Eyes of the Predator: The Pickham County Murders (The Hunters)

by Glenn Trust

  The girl gasped in pain as the narrow, hard plastic strip cut into her wrists. Taking another plastic tie wrap from his pocket, he looped it through the one on her wrists and then through the seat frame by the door. This had all taken only a few seconds. The small gasp she had made could not have been heard inside the store and probably would not have been audible more than a few feet away.

  His actions were swift, decisive, and powerful, throwing the young girl into a state of complete traumatic confusion fed by fear. It hadn’t always been that way. His hunting skills had been acquired through trial and error, much the way young lion cubs learn. He had been lucky more than once, but that was also part of the thrill of the game.

  Now, years of planning and practice made his movements reflexive. There was no thought about what he was doing. He just did it. When to make his move, how fast to move, how hard to grip the throat, where to press the knife. He just knew.

  It was almost a little disappointing to him. He was too good. The thrill of chance was missing.

  But it couldn’t be helped. Better safe than sorry, he reminded himself when he felt the urge to take an unnecessary chance. He would have to make up for the lost thrill in some other way. This thought must have flashed across his face in some way because the girl’s eyes widened, and she opened her mouth as if to scream.

  That was only for an instant though. He pushed the knife hard against her throat, and this time blood trickled down onto her shirt.

  “No sound,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “Do you understand? Do what I say, and you will be okay. If you don’t…” The knife’s point pressed harder against her throat again making a new, small cut.

  She nodded. Through eyes dimmed by tears, she saw him smile.

  He closed the door softly, but firmly, not bothering with duct tape over her mouth. That was dangerous in public, even at night. Duct tape was fine to prevent screams from attracting attention in a hotel room or somewhere where no one could see. In public, the sight of duct tape over the girl’s mouth would attract immediate attention. Even at night, a roaming police car might get close enough for the officer to see a taped girl in the seat.

  No. It wasn’t necessary. He knew how to control her. The girl’s trembling silence was testament to his ability in this respect.

  It took him only a second to scan the lot for anyone who might have seen as he moved to the driver’s side of the car. No one had.

  Sliding behind the wheel, he turned the key. The old car started quietly. It was in excellent running condition, despite the fading paint job. The car glided through the parking lot, not too fast and not slow; just the right speed for a person who had picked up a few groceries and was casually heading home for the evening.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw her turn her head towards the store. Two cashiers and a couple of customers could be seen through the brightly lit window. A teenage boy was bagging groceries for one of the customers. She could see them, but he knew that they could not see her trembling, tear stained face or hear the soft sobbing sounds she made, as she struggled to follow his command to remain silent.

  Huddled against the door, the girl was just a silhouette in the dark car. Her sobbing continued, softly.

  Regarding her with curiosity, her captor wondered what she was feeling. How deep was her fear? What thoughts crashed through her mind? Sympathy, nor guilt, did not exist for him; just an intense, hungry curiosity that had to be satisfied. He would know. She would reveal it all to him. The fear. The terror. The hope for survival. And then her terrible realization that there was no hope. He would know it all before the night ended. He had plans for her that would ensure that it all came spilling, tumbling onto the floor. He would wash himself in it.

  “Are you ready for our night on the town?” he asked, almost softly.

  Her sobbing grew louder. Perfect he thought, and a small shudder of excitement coursed through his body.

  “What do you want?” she whispered between sobs. “What did I do?”

  “Do? Why, you didn’t do anything. You were just there.”

  His words were intended to show her the random and hopeless nature of her circumstances. They succeeded. Her sobbing grew louder again, “Please, please don’t hurt me.”

  “Hurt you? Why, I’m not going to hurt you. Have I hurt you yet?” He let the question linger in the air, letting her consider it. Maybe there was hope. He wanted her to believe that for now. It would make her later realization of the truth even sweeter.

  It worked. She calmed some and her sobbing became softer again.

  “Then why are you doing this? Please let me go. I won’t tell…just please let me go.”

  “Calm down, honey. I could have hurt you, but I didn’t…I won’t.” He let the lie linger there in the quiet of the car knowing that it would deepen her hope. Squeezing every ounce of pleasure and satisfaction out of this game was a practiced ability.

  “You know why I won’t hurt you?” He looked over at her and saw the glimmer of hope brighten in her eye. “Because I have…needs. You can help me with those. Then I’ll let you go,” he said softly and honestly.

  It was honest because it was true. She would help him with his needs, feed him and satisfy the animal caged inside, and he would let her go. He would send her on her way; into the darkness that he imagined death to be. Of course, his honesty did not extend to telling her that or in what condition she would be when he did let her go. That would come later. She would know. Right now, he wanted her to hope, to believe, that she could survive. When the time came, her disappointment and terror at the realization of what he really meant would be exquisite.

  He could almost hear her thoughts. They were like electricity in the car. ‘Rape? Okay rape. I can get through this. I can deal with rape. Just survive. Don’t do anything to make him do more than rape me. Survive.’

