Little Belle Gone

by Whitlock, Stephanie

  Little Belle Gone

  Stephanie Whitlock

  Copyright © 2014 by Stephanie Whitlock

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover Art by Lisa Buitjeweg

  Prologue

  She tried desperately to stifle her sobs as she clung to the carpet. The bed-skirt had a slight bunch in it just inches from her nose and through the small gap she could see the bottom of the guestroom door. Shouts echoed up from the first floor as the sounds of fighting and furniture being overturned flooded her ears. She pressed her palms more tightly against her temples to shut out the horrible sounds of her parents struggling with the stranger who only moments before had barged into their home and demanded her. Tears streamed down her reddened face but she didn’t wipe them away, she didn’t even blink, too afraid that he would find her if she moved or let her eyes fall from the small gap at the bottom of the closed door.

  She had begun to shake. At first it had been nothing more than a tremble in her thin fingers, but it had grown. She could do nothing to stop her teeth from chattering loudly or her whole body from jerking violently as she shuddered. She had never been this frightened—so afraid of what might happen that she lost sight of what was happening. Slowly it dawned on her that the crashing and breaking sounds, as well as the shouting, from downstairs had stopped. Silence filled her home. She lowered her hands from her ears and tried to clam her breathing and her heart so that she could listen to the sudden silence. Where were her parents? Why weren’t they calling out to her, coming to look for her?

  Singing broke the quiet. A strange song in a dark, cruel voice echoed up the stairs. The shaking that had almost left her returned viciously. The cruel song billowed down the hall right outside, just beyond the closed door before her eyes. A squeaky gasp leaked from her as the door knob turned. She quickly clasped her small hands over her mouth to hold in the shriek that climbed up her narrow throat from following her gasp. Heavy black boots tromped into the room, all the while the dark, sinister voice continued to sing its twisted nursery rhyme. In just two steps he was beyond her line of sight, blocked by the thick blue bed-shirt. She listened to his heavy footfalls as he crossed the room and wrenched open the closet door. Finding nothing within, he closed it and his steps seemed to retreat back toward the bedroom door.

  Just as she began to lower her palms from her mouth, a hand, big and with no gentleness, wrapped painfully around her ankle and yanked her free of the bed in a single bone-jarring motion. She could not stifle the scream this time as she kicked and writhed to escape the monster of a man still holding her ankle, as if she were nothing more than an unruly dog on a leash and all he need do was wait for self exhaustion. His cruel patience paid off. After several moments of desperate struggle her strength failed her. The fear consuming her mind was joined by an even more unwanted sensation, hopelessness. He was a huge man, over six feet tall and every bit of two hundred and fifty pounds, while she was a wisp of a girl, only fourteen, barely five feet and with less than ninety pounds at her disposal. She had no chance.

  She began to sob wildly as he reeled her in. When at last she was forced to face him she found nothing. A blank black mask covered every feature of his face, leaving her already panicked mind to create the most terrifying images. He whispered words of comfort and possession as he wrapped her up, and perhaps they might have been pleasant if it weren’t for that deep, dark, gravel and blood voice. The voice of the devil, she thought as he pinned her tightly against his chest and carried her from her shattered sanctuary. She struggled pointlessly as he moved with her down the stairs, trying to escape the painful grip he had and the sickening smell of his flesh. Cigars. He wreaked of stale cigars, like the ones her instructor’s husband smoked while he waited for their private lessons to be over. The smell was so thick that she gagged against it.

  Rounding the corner, she cried out again. There, face down and bound with duct tape, were her parents. When they heard her scream both adults began to wrench their arms and legs, trying valiantly to free themselves to aid her, but to no avail. He had done too good a job securing them for their meager efforts to pay off. He tossed her roughly to the floor, face down, between them. Before she could capitalize on her momentary freedom, his weight descended on her. Twisting her arms sharply behind her, she was soon bound to match her parents, a full set.

