With Cruel Intent

by Dennis Larsen

  "Now ain't that a pretty picture," Lester said. "If we weren't in such a hurry, I'd snap off a couple just as a little reminder for ya."

  Lester reached into the back of the van, retrieved the rag and bottle of ether. He liberally soaked the rag again before kneeling down to the side of the thrashing woman, cradled her head against his shin and forced the rag over her nose. She drifted off to slumber-land but not before a torrent of vomit rushed from her nostrils, covering her captor's shoe.

  * * *

  Seymour talked and the optometrist listened as they steered their way through the quiet streets, again ignoring all traffic laws. By the time they got to the office Dr. Camp was much more sympathetic to the young man’s cause and was anxious to see what could be done. The office was configured into a small strip mall between a women’s high-end clothing boutique and an expensive children’s store. A large sign illuminated the area in front where the work truck squealed to a stop, Valdosta Eye Care in large letters and Optometrist underneath. The two entered the establishment after Dr. Camp fumbled with the keys for a moment, having a difficult time finding the proper key. A dim light illuminated the foyer and reception area, a bank of switches was mounted on the wall behind the desk. The doctor moved to the wall and flicked two of the switches, bringing the entire front half of the office into the light.

  “Give me the glasses, Seymour,” he said.

  A visibly anxious Seymour handed over the case and followed the older man into an area surrounded on all walls with spectacle display cases. Hundreds of bright, shiny new frames with blank lenses graced the walls. A small table with a chair on either side sat in the center of the room, a black device rested on the table that looked like a microscope. Dr. Camp sat at the desk and placed the glasses in the middle of the device and locked them in place with a spring-hinged clamp.

  “What are you doing?” Seymour asked.

  “This thing is a lensometer, I’ll be able to get a reading off the glasses and determine the prescription with it, then we can input that into the computer system and see if we get a match.”

  With each hand on a dial he ratcheted them back and forth until he was satisfied that he had the correct reading. He pulled his head away, adjusted his own glasses so he could read the hash marks on the dials, and then wrote down a series of numbers on a pad next to the lensometer, +4.25-1.25x170. The glasses were shifted over and the focusing conical was brought down on the other lens and the procedure was repeated, +3.75-0.75x010. He ripped the paper free and moved to the front desk with Seymour in tow.

  Sitting at the desk in front of the main computer, Dr. Camp pressed the spacebar and waited for it to come to life. A password was required, which he quickly entered, again waited a moment before finding the search field in the database program and entered the prescription generated from the device and pressed enter.

  “This is a long shot, son,” he explained. “We haven’t used these old cases, like what you’ve got here, for quite a few years. When we got the computers back in 2000 after Y2K, we entered most of the old patient files but didn’t get them all. If we’re lucky the guy you’re looking for was one of the old files that got inputted.”

  The two listened as the whir of the hard drive searched through thousands of patient files looking for an exact match to the numbers entered. In a matter of minutes the sound subsided and the monitor presented a pair of names up on the screen. Seymour stepped around the desk to get a better look, along with the doctor.

  “Well, let’s see what we’ve got. The frame is a mans and I’m pretty sure it’s a ‘reading only’ Rx but I could be wrong.” He looked back at the bloodied student and shook his head. “Isn’t going to be either one of these, both women. Let’s try expanding the search parameters and see what that gives us.”

  Seymour paced, wringing his hands, running scenarios through his head of what the fiend was doing with Blanche. They were not encouraging. The doctor entered the numbers again but expanded the parameters slightly to bring more suspects into the queue. Again the hard drive spun and they waited for the list to be generated. This time a longer list and some men’s names appeared on the screen before them. Dr. Camp pressed the print key on the keyboard as the printer hummed to life and a single sheet, with ten names on it, dropped in the tray beside them. The two men perused the list, pointing at names to be scratched and lined through. The result of the exercise left three names:

  Archibald Alexander

  Spencer Cummings

  Ronald Philips

  Seymour was disappointed that he did not see the name ‘Rob’ in the list; apparently he was a thief, a kidnapper and a liar. The optometrist typed the first name into the database program that streamlined their office and looked at the results. They were indeed reading glasses. Archibald was 54 years of age and lived in Valdosta.