  She was the rabbit surprised and caught in the talons of the owl, lying still in the cool night grass thinking that if it made no sudden movement, the owl might release. But eventually the owl would tear into the flesh, and the rabbit would scream its high-pitched, eerie scream, knowing that death was near.

  She wanted to believe in her survival, and so she did.

  Turning right onto the main road, they drove north. The state line was another twenty miles up the road. Georgia. Georgia was on his mind.

  9. Just Away

  Lyn jerked her bedroom door open and saw her mother lying on the floor in the middle of the room. Blood trickled from her head. The beer can that her father had thrown was on the floor beside her. He stood there with a wolfish grin on his face, proud of what he’d done.

  “You son of a bitch!” Lyn screamed at him as she ran to her mother’s side.

  Trying to stand, her mother held a hand to the side of her face where blood trickled down under her fingers from the gash the thrown can had caused above her left eye.

  “What the hell did you call me?” her father said with a tone of incredulity in his voice, and then recovering he shouted, “You ain’t gonna talk to me like that you little fucking bitch!”

  Lurching across the room, he made a drunken, unsteady grab for his daughter. Lyn dodged, but he followed up with a backhand that caught her across the face and sent her reeling against the wall. Beer soaked as he was, he was still a powerful man. He reached down and grabbed her arm pulling her up with his left hand and balling up his right fist to strike her.

  “No!” Mama screamed.

  A moment later, her father’s grip relaxed as he tumbled forward to the floor on top of Lyn. She dragged herself out from under his dead weight and stood up, a look of revulsion, mingled with dread, on her face.

  Mama stood there, shaking with anger. Tears, mixed with the blood from the gash, streaked her worn face. A heavy iron skillet was in her hand. It had been on the old stove on the other side of the room.

  Lyn had been wrong. This was not like every other night. Somehow, tonight had just gotten worse…much worse. Or maybe, she had j
ust become aware of how fucked up they all were. All of them. Her father’s evil bullying, her mother’s acceptance, and her own silence in the face of it all. Everything that had been bottled up for so long had just come out at once. She looked down at her father.

  “Is he…”

  “Dead? I doubt it, but no loss if he is.” Mama replied and then knelt down to check him.

  Lyn saw a nasty lump forming over his right temple.

  “He ain’t dead,” Mama said standing. “Just drunker than usual. That thump in the head was what he needed to put him out.”

  Lyn started crying and then sobbing. Her mother took her by the shoulders and pulled her to the threadbare sofa. Sitting her down, she held her, rocking back and forth, keeping an eye on the unconscious man across the room and a washcloth over the gash on her own head from the thrown beer can.

  After a while, Lyn’s sobbing eased. Her mother sat her up straight and held her wet face in her rough hands, looking her in the eye.

  “You have to leave now, baby girl.”

  “But…no, Mama…”

  “Quiet.” Her mother’s voice was calm and firm. She continued, “I know you been planning to go for a while...for a long time. Well, tonight’s the night. You are leaving.”

  “But, no... What about you?”

  Her mother cut her off again. “We ain’t arguing about this baby. I’ll be fine. At least he won’t do any worse to me than he has before. But you…you’re his conscience. You’re what makes him feel guilty. If you stay, he’ll hurt you, maybe hurt you really bad. I won’t let that happen. No, you’re leaving…tonight.”

  There was finality in Mama’s voice. And she knew Mama was right. Daddy would never tolerate her in the same house again. But where? Where would she go? How could she go?

  Mama’s eye softened and tears welled up and followed the others that had streaked her face.

  “I know baby. I know what you’re thinking. You go somewhere…anywhere. I can’t say, but it has to be to a better place than this. We ain’t got no family and there is no one around here that you can stay with. Daddy would find you. You have to go far away. I hate that it has to be this way, but it has to be. You go on now.”

  With that, Mama pulled her close and held her tight against her breast for a long time. She felt her mother’s soft sobs and hugged her back tightly. After a while, Mama pushed her back, turned her face and stood up quickly.

  “Come now,” her voice was firm again, “Let’s get you packed and out of here.”

  Mama walked towards the bedroom. Lyn sat there for a minute in a haze, hearing the heavy breathing from the man on the floor. Could he really be her father? This big, mean, drunk man? Was there a time when he could have been a real father?

  A small framed picture sat on the table beside Lyn. She picked it up and peered closely at it. A big man in overalls sat outside on a kitchen chair in the yard in front of the house holding a small baby in the crook of his arm. The baby was Lyn. The man was her Daddy. At least that’s what Mama had told her. Was it really him? Was it really her? Lyn couldn’t remember. She sat there until the small room seemed to close in on her so that she had to stand up to escape. She moved numbly into the bedroom where her few things were already being neatly folded and stacked on the bed by the old woman who was her mother.

  Ten minutes later, she stood clutching her mother by the neck. She could smell the plain soap she used, the detergent in her clothes, the musty, earthy fragrance of her gray, thin hair. She tried to soak in everything about her that she could.

  Finally, the old woman pried the girl’s fingers off her neck.

  “You have to go. Go.” She ordered through her sobs.

