With Cruel Intent

by Dennis Larsen

  “What happened?” she said, in a panicked tone.

  Kneeling down next to Seymour and inspecting his scalp for the source of the blood, there was no answer to her question. She repeated herself and as she turned to look at the vet for an answer, he grabbed her from behind with his left hand, reaching around her waist pulling her close to him, almost lifting her off the ground. In his right, he held the cloth saturated with chemical and covered her mouth and nose with it. She tried to scream but the muffled sounds could not carry to the landing below. Blanche kicked and fought but the drug took its affect quickly and her limbs soon hung limp.

  Lester left the cane; he would have no further use for it. He had both arms wrapped around Blanche, under her arms and over the top of her breasts, dragging her backwards toward the emergency door. The door opened with the applied pressure from his back and he hefted the woman out of the door, leaving Seymour dripping blood from his head and unaware of what had happened to the beautiful librarian. A cane and a spectacle case lay on the ground nearby, the only remnant of the attacker and the harm he had caused.

  Once on the landing outside the library, Lester pushed the knocked out woman into the chute and started her on the journey to the ground below, he followed quickly behind, landing on his feet, just barely missing Blanche directly under him. He looked around for possible witnesses but saw none. It was dark and the streets were quiet. The Stalker opened the rear doors of the van and lifted his conquest into the back, looping a quick tie around her wrists, securing her hands behind her back. He had no idea how long the ether would be in effect but didn’t want her attacking him from the back of the van on the way home. He did the same with her feet, immobilizing the librarian for the time being.

  The rush of adrenaline that had propelled him through the last few minutes began to subside and the pain in his abdomen returned with a vengeance. Before he climbed behind the wheel he pulled his shirt aside and looked at the blood soaked bandage again. Fresh blood now ran down his skin and into the top of his pants. The Stalker had not noticed the trail of blood leading from the bottom of the chute to the van. Events were happening too quickly to stop and deal with it now, by the time they were able to identify him they would be out of the state and on their way.

  Seymour lay unconscious for nearly two hours and when he finally came to the lights of the library were almost blinding. He squinted to make out gross objects and could feel his eyes working to bring things back into perspective. His head ached and he could see dried blood on his hands and the area where his head had lain. He tried to recreate what had happened but could not remember the events, just the sudden incredible pain not once, but twice, and then nothing. He tried to stand up but wobbled, crashed into a bookshelf that gave way and almost tipped over before it supported his weight. He brought his hand to his head, he could feel his scalp matted with blood but his eyes were coming around and the fuzziness in his brain was clearing.

  “Blanche. Where is Blanche?” he said, looking at his watch, almost midnight.

  He looked around and realized he was alone. The library lights were still on but no patrons. He went to the lower floor and found the same thing. Seymour looked for Blanche’s things and found her purse behind the counter on the shelf where she always left it. It became readily apparent to Seymour, even in his confused state, that whoever had busted his skull had taken his love.

  “9-1-1, what is the nature of your emergency?” the operator at the Valdosta Police Station asked.

  “My girlfriend’s gone, somebody’s taken her!”

  “Where are you and who has taken her?”

  “I’m at the library but they’re gone! He’s taken her!” he said, still having trouble filtering information through his aching head.

  “Sir, it’s midnight, I suspect the library has been closed for hours. You’re not making much sense. Who is missing? Can you give me a name?”

  “Yeah, Blanche, her name is Blanche. I don’t know where he’s taken her.”

  “Last name, can you give me a last name?”

  He was having a difficult time staying focused and the pain was ebbing and returning making it hard to think clearly. Seymour searched but could not pull Blanche’s last name from his memory. He could see it plainly but could not speak it.

  “Excuse me sir, is this a joke or something? This is an emergency service and you can be arrested for misusing it,” she warned.

  “No, I know. She is missing I just can’t think of her name. It’s Blanche D. D.... or something like that, I got hit on the head and I can’t remember. You’ve got to believe me!”

  “Okay, so your girlfriend is Blanche DD and you can’t remember it cause you got hit on the head, is that right?”

  “Yes exactly.”

  “K, I’ll play along, and your name?” she asked.

  “Seymour, ah ah Wood,” he finally got out.

  “What did I tell you?” she said authoritatively. “This is not a service for pranksters. My heavens, Seymour Wood and your girlfriend is Blanche Double D? Couldn’t you be a little more creative than that?”

  “I’m telling the truth, my head is killing me, I’m just not thinking clearly. Call the Sheriff; he’ll vouch for me. You’ve got to send help, there’s no one else I can call!” he said, emphasizing his need for help.

  The operator knew that Seymour Wood had been arrested earlier in the week and, was indeed, sitting in the county lockup as they spoke. She would confirm that with the Sheriff’s Office when she had time and she wrote a quick reminder on a sticky note and sat it aside.

  “Oh, I’ll confirm it alright but I’ll caution you again, this is not a line for fun and games.”

  The line suddenly went dead when the dispatcher got tired of the caller’s antics and hung up.

  “Crap, now what do I do?” he questioned himself. “Look for clues.”

