THE CARBON STEEL CARESS

by GC Smith

  “They forced me to help them,” he lied. “I sold some grass in Hilton Head and they used that as leverage. They threatened to turn me in if I didn't go along with them.”

  “They frighten me.”

  He crossed the space between them and sat close to her.

  “You have nothing to be afraid of, Claudia. As soon as your attorney pays the ransom you'll be freed.”

  Claudia moved against him. She raised her head, dark eyes looking into his, tears glistening. “Please help me.”

  Playing her game, Capers pulled her to him, kissing her neck; his fingertips tracing the swell of her breast. He pulled her up from the sofa and led her toward the stairs.

  Claudia willed her body to relax and followed him upstairs and into the bedroom.

  He closed the door and lifting her hair, began to stroke her neck, gradually increasing his pressure to the point of pain.

  Claudia tried to pull away but Capers held her firmly, covering her mouth with his.

  Relax, she said silently. He's you only chance.

  Capers pushed his tongue past her teeth. Claudia fighting gag instinct compelled herself to meet his tongue with hers.

  The door to the bedroom swung open and Capers turned toward the sound. “Joan,” he said softly.

  Joan Wiley-Capers moved toward her husband, her arm raised to strike. “Get away from her.”

  Capers pushed Claudia from him. His right hand shot forward knocking aside Joan's arm. He grasped her throat, shoving her against the door frame, saying in the same soft tone, “Never, Joan. Never raise your hand to me.”

  Claudia watched the woman fight to break Capers's grip. “Stop,” she shouted. “You'll strangle her.”

  Capers pivoted, loosening his grip on his wife's throat.

  He slapped Claudia, sprawling her backward, across the bed.

  Joan, taking advantage of Capers's distraction, reached

  into her handbag. She raised a .32 revolver toward Claudia.

  “No, Joan. Don’t,” Capers shouted. “The ransom, remember the money.”

  The woman's eyes narrowed. “Get out of the way.”

  Claudia watched Capers back away from the woman, his hands raised in a placating gesture. “Put the gun down, Joan. It's too easy. Too quick.” Capers continued speaking, voice softening, his words mesmerizing, persuasive, lulling the woman. “Remember Marie Della Porta. Remember the game. Our game.”

  The gun wavered; slowly and hesitantly Joan lowered it. She came toward Capers, a feral gleam in her eyes. “Yes. Do her. Like Marie Della Porta.”

  Capers said to Claudia, “Get up, bitch.” He took the sash from the terry robe that lay on the bed and lashed Claudia's wrists behind her back; pain stabbed into her shoulders. She struggled and kicked out at him. Capers reached up and slapped her, the force of the blow jerking her head back. He pushed her into a chair. He stood before Claudia, his legs spread wide. Slowly, he unsheathed the carbon steel blade from the straight razor's bone handle.

  Claudia sat head bowed, a film of perspiration formed beneath her blouse.

  “Open your eyes, bitch,” his voice hard. He jerked

  Claudia's chin up. “That's better,” he said, voice now like silk.

  The razor flashed, cutting buttons away, opening Claudia’s shirt. Deliberately Capers inserted the cold steel between her breasts and with a deft motion severed the connecting fabric between the cups of the lace bra.

  Joan murmured, “Slowly darling. Go slowly.” She undid the buttons of her shirt, nearly identical to the shirt that now lay open, exposing Claudia's breasts.

  Claudia struggled for breath, sobs choking her. The cool, pine scented breeze from the partially opened window played on the beads of sweat on her skin, chilling her, stiffening her nipples.

  Joan, smiling, looked over the woman bound in the chair, hair disheveled, naked to the waist, a crimson blotch across one cheek where Capers had slapped her.

  Bile rose, filling Claudia's mouth with a bitter acid taste. Silently she prayed.

  Joan slipped off her shirt and bra and began to unzip her jeans as Capers straight razor in hand reached for Claudia's breast.

  “Wait, Micah.”

  At his wife's words, pain speared into Capers's brain.

  He spun and with a wrist flick flashed the carbon steel blade across Joan's breasts, slicing deep into the flesh. Vivid crimson gushed from the wound.

  Claudia heard the woman's incredulous whisper, “Why? Why, Micah?”

  Blood poured from between Joan's fingers; fingers pressed against the gash. Caper's took Joan's face in the palms of his hands, smiled into her confused eyes, and kissed her lips. He turned his wife toward Claudia, tilted her head back, and slashed her throat. “Good-bye puss,” he said.

  Capers wiped the razor's bloodied blade on Claudia's blouse. “Bitch,” he snarled, “You thought that you could come on to me, get me to help you.”

  Claudia stared up at Capers, her face expressionless. “You don't know who I am, do you?” Capers slid his hand down her face and throat to her breast and pinched the nipple between thumb and fingernail, drawing blood.

  She moaned, reacting as much to the degradation as to the pain.

  “There will be time for you and me. Later.”