  Opening the door, she pushed her daughter out into the night.

  “Go…now,” she choked the words out and slammed the door.

  The girl stood on the front porch of the only home she had ever known. Mean and rough as it was, it was all she had known.

  She didn’t know how long it was before her feet started to move numbly. First one, then the other. Unconsciously, they carried her to the dirt road and out to the two lane highway about a mile away. Her small bag dragged in the dust as she walked.

  A soft moan escaped the old woman’s lips. She was slumped on the floor against the door she had closed behind her only daughter. Her breast heaved in pain at the thought, and she sobbed.

  A muttered prayer came trembling from her lips and echoed softly in the room. But the house seemed a black hole. It sucked everything into it, not allowing it to escape. Words, thoughts, happiness, prayers. It seemed that nothing made its way out of the dark house.

  But her daughter had made it out. And she would do whatever she could to make sure the young girl kept going. Anywhere. Just away.

  10. He Was Hungry

  Across the Georgia line, the countryside was dark. On a section of deserted highway, he spotted what he was looking for.

  The old wooden church with a dirt parking lot looked perfect. Surrounded by trees on all sides but the road frontage, it was dark and secluded. Not likely that any churchgoers would be around this time of night. Churches were usually deserted when the flock wasn’t there praying or singing, or doing whatever it is the flock does.

  The area was transitional between the busy city and the remote backcountry of northern Florida and southern Georgia. The little wooden structure had probably been there for seventy-five years. It had no parking lot lights, and the rear could not be seen from the road. The car glided around to the rear of the old building with its lights off. Yes, just what he was looking for. The hunger growled within. It was time to feed.

  This project had started so quickly, he had had no time to scout around for the spot. But then, he had always been lucky this way. And he was smart, at least he thought he was smart, and able to adapt to circumstances. But most of all, he trusted his instincts and ability to sense danger. This spot felt safe, and he was hungry.

  The wheels of the car crunched the gravel as it came to a stop behind the church at the far end of the lot. He put the knife to her throat again.

  “I’ll be right with you, sweetheart,” he said holding his face so close his lips touched her cheek as he spoke. She shivered at the movement of his lips against her soft skin. He knew she could smell his breath.

  Opening the driver’s door, he walked around to the passenger side, chuckling a little as he walked to the rear and then around. Closer to go around the front, he thought to himself. He found the irony amusing, that he was like everyone else in this little eccentricity. Curious.

  Stopping for a moment, he breathed deeply. The night air was thick, humid, and pungent with the smell of vegetation and life. Buzzing, chirping, and humming from a billion insects and frogs filled his ears. Life rustled in the trees and scurried and slithered along the ground. It was all around him, and he was part of it. Glancing at the car, he could see that the trembling girl was not. He exulted in the life swarming around him and filling him. She only awaited the fate he had selected her for…and for her. She was no longer part of the life teeming and swirling around in the night.

  It was a curious thing to see her through the spotted car glass, isolated and separated from the life. He was part of it, the life. She was…something else. Separate, different, alien. Her separateness and isolation and difference excited him. It made him powerful.

  Jerking the passenger door open, he slit the plastic tie holding her wrists to the door’s armrest with a quick motion. She almost fell out onto the ground as it released.

  11. Rocking on the Porch

  “You hear that?”

  The old man hunched over in his rocking chair on the front porch of the old house and squinted, as if that would sharpen his hearing. Light filtered out through the curtains of the living room behind him. The window was open and moths fluttered against the screen.

  “What?” The equally old woman was sitting a few feet to his left in an identical wooden porch chair. Focusing on the cross-stitch
embroidery she was working on in her lap, her peripheral vision picked up the side-to-side movements of his head as he tried to pick up the sound again. It was distracting, so she dropped her work in her lap and turned her head and asked more sharply, “What?”

  “Nothin’,” the old man said leaning back in his chair. “Thought I heard something through the woods, over by the A.M.E. Church. Must have been nothin’.”

  “Maybe you should walk over and check around,” the old woman said. “You usually hear pretty good for an old man.”

  A wheezy soft laugh escaped the old man. “Right, maybe I should.” He reached over and patted her thin knee.

  “Old man, huh. Where’d you learn to talk like that?”

  “From you I reckon,” she looked over at her husband whose hands were bracing on the arms of the chair to push himself up. “You thinkin’ you’re not old?”

  He chuckled and shifted a little, as if trying to get up the energy to rise from the chair.

  “Young buck would be more right,” he said, rising stiffly from the chair and shuffling his feet in a little jig to show his wife how spry he still was.

  Her response was a shake of the head and a short, “Go on now. See what’s going on through those woods.”

  “Why, yes, ma’am. I’ll do just that. Wouldn’t want nothin’ to happen over at the church. I ain’t never been a church person and don’t suppose I ever will be, but still, I don’t need any more points against me with the old man upstairs if something was wrong over there, and me just sittin’ here passing time with an old woman.”

  “What makes you think you get any points at all out of this? It was my idea for you to check it out. You are forgetful, old man.”