  “Can’t be him, the guy that took Blanche looks to be in his thirties. This guy is too old.”

  “Okay, let’s look at the next one.” He pulled up Spencer and a note flashed in the header next to his name - DECEASED. “Can’t be him unless you’re battling a ghost. Must be the last one,” he said, as he entered the search field with Ronald Philip’s name.

  Seymour was hopeful that they finally had their man, the thought of where he would go from here and how he would rescue Blanche still very fuzzy in his head. Would sort that out once he found where he had taken her. Information for Ronald filled the screen.

  “How old is he?” Seymour anxiously asked.

  “Looks to be 68, sorry Seymour. Looks like we’re striking out,” he said, slumping back in the chair and staring at the younger man with disappointment written on his face.

  They sat together thinking of what they could do. The information had to be there they just weren’t finding it. Something was barely beyond their fingertips but they couldn’t see it.

  “Bring up their addresses,” Seymour said. “The Sheriff’s Office thinks the guy was raised on a farm or still lives on a farm now.”

  Dr. Camp did what he was asked, the printer hummed again and a page printed, this time with three names and addresses. The amateur sleuth looked the page over, only one had a rural address but he was deceased. A flash of inspiration hit Seymour like a bolt of lightning bringing a smile to his face.

  “What if The Stalker is Spencer’s son? What if the glasses are his but his son was using them as part of his disguise? That’s the only thing that makes sense. Do you have a way to see if you’ve ever seen any of this dead guy’s family?”

  “Sure, I’ll just input Spencer Cummings as ‘head of household’ and it’ll print out anybody linked to his account,” the excited doctor said, as he punched the keyboard one more time. “Lester and Maureen Cummings have both been patients here. This Lester must be the guy, let’s see what his chart shows.”

  “Lester Cummings. I’ve got you now you piece of crap!” Seymour hissed, his jaw clenched in anger.

  “Lester Cummings has not been here for about ten years but he’s now in his thirties and does not wear prescription glasses based on our last exam. This pair has to be his dad’s,” Dr. Camp declared with a sense of accomplishment, lifting the pair in question and returning them to Seymour.

  “Do you know where this address is or can you bring a map up on the computer?” he asked the doctor.

  He was typing before the young man finished the thought. A moment later the printer was brought back to life, printing a detailed map of the Valdosta area, with a purple line that ran from the doctor’s location to the address on the list of names. Seymour looked it over and moved quickly to the door with the doctor looking on.

  “Thanks so much Dr. Camp, you may have saved a life tonight. Call the Sheriff’s Office and tell them what we’ve found and that I’m on my way to Cummings’ place. If I beat them there I’m going for Blanche, tell ‘em not to shoot me.”

  “Will do, good luck son,” he replied.

  * * *

  Beverly Davis slowly struggled to clear the fog
from her head, the events of the past few hours lost from her mind until she saw the body of Felix lying on the floor near her bed. The ball still firmly stuffed in her mouth prevented her from screaming, yet she tried, her eyes filling with tears and searching the room for signs of the other man. The clock next to the bed read 1:11 a.m., she’d been out for a few hours, and the area of her head where she had taken the blow, still throbbing and sore but her memory was bright. She struggled with the restraints on both her wrists and ankles but was unable to free herself. The phone sat in a charging cradle near the bed on a nightstand. She wormed her way to the table and tried to pick the phone up with her hands bound behind her, in the process the restrained woman knocked the table, sending the phone skidding across the floor, coming to rest against the dead body of her lover.