  She looked from one terrified face to the other, searching for reason to hope, reassurance, or strength, but all she found was fear and tears. When she felt him begin to fumble with her dress she screamed. Her mother and father joined her. While her mother pleaded, begged for him to stop, her father shouted curses and threats at the monster above her. Though hollow, the sheer rage in his voice drove her into hysterics. She didn’t understand what was happening, but if her parents were this upset it must be bad. His weight was crushing her hips into the hard floor—so heavy, he is so heavy, she thought as he moved over her.

  “Mara. Mara, look at me.” Her mother’s voice pierced her painful thoughts. Opening her eyes, she turned to face her mother. Despite the anguish written there, her voice was calm and her eyes were pleading. “Mara, keep looking at me, sweetie. Stay with me baby, stay with me…” As her father’s voice screamed something foul, her body was violated. The pain was blinding, but her mother’s voice, constant and soft, was there for her.

  Once he was finished taking her innocence, he turned her tear soaked face to his and took a few pictures, as if he were a tourist and she was a movie star he had happened upon. She was in shock. Her body hurt more than she had ever hurt before and yet she felt strangely numb, as if it were nothing but a nightmare she would soon make up from. After his photos were done, he let her head fall limply back to the floor and his weight lifted free of her. At first she wondered if it was over, if he would simply leave now, but as his heavy footsteps returned her aching heart began to scream at her. His gloved hands turned her face to her fathers, though she barely recognized him. He looked as if no happiness was left in his heart and tears rolled heavy and thick across the bridge of his nose as he stared at her. Through gritted teeth, he sobbed, “I’m so sorry, baby…” Again and again he repeated his apology until a strange thud silenced him. The next made his eyes go wide and his face blanch. The third thud cause his mouth the gape open, though no cry escaped. As the fourth thump sounded his body jerked in response and she made a horrific realization, the monster was killing her father. He was stabbing the most important man in her life and she was watching it happen.

  She wanted to scream, cry out for her loving father, but shock had left her too weak to manage even a whimper as the sixth and final blow forced the last of the light from his eyes. While the girl could not cry out, her mother still had the capacity. Her screams were shrill as she wailed at the death of her husband, her daughter, limp and ravaged, beside her forced to watch the event from mere inches away. The girl did not mange to find her voice until the cold hands of the monster turned her to face her mother. “No! I won’t!” She tried to turn away, to bury her face in to rug, as if it couldn’t happen if she weren’t looking. The monster said nothing, only grabbed her head and turned her again, more forcefully, to her mother. This time, his stone knee came to rest on the side of her head, pinning her against the floor and preventing her from looking away. When the first blow hit her mother the scream of pain was ear splitting. The girl could do nothing but watch as the five that followed stole her mother from her. When at last she was gone, the monster turned to her. Removing his knee, he leaned in close, so close that his hot, foul breath shifted the curls on her cheek as he said, “You are mine now, kiddo, part of my collection. Mine forever.”

  The first blow was the worst. The feel of sharp steel slicing into her body, piercing into her fles
h, had forced a whimpering cry from her, but the others did little. With the sixth and final blow delivered, she faded away into darkness hoping that the place she had learned about in Sunday school was real and that she would remember nothing of this when she woke there, soon.

  Chapter 1

  The green plaid Al-star tennis shoes on her feet rumbled through the leaves in a nervous cadence as she hunkered closer to the three-ring binder clasped against her chest. The knee high white stocking socks did little to hold out the cold as it swirled around her legs, ruffling the pleated bottom edge of her short skirt in the late night breeze, especially at her quick pace. The weight of her backpack pulled at her shoulders. Her steps accelerated, ducking her head against the dark and the cold. All outward signs were that of a scared teenager, a school girl hurriedly walking home late through the park, a practiced character, but inside she was ice and silk. The steady steps of her follower rang in her ears, though it was clear he believed himself a silent predator. She almost allowed the cool smile to cross her lips, after all, he couldn’t see her. But she didn’t. Even though there were street lamps all along the wide sidewalk she now strode with practiced, frantic steps, the night was thick and dark, but the perfectionist in her held her frightened visage.

