THE CARBON STEEL CARESS

by GC Smith

  Hammil turned to Claudia, whose hands were pressed against her mouth. He chuckled. “Well, sweet stuff, got him to untie you, huh? ”

  Claudia, cotton mouthed, tried to speak. She made an effort to wet her lips and managed to stammer out, “I ... , he just …”

  Hammil cut her short, “Sure thing, baby cakes.”

  “Please, believe me. He came in and untied me. He ...

  Hammil cut in again, ignoring her words, “You're lucky I came back here, sweet stuff. Victor ain't quite civilized.” Hammil's eyes moved over her body, measuring her. “He likes little girls. Raped his brother's daughter down in Waycross, Georgia. Kid was eleven. He was running from the law but more from his brother when he washed up on Hilton Head.” Hammil watched her closely, gauging the effect of his words. “I'm taking care of him. So, he's loyal. Know what I mean? I tell him do something, he does it. Doesn't matter what.

  “I'm going to tie you again and you don't give me any shit. You do, I get Victor back in here. Capish?”

  Claudia nodded, confused, totally unable to understand where she was and why Nick MacAndrews was doing this to her. She was to demoralized to offer argument.

  Hammil crossed to the bed and picked up the nylon bonds. He lashed her hands behind her back, pushed her down onto the bed, and secured her ankles.

  She lay defeated, listening to the drone of the bus's diesel, fearing that the simian creature would return.

  ***

  An hour later Hammil reentered the bedroom. “Bus ride's over; time to move babe,” he said as he leaned over Claudia. Pinching the flesh of the underside of her upper arm between thumb and forefinger he jabbed the hypodermic needle into muscle.

  Capers parked the bus in the backmost portion of an I-26 rest stop lot away from view of the welcome station and other vehicles coming into or leaving the roadside facility. He and Hammil, supporting the unconscious woman between them, entered a waiting Ford tradesman's van driven by Joan Wiley-Capers.

  For several hours they drove west. Then the van left the main road and began to climb a rough, unpaved surface.

  Half an hour later, Joan pulled the vehicle into a clearing in front of a cabin and Capers, followed by the others, got out. He carried the still unconscious Claudia up several steps into the building. Upstairs, he laid her on a bed. He retreated, locking the door behind himself.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  The Blue Ridge Mountains

  North Carolina

  Claudia awakened in a darkened room, head throbbing. She forced herself to sit up, then, to stand. None too steadily, she crossed the bare floor and tried the door. Locked. She went to the window and pulled back the curtain.

  Late morning sun shafts filtered into the room through dense forest growth. Heavy anchor fencing material covered the outer frame of the window. She was imprisoned. Groggy, she returned to the bed, rubbing at her eyes, trying to piece together what had happened.

  She could remember leaving the car and walking toward a building. A private club, he had called it. She could remember feeling a stinging sensation in her arm and a bandage being placed over her mouth. And she could vaguely remember the simian creature on the motor home. Beyond that her mind was blank. She touched her lips with fingers that shook.

  Minutes that seemed like hours passed; fear receded to be replaced by anger. She heard the lock bolt snap as a key was turned in the door. Claudia stared as the man entered the room. “Take me back to the hotel at once,” she shouted. She started to move toward the open door.

  The man intercepted her, grasping her shoulders and shoving her backward. “Lady, I'm not who or what you think,” he said. “Behave yourself and I'll tell you the score.”

  “You're Nick MacAndrews.”

  “No, sweet stuff.”

  “What kind of a joke is this? Who put you up to this

  stunt?”

  He cut her short. “No joke. No stunt.”

  Claudia tried again to reach the open door.

  The man reached out and slapped her, sending her sprawling onto a chair, cracking her head against its wooden back. Dazed, she focused her eyes with difficulty and saw two other men appear in the doorway. They came into the room. The one on the right was young with the sun bleached hair of a surfer. The other one, older, short and swarthy, was the creature who had attacked her on the bus. He stared at Claudia.