  With the frustration and anger rising in her chest, she closed her eyes and tried to think of what she could do. The thought of crawling to the neighbors entered her mind but it was a long way, the phone was still her best option. She eased herself onto her feet, then her knees and finally onto her front, her head facing the phone and the deceased Felix. She scooted and shimmied until her face was directly over the phone, thankfully it had landed keys up. With her nose she tried to depress the ‘on’ symbol but missed and hit the ‘speaker’ button instead. Again she tried with her nose and could suddenly hear a dial tone coming through the small speaker of the portable phone.

  “Good,” she thought, “halfway there.”

  With her nose as a battering ram Bev tried to dial 911 with repeated failures. Each time having to start over again with the sequence of, on, three numbers, then off and over again. On the eighth try she finally managed to get 911 dialed correctly.

  Living outside the Valdosta city limits her emergency call rang through to the Sheriff’s Dispatch where the young woman had been enjoying a quiet night chatting with Deputy Guest and watching Otis wrestle with a towel from the locker room, eventually tearing it to shreds.

  “9-1-1, what is the nature of your emergency?” Bev heard clearly through the phone.

  The gag made it impossible to utter any recognizable words so she simply grunted into the phone, her cheeks puffing in and out as she tried to be heard.

  “I’m sorry I can’t make that out, do you have an emergency?”

  Bev grunted once, and then stopped. It occurred to the woman manning the phone that it was possible that a mute was on the line so she reverted to an auxiliary training procedure she’d received some time ago.

  “If you can understand what I am saying I want you to grunt once. Go ahead,” she said.

  Beverly did as she was instructed and grunted once. To confirm that they were actually communicating she asked Beverly to grunt twice when she heard the word dog. The operator then listed a number of random words, Bev was silent until she heard ‘dog’, and then she grunted twice as loudly as she could. By this time the operator had pulled up the details of the home where the call was coming from.

  “Okay, I want you to use one grunt for yes and two for no, do you understand?”

  Ms. Davis grunted once.

  “Fine, am I speaking with Ms. Beverly Davis?”

  One Grunt

  “Are you hurt?”

  One Grunt

  “Do you need us to send an ambulance?”

  One Grunt

  “Do you need a Sheriff Unit dispatched to your location?”

  One Grunt

  “Are you safe?” the operator asked, her nerves on edge.

  Two Grunts

  “Deputy Guest, need your help over here!” she said, calling for Natalie to join her at the station.

  “What’s up?” Guest asked.

  “I’ve got a situation. A Beverly Davis is on the line and unable to communicate verbally other than grunts and I can hear her breathing heavily, not sure if she’s injured and can’t speak or is bound and gagged. I’m sending an ambulance right away but I’ll need you or the Sheriff to run out there as well. You two are all I’ve got tonight.”

  “Shit, better not be due to us releasing Wood this afternoon. I’ll see what the Sheriff wants to do.”

  “Ms. Davis, help is on the way. Are you unable to speak because of an injury?”

  Two Grunts

  “Are you gagged?”

  One Grunt

  “Natalie, she’s gagged, we need to respond asap. Apparent intruder!” the operator yelled across the office.

  'The Wolf' had his service belt and Glock 9mm on in a matter of seconds and was running for his squad car.

  He hollered back over his shoulder, “Natalie stay with her and keep me appraised, I’m on my way.”

  The operator continued to ask ‘yes’ and ‘no’ questions to Beverly to let her know they were still there and would stay on the line until help arrived.

  As the two women listened to the grunts coming through the sound system mounted on the desk the phone at the main reception rang. Deputy Guest hustled to the phone.

  “Lowndes County Sheriff’s Office, Deputy Guest.”

  “Deputy Guest, this is Dr. Camp, you don’t know me but I suspect you know a Seymour Wood,” the optometrist said.

  “We do, what’s he done?” she said, expecting the worst.

  “He dragged me out of bed tonight and brought me to my office saying that The Stalker had kidnapped his girlfriend, I think her name was Blanche but I can’t be sure. Anyway, he found some glasses and long story short, we think we identified The Stalker and Seymour’s on his way there to help Blanche.”

  “Damn it! Okay doctor, give me the name and the location where Seymour is headed.”

  “The guy is Lester Cummings …..”