  The things he’d learned in his hours in classes were pulled involuntarily from his memory. His strength somewhat rejuvenated he returned to the second floor and the blood spot where he had lain. He opened the nearby emergency door, noted that the alarm did not sound, and looked to the ground. Nothing there but his old truck parked in the lot and no Blanche to be seen. He turned his attention back to the library and the items on the floor. A cane with blood and hair on it, as well as a spectacle case, rested on the ground near where he woke up. He followed a trail of blood from the spot near the exit, across the floor that led him to the table where he had been shelving books. His memory was coming back, he remembered conversing with the vet, put some books away, then ‘crack’, the first blow to his head. He had turned to see his attacker, the veteran directly in front of him before ‘crack’, the second blow to his head and lights out. The Gulf War Vet, who was he and how could he find him? The authorities would obviously be no help tonight. He would find her on his own. If it was the last thing he did, he would find Blanche and rescue her from the cane wielding maniac!

  Seymour picked up the wooden cane and inspected it closely. It appeared to have been hand carved from a piece of natural wood, the grain ran the length of the medical device, alternating dark and light bands of wood fibers. There were no plaques or identifying marks, it would be no help. His own blood and head had marred the workmanship, along with a crack in the material near the impact point.

  "Hit me pretty damn hard, jerk!" Seymour said.

  He laid the cane aside being careful not to handle it too much in case some fingerprints could be raised from it later, if needed. He next picked up the spectacle case, opened it and inspected the contents. The glasses were single vision, of the convex variety, meaning the lenses were thicker in the middle and thinner towards the edge. The frame itself appeared to be older with some wear marks on the metal and the lenses slightly scratched. He remembered seeing the frame on the disguised veteran earlier in the night. Seymour put the glasses back in the clamshell style case and slipped it into his pocket but just as he did something caught his eye.

  He opened the ca
se again and in very faint gold lettering on the blue lining of the case there was some text. He strained to see the print but could not make it out completely, only a letter here and there but nothing that made any sense. Seymour moved to where the lighting was brighter and tipped the case back and forth but could still not read the emblem. It occurred to him that the glasses inside the case would possibly help, convex lenses should magnify the image, he remembered from his high school science course. The glasses, once on his nose, caused everything across the library to blur and distort, but when he looked back to the case the smallest details were brought into view. The very fibers of the backing were visible and the gold that clung to them. Straining to make it out he managed to identify the words Dr. D Camp, and under that, Optometrist. An address was listed below, in much smaller print, that was completely faded away and he could not read it.

  His mind raced. What could he do with the information he'd gleaned from the only items available? The phone book was down under the counter next to Blanche's purse. He flipped to the yellow pages and found a listing for a Dr. D. Camp located just a few blocks from the library but the home address was not shown, however, he was able to find a local listing in the white pages. Seymour ripped the page from the book, galloped up the stairs and exited the library the same way Blanche and Lester had a few hours before, sliding down the escape chute to the parking lot below.

  The college student was familiar with the area where Dr. Camp lived, as it bordered the university and he'd passed the street often on the way to school. The old truck roared to life and he slammed through the gears, ignoring the lights and signs, hoping that a cop would show up to give him a hand, but as was usually the case, never one around when you really needed one. He pulled up to the immaculate home, not quite sure what he would do but knew he had to try something. With the case in his hand he approached the door of the two-story home. A new Lexus was parked in the driveway and the yard was well maintained with mature trees and beautiful rose bushes lining the walk from the curb to the front door.

  Seymour stood at the front door, case in hand, and knocked. He waited, but his patience was non-existent so he rapped and kept knocking until a disheveled man swung the door open and grabbed the young man by the collar, shaking him violently.

  "What do you think you're doing, you dipstick? Are you insane?" the agitated doctor said.

  Seymour stared into the eyes of a man pulled from his bed in the middle of the night, bloodshot, and full of anger. Dr. Camp stood a few inches taller than Seymour even in his bare feet. His blonde hair was graying at the temples but retained its youthful color even though he was well into his fifties. He wore a housecoat, which he had failed to do up, his undershirt and boxers visible, the undershirt pulled tight from too many dinners out and nights snacking on peanuts and M&M's in front of the television. The mature man shook the younger and once convinced he'd shaken some sense into him allowed Seymour to answer his question.

  "I'm Seymour Wood and I need your help."

  "Are you a moron? Do you know what time it is?"

  "I'm sorry, but my girlfriend has been taken by a madman and all I could find that might lead me to her is this case of yours."

  Somewhat calmed from his original disposition the doctor told Seymour to show up at the office first thing in the morning and he'd be happy to help him with his problem, but for now he better be on his way before he called the police. He released the younger man and slammed the door in his face before Seymour could say anything more.

  Undeterred and with blood crusted to his face and hands, Seymour returned to the truck, pulled the Sharps rifle from behind the seat, leaned through the passenger window and took a cartridge from the glove box and loaded the weapon. The long, powerful shell slid into the chamber with a solid sheathing of the brass and a finality that came when the chamber was locked closed. Seymour made the walk back to the door and rapped loudly again. The doctor answered more quickly this time but was startled to see the young man standing with a large bored rifle pointed at his chest.