  Pete Hammil nodded toward the blond man who carried a tape recorder. To Claudia he said, “You do what you're told and you'll be back with your friends unharmed.”

  The simian grinned at her, exposing huge yellow teeth, spittle glistened at the corners of his mouth. He stared, licked his lips, and scratched himself with spatulate dirt-encrusted fingernails. His stench permeated the still air of the room.

  Watching the look of revulsion that crossed Claudia's face, the man said, “Victor won't bother you again;” he paused, smiled, and continued, “unless I give the word.”

  The creature smiled lasciviously, eyes fixed on Claudia's breasts.

  Claudia, hand pressed against the burning flesh of her cheek, looked from one man to the other confused and, now, afraid, terrified.

  The blond man set the portable recorder on a table and the man who she had believed to be Nick MacAndrews said to Claudia. “I want you to tape a message for your lawyer.” He retrieved a typewritten sheet of paper from a shirt pocket.

  Claudia, nerve returning, glared defiantly. “You're

  mad. There is no way you can get away with this. I'm not taping any message.”

  “Yes, you are. Read it.”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Read it.”

  “I won't,” becoming somewhat more assertive.

  “Do it or Victor will change your mind. He'd like

  that.” He paused, looking from Claudia to Victor Rustico and back to Claudia. “You might enjoy Victor; maybe you're the type. Maybe you like it to hurt? Maybe you get off on pain?”

  Claudia, nerve gone, wet her lips. Her voice was tiny, nearly inaudible. “No, please no.”

  The creature narrowed his pig eyes, his grin widened.

  A harsh sound escaped the rictus.

  “Go Victor.”

  The simian like creature started to move toward Claudia. “No,” Claudia’s voice stronger now, “I'll do what you ask.”

  “Better,” the man said, handing her the paper. He called back the creature.

  Claudia looked down at the words, took the microphone that the blond man held out to her, then read, “This is Claudia Chatrian. I have been kidnapped. I haven't been harmed. You are to wait for instructions. They say that all they want is money. Please, do what they ask.”

  Hammil took the microphone from Claudia's hand. “You read lines good, sweet stuff.”

  The three men left the room and Claudia heard the bolt slide home.

  Hilton Head Island

  Beaufort County, SC

  September 14, A.M.

  Art Silverman sat behind a chrome and glass desk in the hotel suite that served as his office. It was eleven thirty a.m. and the shooting had been scheduled for nine. Claudia had not shown. It was unlike her and Silverman was worried. He had called her suite but there had been no answer. Finally, he went to the suite where he had encountered a maid who told her that Miss Chatrian had not spent the night there.

  Silverman remembered her message that she was going out with Nick MacAndrews the night before. He called MacAndrews' office, leaving word that it was urgent that MacAndrews return his call.

  ***

  Noon, September 14

  Silverman's secretary buzzed, telling him that a messenger was in the outer office with a package for him. Silverman unwrapped the square box. Inside was a miniature tape recorder and pasted on it's cover a small white card that read, 'Play it.'

  Silverman pressed the play button.

  This message is from Claudia Chatrian. Listen to it and get it to her lawyer, Harry Trent, immediately. The voice tailed off, followed by a few se
conds of tape hiss. Then Claudia's voice began,

  This is Claudia Chatrian ...

  Silverman stared horrified at the recorder, listening, fear growing, as Claudia's voice completed the message. He was rewinding the tape when he heard the knock on his open door and looked up to see Nick MacAndrews.

  Silverman gestured to the tape recorder. “What in the name of God is this all about, MacAndrews?”

  “What’s what all about? What's your problem?”

  “Claudia Chatrian has been ... -just listen.” Silverman punched the play button. The tape played through, stopped, and Silverman said, “She left word that she was with you last night.”

  “No sir. Not so. I've never met Claudia Chatrian.”

  Silverman leaned forward, palms flat on the top of his desk. “Then why would she leave a message that she was with you?”