  She quickened her pace again and was gratified to hear his match hers. A flutter of something not unlike excitement lifted within her. So close. Just ahead of her was the turn. Over her shoulder, she cast a nervous look and broke into a light run. Taking a sharp right, she turned up a foot path carved, not by Parks and Recreation, but by guests, a short cut through a large stalk of trees. Off the planned path, it had no street lights, no pavers, no visibility. It was exactly the type of place a predator would enjoy, the type of place a scared girl, too frightened for logic, might turn. She steadied her breathing as she ducked under the low lying limbs. When she heard the tromp of feet on the dirt, no longer trying to hide his presence, her heart thundered with anticipation.

  It followed me into the gloom,

  it followed me unto its doom.

  The line from a poem she had read in college popped into her head, as it did before each and every confrontation. It repeated itself, her mantra, as she raced down the path with ragged steps. Picking her moment, she stumbled, a practiced movement, yet fluid and real to her pursuer. Dropping her notebook, she righted herself and ran around what she knew was the last bend. Coming face to face with an impenetrable barrier, a rock retaining wall nearly six feet tall and running no less that twenty yards in each direction. She twisted her body in terror. Wrenching around, she stared into the dark of the woods behind her, painting her face with panic as she scanned the trees for the predator she knew was just inside the shadows. She could hear him breathing, the shuffle of his feet in the leaves, almost smell his aggression on the light breeze that rattled the branches. Turning back to the wall, she slipped her backpack off her shoulders and moved forward, as if she planned to climb it.

  As her hands clasped on the ridges of the wall in feigned effort, he stepped from the shadows. His voice was gravel and rage as he drew closer to her small, deceptively fragile, form. “Hey, girly, you look like you could use a friend.” She turned to face him, playing the role of frightened would-be-victim perfectly. Her eyes squinted into the dim light and she forced her hands and knees to visibly tremble. From the disgusting smile that parted his crooked lips, he was eating up her terror. He was exactly what she had imagined him to be. Tall and lanky, he was dressed as one might picture the trash that preyed on the weak and helpless to be. Blue jeans, stained with dirt and paint, and ripped at the knees from too much wear, covered the lower half of his body, leaving his over-worn work boots visible at the ankles. Perhaps he was a construction worker, or a house painter by day. His false front mattered little to her. This was his true nature, a soulless fiend hiding behind the visage of a man. The bitterness of her thoughts curled around her heart, adding another layer of thick ice to the wall she had tended so diligently for the last nine years. As her eyes drifted to his torso, she found a dirty and ragged sweatshirt, the hood of which was pulled high over his face, revealing only the glint of his fierce black eyes and that crooked, poisonous smirk. His hands were tucked into the front pocket, but she could see the unnatural hard edge pressing against the bottom. Ah, she though to herself, this one came prepared. Excellent.

  Wanting to draw him in further, she let out a whimpering cry and turned frantically back to the wall, doing her best impression of desperation. In less than a second, he was on her. His hood fallen free of his face, his foul breath curled around her neck as his hand clasped her throat. Crooked teeth, from his crooked smile, pressed against her cool, calm flesh. Quickly, she pretended to struggle weakly against him, needing him to not notice how easy paced and peaceful her heartbeat truly was. He took the bait. Releasing her throat, he snared the back of her neck, digging his fingers into her flesh, while his hidden hand came free of his hoodie pocket, revealing his weapon. She wanted to laugh out loud at the pitiful excuse for a blade. A small buck knife, dull with miss use and ill care, glinted in the moonlight. Moving quickly, he pressed the blunted point into the soft curve of her chin and growled in her ear. “You will be a good little girl or you will be a dead little girl. Scream, or fight, and I’ll take your fucking head off.” As if to prove his point, he pressed his blade hard enough into the underside of her jaw for it to nick the skin, which, she mused, took quite some force. Take her fucking head off, indeed. She gasped in fear, just for him, and he slammed her into the rock wall. The hand on the back of her neck released and his greedy, greasy fingers began their frantic dig at her skirt, lifting and bunching the pleated plaid around her waist.