  "Hate to do this to you but you've really left me no choice. You're coming with me, now!"

  "But I'm not even dressed."

  "There's no time, I need you to look up a prescription on these glasses and tell me whom they belong to. Is that possible?" Seymour asked.

  "You sure you want to do this son, you're going to be in a world of trouble come tomorrow morning."

  "I'm sure."

  "Then yes, I can figure out whose glasses those are but it'll take some time. Let me get my pants and keys but I’d be a lot more inclined to help if you’d put the gun away."

  "You promise you'll give me an hour before you call the cops?" he said, the gun still pointed at his chest.

  "Do I have a choice?"

  "No, I'm afraid you don't."

  "That's what I thought, I'll get my keys."

  Minutes later the doctor returned, the robe gone and his pants on, Seymour slid the rifle behind the seat and started the old pickup.

  "Hang on Blanche, I'm coming, just hang on a little longer," he thought, as they raced through the streets of Valdosta headed to Dr. Camp's Optometric office.

  * * *

  A constant, droning hum, originating somewhere underneath her, was all that Blanche could make out through the fog that was her welcome back to reality. Her shoulders and knees ached; laying on her side the realization that her wrists and ankles were bound brought her cognition to full alert. Waves of nausea swept over her. She closed her eyes and tried to focus on what had happened. Seymour...Seymour lying on the floor, his head bleeding; a man, 'Rob', no, the War Vet wrapping her in his arms was her last memory. What had happened? Where was she! The taste of duct tape did nothing to reduce her need to vomit. Sheer will alone prevented bile and her dinner from spewing from her nostrils.

  The sound of the tires spinning and the rocking of the van provided a false sense of security to the wounded Stalker. His perforated side continued to ooze blood from the smaller entrance wound as well as the wider exit hole. The gauze, that had previously helped to staunch the trickle of blood, was saturated, the metallic smell of blood mixed with adrenalin driven sweat filled the van. Although light headed, Lester was euphoric. He'd done it! There had been obstacles but he'd managed to overcome them all, with a wonderful package wrapped up in the back, just waiting for him to unwrap it.

  "Mmph, mmph!" Blanche grunted through the tape that pressed her lips firmly against her perfectly straight teeth. She could see the dark interior of the van, no upholstery, just the metal sidewalls and cold floor. A pair of doors blocked her escape as she contemplated her options. Her mind raced through the extensive volume of romance thrillers that made up her cerebral library. Surely, somewhere she'd seen a heroin escape from a similar predicament. The thought of Seymour lying in a pool of blood swirled in her mind causing her to retch, a small acidic trail of yellow liquid ran from her nose and over the silver duct tape.

  "You awake back there?" The Stalker asked.

  Blanche suddenly heard the voice of her assailant coming from the front seat. She held her breath and prayed that it would just go away. The stinging in her nose caused her eyes to water as she fought back the tears and the overwhelming need to breakdown.

  "Play dead! Be quiet and pretend to be asleep," she told herself. "Seymour will come. Seymour will come! He has to!

  "I know you're awake, Blanche." There was silence as he waited for a reply from the frightened librarian. "Don't be afraid. This is going to be great, believe me. This is just the beginning of something meaningful for both of us. I know you feel it the same way I do. I've seen it in your eyes. You need me as much as I need you." Again he waited for some recognition from the cargo space of the van.

  The foreboding reality of her situation finally hit home and she sobbed through the gag, tears spilling down her face and liquid running from her nose.

  "Believe me Blanche, this is going to go much better for you if you just give yourself to me, compl
etely and without hesitation. I don't see this playing out well for you if you don't."

  "What is he talking about? What does he mean?" she thought, between the sobs and restricted intakes of air.

  "I can tell you one thing, and you better listen up, I will not be dealt the same hand Virginia May dished out. You hear me? Do you hear me!" he hissed through clenched teeth, as the pain in his side shot up and into his brain.

  "Virginia May? What the hell was he talking about? I've got to get away and now!"

  She looked around, everything appearing distorted, as the tears deflected the light entering her crystal blue eyes. The door handle was not beyond her reach as she lay on her back. Quietly she raised both feet and attempted to pull the handle downward, opening the way to her escape. Her lack of coordination, a combination of the ether and fear, prevented her from accomplishing the task. However, the band that held her ankles together looped around the door handle, tying her up like a prized halibut in a fishing souvenir photo. Panic set in! She thrashed about, just like the catch would, prior to getting pulled into the boat and its' death.

  The van suddenly slowed and made a deliberate left turn onto what must have been a dirt road. The sound was much different now. The vehicle jostled and pitched, moving down the uneven surface, slamming her shoulder blades against the metallic floor of what she thought would be her coffin. She continued desperately to free herself from the handle that held her captive but to no avail. Momentarily the rocking and bumping of the trip came to a crawl and she sensed the van making a right and coming to a stop. The librarian froze, overcome with anxiety and horror. The driver exited the cab, slamming the door behind him, an audible grunt escaping his lips.

  A second later the rear doors of the van were yanked open, pulling Blanche across the last few feet of the van floor and onto her neck and head, still suspended by her feet from the door handle.