  MacAndrews shook his head. “I don't have a clue. I was in New York, just got back. You'd better call the police. Who's this Trent guy?”

  “Harry Trent. The firm is Trent, Goodsell, Archer, and Windsor in Moultrie Bay.”

  “Make the calls.”

  Silverman called Moultrie Bay and was informed that Trent was in Atlanta on business. He told the woman in Trent's office the urgent nature of his call. Within fifteen minutes Trent called from Atlanta, telling Silverman that he would be on the next plane into Hilton Head.

  At six o'clock that evening Trent and Silverman ran trough the Hilton Head airport terminal and got into Silverman's Porsche. Twenty minutes later Trent listened to the tape recording. As the message ended, Silverman's secretary hurried into the office, handing him a newspaper. He scanned the front page article and handed the paper to Trent without comment.

  The Hilton Head Examiner headlined the kidnapping. The story contained an exact transcript of Claudia's taped message to Trent.

  Trent slapped the paper down on the desk and demanded, “Who made this public? If this is some kind of a stunt by the studio I'll sue to negate Claudia's contract.”

  “Harry, for Christ's sweet sake, this is no stunt. ”

  Trent ignored Silverman and reached for the phone. It began to ring before he could pick it up. “Harry,” his administrative assistant in Moultrie Bay began, “A letter was delivered to me by private messenger. It instructed me to contact you at once. It details the kidnapping and the ransom demand and conditions.”

  “Read it to me.” Trent could hear the crackle of paper

  over the phone. Then the message:

  Harry Trent: Miss Chatrian will be returned unharmed if you do exactly as you're told. We gave the story on the kidnapping to the newspapers and the police. It's diversionary; designed to keep them busy. Play along. There will be other messages with instructions for you alone. Follow all instructions to the letter. The penalty for deviation will be severe.

  The rest of the message detailed the ransom demand and instructed Trent to signal his compliance by inserting an ad in the business classified of the Examiner. The text of the ad was provided.

  “Do it,” Trent ordered. “Place the ad.”

  MacAndrews came into the office and Trent asked, “Who in hell is this?”

  Silverman quickly stepped forward. “Nick MacAndrews. Nick owns the hotel.” He handed the newspaper to MacAndrews.

  MacAndrews glanced through the article. He asked, “Why would the kidnappers give the story to the papers?”

  Trent shook his head wearily, “God knows. They say it's diversionary. But diversion from what? I don't have a clue.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  The Blue Ridge Mountains

  Evening, September 14

  “Harry Trent's ad should be in tomorrow's Examiner,” Joan said, “I have to get back to Moultrie County and get the payout arrangements to him. As soon as I've taken care of that, I’11 come back for you, Pete. You and I will confirm that the ransom money was transferred and Micah and Victor will leave with the Chatrian woman. After they release her, we'll meet in Toronto as planned.”

  Hammil took a long pull from a bottle of Budweiser. “I like the arrangement. You and me checking a numbered account. Micah and Victor handling the Chatrian broad. Eliminates the need for trust. I like it fine.”

  Capers, who had come into the cabin’s kitchen-dining area, said, “That's how we operate. Above board. No surprises, no double deals. Everything business-like.”

  Joan stood and brushed her lips against Micah's, a quick connubial kiss, natural seeming. She pulled on a jacket, not closing the nylon zipper. “Mountain air is chilly,” she said. At the kitchen door she paused, reaching into her jacket's inner lining pocket. “Pete.”

  Hammil turned in his chair to face her and she shot 'him with a silenced .32 revolver.

  Simultaneously, Capers, who had been clued by the kiss that the time to act was now, made his move. He caught Victor with a two-handed blow to the face, toppling him to the floor.

  Joan stepped forward and shot Victor in the eye. “Check them,” she said.

  Capers felt for Victor's pulse while Joan covered Hammil's still body with the .32. Satisfied that Victor was dead, he checked Hammil. Detecting a flickering pulse, he took the pistol from Joan's hand, placed it against the crown of Hammil's skull, and squeezed the trigger.