  “How in the hell...never mind, I know the location,” she said, cutting him off. “Where are you now doctor and are you safe?”

  “I’m at my office and I’m fine. That boys going to need some help, send somebody as quickly as you can but Seymour said to be careful and not to shoot him.”

  “Will do doctor, thanks for the call,” Natalie said trying to decide what to do next.

  She called to the dispatcher, “I’ve got to get out to Lester Cummings’ place asap, can’t wait for anybody else to come in. Get on the horn and get some officers out of bed, send half to 'The Wolf’s location and half to mine. The name again is Lester Cummings - he’s The Stalker. Make it happen! I’m on my way! Come on Otis!” she said, running for the doors.

  * * *

  Seymour pulled the rusted-out pickup within twenty feet of the drive that led to the Cummings’ home. He could see where the dirt lane cut through the trees and weeds that would lead to the house. The gun behind the seat offered some comfort but the young man was scared to death, the thought of Blanche being harmed was the only thing that forced him from the truck. He filled a pocket with the shells from the glove box and slid the heavy rifle from the hiding place, the ten pounds now feeling like twenty. He opened the breach to confirm that a shell was still in place and slowly approached the drive. Seymour knelt next to the mailbox and looked down the lane. A single light was on in the house and a silver van was parked in the lane at the side of the structure. He listened but could hear nothing, just crickets and the nocturnal country sounds that he was so familiar with.

  He crept slowly up the drive, moving his eyes right and left to prevent a flanking attack, his finger on the trigger. Reaching the rear of the van he opened it as quietly as he was able and examined the interior. No Blanche. A camouflaged hat and jacket thrown to one side, a bottle of ether resting on top of the coat along with a white rag but nothing that would assist in his rescue of the woman. Seymour slipped around the back of the van and stood between the house and the side of the vehicle, a window to his right allowed him a view into the home. Cautiously he peered through the lightly curtained window and into the house. He could make out the furniture and layout of the room with exit, but that was all, no Lester or Blanche. Backing up he moved around to the front door, felt the knob and confirmed that it was un
locked.

  “Here goes nothing,” he thought, turning the knob he stepped inside the small living room.

  His system on full alert, he scanned the room and slowly moved to the hallway, the barrel of the .50 caliber rifle leading the way. He looked before stepping into the hall and slowly searched the entire premises, not finding anyone at home and no sign that Blanche had ever been there.

  At the end of the path that led from the house to the old fishing shed, an agitated Lester stood within the shelter, pointing the knife blade at Blanche. She was tied to an old rocker that his dad used when fishing from the banks of the river. A strip of duct tape covered her mouth; tears ran from her eyes, wild with fear. Lester laid out his plans for their future and the move to California. She listened in disbelief. The Stalker closed the distance between them, putting his left arm around her and as he’d done before, took in the smell of the beauty, his face very close to hers. She struggled to get away causing him to hold her all the tighter. With his cheek against hers he looked down to see the swelling of her breasts under the button-up cotton shirt she wore. He brought the knife to the first button and with a skilled flick of the blade sent the button bouncing across the wooden floor. He slowly moved the knife down the front of her, caressing her skin as it moved. The second button joined the first on the floor.

  “Virginia May, dear, I’ve got some business to attend to then I’ll come back and we’ll finish this little game. What do you think of that?” he whispered into her ear, kissing it lightly.

  Blanche did her best to head-butt the creep but he withdrew and left the shed, returning the seven-inch blade to the sheath attached to his belt. Lester walked back toward the house, a swagger in his step. He was quite pleased with himself that things had gone so well tonight. The money would not be forthcoming but he’d managed to get his woman and left everyone else suffering in his wake. Before leaving he would need to burn everything that pointed to him as The Stalker. On the back porch he had placed a cardboard box full of the pictures, maps, documents and anything else connected to the past months work. The lock box also rested on the porch, the money he’d accumulated and valuables taken from the homes would make for a nice little nest egg to begin their life on the west coast.