowing eerily through the rising mist. The boat hadn't moved. Was it possible that she'd lost him? Would he give up so easily? Not unless she'd hurt him when she'd hit him with the oars.

  Carefully she edged toward the shore and saw a flash through the trees—headlights? Her heart leapt. Was it possible? Oh, God, could someone be traveling down these deserted roads? Could she be somewhere near a main road? She moved more quickly, her toes searching for purchase in the muddy bottom. Again she felt something brush against her. Fish? Alligator? Snake?

  She stepped forward.

  Steely fingers clamped around her ankle.

  No!

  Oh, God, he'd found her. She kicked but it was no use.

  He was on her then. His hard body bent on dragging her under. He'd left the spotlight turned on and let the boat drift as he'd slipped under the surface and swum unerringly to her.

  The hand was a manacle, pulling her under, into deeper water. She thrashed and kicked, gasping for air. Her heel connected with something solid. He burst to the surface and dragged her with him. "You fucking bitch," he swore, naked from the waist up, his skin white in the dark night, the dark glasses gone and wide eyes with pale irises glowering down at her. "You're gonna pay," he said, water dripping from his dark hair and down his face. He was standing, his head above water, she, shorter, couldn't touch ground. Angrily, he yanked her down, jerked her under the surface. She gasped, caught a mouthful of stagnant water and came up coughing and spitting.

  Kicking and slapping, she aimed for his testicles, but he pulled her under again. Again she gulped water. She bobbed up. Gasped. Coughing, sputtering, choking. He grabbed her hair with his free hand. "Now Dr. Sam, repent."

  "Wh—what?"

  "Repent for your sins."

  He dunked her again, holding her down in the sluggish water, robbing her of air until she couldn't breathe, saw images in the darkness, murky shapes moving near his legs.

  With a hard pull, he yanked her up and she could barely move. "Go ahead play dead. See what good it does you," he said, and dragged her closer to the shore. Her toes touched now, and she tried to run, but he held her fast and fumbled beneath the water, reaching into his pocket, withdrawing his wicked weapon. In the darkness she saw the beads—his rosary.

  She struggled, but it was no use. He was so much stronger. So much bigger. Knew the swamp. If only she had a weapon, a stick, a rock, anything! In the distance she saw headlights, growing nearer, flashing through the trees.

  "Say your prayers, Dr. Sam," Kent ordered as he slipped the noose over her head. The beads were cold as death. Sharp. Hard. Brittle. He twisted the garrote, and she gasped. Pain seared through her neck. He leaned forward. "Repent and kiss me, you miserable bitch," he ordered, and she lunged forward, teeth bared, and bit hard into his cheek.

  He yowled, let go for just a second and she swam under the dock, tore the wicked rosary from her neck and came up on the other side. She heard him splashing behind her, but she swam to the boat, grabbed the spotlight and moved it frantically toward the headlights cutting through the darkness. She heard a car's engine, the grind of tires spinning on gravel.

  Her feet touched and she started for the shore, hoping that whoever was coming could reach her in time. "Here!" she screamed. "Help!" But Kent was behind her and lunged forward just as the car ground to a stop.

  Doors opened. Two men and a dog flew ou
t of the car.

  "Police, Seger! Give it up!" a voice boomed.

  Kent's hand clamped over her shoulder. She dived into the shallow water.

  Crack!

  A rifle report echoed through the bayou.

  Kent squealed and fell back into the water. Splashing. Flailing. His blood flowing into the dark ripples. "God damn it," he cried, but his voice was fading, gurgling.

  Gasping and shaking, Sam lunged toward the shore, frantically slogging through the water lilies and vines, sobbing and shaking, certain he would reappear and drag her under again.

  "Samantha!" Ty's voice rang across the swamp, through the trees.

  Sam nearly crumbled into a thousand pieces.

  "Here!" she tried to scream, but her words were only a whisper. She pushed herself forward, feeling as if she was running in slow motion.

  She saw him silhouetted by the headlights, racing toward her, the dog at his heels. She started sobbing wildly and couldn't stop when he wrapped his arms around her and held her body to his. "Sam… Sam… oh, God, are you all right?"

  "Yes… no… yes…" She was holding him, trying to regain some kind of composure and falling into a million pieces.

  "Over here," Ty yelled, turning his head toward the sniper. "Bring a blanket." He turned back to her. "Jesus, Samantha, I shouldn't have let you out of my sight. I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry… what the hell have you got?"

  Only then did she realize she was still holding the damned rosary. As if it were truly evil, she let it slide through her fingers to drop onto the soggy ground. She was trembling and shivering and on the verge of passing out. Through her fog, she felt someone throw a blanket over her nakedness and realized it was Detective Bentz.

  "I'll need some kind of statement," he said, averting his eyes as she wrapped the thin blanket around her.

  "Later," Ty said.

  In the distance she saw other headlights.

  "The cavalry," Bentz explained, as an owl hooted from a nearby branch. "I figured we could use some backup." He looked at the swamp and reached into the pocket of his jacket, retrieving an unopened pack of cigarettes. "I suppose I should go retrieve the son of a bitch," he said. "Right after I have a smoke. If I'm lucky, maybe the gators will do my work for me." Then he lit up and, gun still in hand, slowly walked onto the dock, searching the dark water while the tip of his cigarette glowed red in the misty darkness.