  Joan stepped forward and kissed her husband again, a long, intense sexual kiss; her tongue probing; her breasts mashed against his chest; her pelvis pressed against his. Reluctantly she pulled away from the embrace. “I have to go,” she said, zipping the jacket to her throat. “Later.”

  Capers wrapped the bodies in heavy plastic and dragged them from the kitchen to the deck outside. In turn he carried each body a mile into the woods, then went back to the cabin for a pry bar. Returning to the site where he had left the bodies, he levered a yellow rock from the mouth of a shallow cave. He pushed the bodies inside and resealed the opening. Backtracking, he redistributed fallen leaves to eliminate any sign of disturbance.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  Hilton Head Island

  Beaufort County, SC

  September 15

  Chief Deputy Ronnie Don Martin, a rumpled 28 year veteran of the Beaufort County Sheriff's Department, Hilton Head Unit, accompanied by a pinstriped Federal agent from the Bureau's Charleston office, met for the third time with Trent, MacAndrews, and Silverman at eight o'clock on Sunday morning. Twenty one hours had elapsed since the delivery of the initial message from the kidnappers.

  Martin opened the meeting. “Gentlemen, this is where we stand. We've been able to determine that Micah Capers, a management employee of the Beach Palace, and an unknown accomplice kidnapped Miss Chatrian. They also stole a custom tour bus from a rock group.”

  The pin-striper interrupted, “These are serious federal offences. We'll be in charge of this investigation.”

  Martin shot a withering look at the agent, his expression alone, no words needed, saying, shut the fuck up stupid, and continued, “We found the bus. It was abandoned at a rest stop on I-26, near Columbia. Capers had the kidnapping well planned, including his timing. He's kept a step-step an' a half- in front of us.”

  “Wait just a moment there,” Trent exploded, coming out of his seat. “Neither of you have a clue as to who your talking about.”

  Martin and the F.B.I. agent stared at Trent, confused.

  Trent turned to MacAndrews, “Capers,” he said and then, “his given name is Micah and he's from Moultrie Bay? Correct?”

  MacAndrews replied, “Yes.”

  Trent turned back to the law enforcement officers and said, “Capers and his wife are multiple murders.”

  Martin said, “We had no way to know.”

  “Horseshit. The razor murders. Capers and his wife were identified as the killers. There's a nationwide search on for them. They've had more dammed publicity than Speck in Chicago or Dahmer in Minnesota. For Christ's sake, are you assholes blind? Deaf? Don't you poor excuses for law officers talk past your noses?” Trent paused, red-faced, after his outburst, a
nd then continued with, “Now, besides the abandoned bus, do you boneheads have a clue as to where Capers may be?”

  “We'll find out where he's gone,” the FBI agent said, his voice a practiced calm. “Our people are alerted. They're working on it.”

  Trent said, “Meantime, my client may be dead.”

  The agent half rose from his chair, caught himself, settled back, and said with measured tones. “Now, Sir, stay calm. I assure you “

  “Young man, you assure me nothing.”

  The agent, still calm, tones still measured, came back with, “Please Sir, be reasonable.”

  “Reasonable,” Trent shouted. “We're wasting time with bullshit. Meeting's over. I'll pay the ransom.”

  The cops, both Beaufort County and F.B.I., argued against Trent's decision. The F.B.I. agent’s argument slipping from measured to frantic as he realized that he had lost control of the meeting.

  Trent stared down the cops, cutting their arguments off with, “If there are developments I should know about contact my office. Thank you, gentlemen. That's all.”

  Five minutes after Deputy Martin and the FBI agent left the office the intercom buzzed on MacAndrews' desk. His secretary said, “There's a messenger here for Mr. Trent.”

  Trent took a manila envelope from a fat kid and said, “Stay here.” The kid's eyes went round and they shifted from one man to the other.

  Trent slit the envelope and extracted two sheets of typed white paper. He finished reading and placed the sheets face down on the desk. “Who sent this?”