  There was no lust in his movements, no desire. No part of what he meant to do carried any emotion one might associate with the action. It wasn’t about the act, but the humiliation he would inflict in the taking. He was all rage and pain and hatred. When she felt the cold harsh flesh of his finger tips slip beneath the band of her panties, she struggled more firmly, pushing back. She bowed into him, kicking back with one foot and connecting hard with his shin. She needed him to lower the blade at her neck, just a smidge. The rage that her fight stirred in him preluded her success. He pulled the blade back and she watched, as if in slow motion, as he raised his arm, intent on hitting her in the head with the hilt of his pathetic little weapon, but he would never get the chance.

  With speed he did not expect, and strength she should not possess, she kicked off hard from the wall, spinning round on him as he staggered. Her hands found the wrist of his weaponed hand and spun it around behind him with such force that the shatter of bones echoed off the stone beside her. His pain etched scream, followed by a torrent of obscenity and threats, squealed from him as her right foot came down on the back side of his knee. The blow reduced the joint to a sack of bone meal, causing her would-be attacker to crumple to the ground, sobbing like a wounded dog. She wanted the fight to last, to leach out every blood curdling squeak within him before it was done, but he failed her. Two blows and he was nothing more than battered meat, cringing on the ground. Pulling a tissue from her vest pocket, she bent down and lightly grasped the hilt of his diminutive blade between her small fingers.

  As she stood, all manner of flood lights began to kick on around her. Uniformed officers appeared, half a dozen or so, that had been waiting for the end of the event to swoop in and remove the attacker. As she walked back to the backpack she had dropped, a woman trotted forward. In her hand was a simple manila envelope. Dropping the blade lightly into the bag, she smiled as sweetly as she was able, and lifted her book bag from the ground, handing that to the C.S.I. as well. Her work was finished, the uniforms and the C.S.I. team would wrap her messy assault into a neat little package for the D.A.

  “Glad to see this one ended quickly. I’d hate to think of you slaving away out here all night. It is a Sunday after all. There seem to be fewer and fewer criminals roaming the park these days. Soon, you will put you
rself out of a job.” She looked up to see him standing atop the wall before her. A rather large, barrel chested man in his late fifties, Captain Harvey Moreano had found her in the academy. He had freed her from the routine training that would have been her life for the year since, brought her into the bait program and had given her life purpose, but still she did not like him. She couldn’t even bring herself to trust him. She could count on one hand the men she could honestly trust, care about, and he would never rank among them. Despite his pride in her, and his appreciation for her abilities, something she found most men who worked with her scoffed at or envied to the point of rejecting her as a colleague, she had never, and would never, feel anything more than tolerance for him and his presence. He was her boss, and nothing more.

  “There will always be more.” Her voice was cold, clear, ice water on a hot day. Silk and cream, with the unmistakable bitterness that comes with hatred.

  “Heh, how can you be so sure?” His smile was rimmed with amused pride as he watched her lift her small frame effortlessly up and onto the wall, as if she were stepping over a low curb. A hint of pleasure swiped across his face, but died before she met his gaze, she would not have appreciated it.

  “Because there are still men here, Captain, and as long as men exist, women will be victims. Of that, I am certain.” The cold glaze of her voice held no hint of mockery and deep down he knew she meant every word.

  “Such a dark view of life for one so young. Ah, well, shall I get one of the uniforms to drive you home?” He knew the answer, it was the same every night, but he always felt compelled to ask. She was his protege, his master piece. He had hand picked her from the academy only a few months into her term. Her scores were off the charts and her physical capabilities were beyond listing, so much so that even he was not fully aware of what she could be capable.