  Claudia watched as he caressed the blade with a thumb, steel glinting as it caught the last reflected rays of the sun. She struggled to find voice.

  Capers looked at the body of the woman on the floor. “Worthless. As worthless as you. Too dumb to understand; too greedy to think of anything but money. You're all the same. Stupid, avaricious cunts.”

  “Please. Harry will pay.”

  “I don't care about the dammed ransom. I'm interested in only one thing, baby sister.”

  Claudia gasped for breath, fighting now. “You're mad.”

  Capers' hand lashed out, slapping, whipping Claudia's head from side to side. Fury satisfied for the moment, he said, “No, I'm not mad. You are. You and Trent and all the others. Deluding yourselves. Taking. Always taking and pretending to be normal.” He pulled her to her feet by her bound wrists. Shoving her forward he steered her to a closet designed for owner storage and which had heavy oak door and was equipped with a barrel bolt. He thrust her inside, slipped the bolt shut and screamed through the door, “I’11 be back, sister. I’ll be back.”

  McReney drove the Chevrolet Suburban all out. Donal sat in the passenger bucket; Mike was in the back. Despite their speed, the drive from Moultrie Bay to the remote back-country of the North Carolina Blue Ridge seemed to take forever.

  The three men said almost nothing throughout the drive, their sense of urgency precluding small talk. Near sundown they left the highway and took the Suburban onto rutted switchback trails. As the setting sun began its decent below the horizon they pulled the SUV into the road that they all prayed would lead to Claudia Chatrian.

  “We better have this right,” Donal said.

  Past the second curve the rutted road narrowed; mountain laurel and pine branches scraped the sides of the truck. The overhang of the trees made night of the evening dusk. The road broke into a clearing.

  “Over there, to the right,” Mike said. It's just visible through the trees.”

  Donal saw a chinked log cabin, facsimile of an eighteenth century settlers home. “Wait back here, Al. Mike and I will go in on foot.”

  Al moved the wagon into a copse of trees where it could not be seen. “Back us with the rifle,’ Donal said. “If I shout come on in fast.”

  Mike carried a 9mm automatic handgun; Donal, the short barreled .38 Smith that he had favored since his first plain clothes police assignment. Together they entered the woods and started in the direction of the cabin.

  They scouted, noting there were no lights in the building and no vehicles near the cabin. Donal, using the cover of darkness, slipped onto the porch. He tried the front door, found it unlocked. He waved Mike forward.

  Together they moved through the empty living room.


  Bottles and glasses stood on the table by the fireplace. In the kitchen, plates and cutlery were piled haphazardly in the sink. They retraced their steps to the living room and Donal led the way upstairs.

  At the top of the stairs Donal could see into a bedroom.

  Gun drawn, carried forward two handed, he checked the bedroom while Mike waited, alert, listening for the slightest sound that would indicate Capers's whereabouts.

  Donal emerged from the room with a negative head shake and the two men moved rapidly, checking the empty bathroom before positioning themselves on either side of a closed door.

  With Mike on the left, gun poised, Donal twisted the knob and kicked the door open. They moved into the room together.

  The molten copper smell of fresh blood assaulted them. “We're too late.” Donal looked at the congealing pool that stained the pine floor boards.

  They turned as one toward a muffled sound. Donal motioned Mike to move to the closet door. They positioned themselves, guns ready. Mike reached for the bolt. Slowly, he slid it free.

  Claudia Chatrian stood with her back pressed against the closet wall. She stumbled forward. Johnny Donal caught her. Red welts marked her cheeks, a trickle of blood congealed on her right breast.

  Donal untied her hands and draped a blanket around her naked shoulders. He asked, “Can you walk, Miss Chatrian?”

  She nodded.

  Donal guided Claudia down the steps and out onto the deck where he had left a walkie-talkie unit. “Come on in, AI, we have her.”

  Capers made his way back over the trail toward the cabin. He had carried Joan's corpse to the cave in which he had earlier stuffed Hammil and Rustico. He’d kill the bitch stepsister now. Finish it. He smiled, tight lipped.

  A hundred yards from the cabin Capers heard the voice. “O.K., Johnny. Coming in.” The voice stopped Capers in mid-stride. He faded back into the woods and worked his way through the thick forest for a quarter of a mile to where Joan had parked their car. Releasing the BMW's handbrake he allowed the car to coast backward down the steep hill. He switched the ignition lock to the accessory position to free the steering wheel and guided the car onto a barely visible trail cut from the road into the vine laced Carolina forest. The trail sloped downward for more than a hundred yards and he cut the wheel to move the car to a position where it could not be seen from the road but from which he could, if necessary, quickly get away. Then he started back through the trees on foot.

  Stopping several hundred yards from the cabin, Capers watched and listened. Voices were clearly audible, amplified in the stillness of the mountain air.

  “You stay here. Wait for the cops. Mike and I will take Miss Chatrian to safety.”

  Concealed in the thick underbrush of the encircling forest, Capers watched the two men help Claudia Chatrian walk to a SUV. He watched one of them turn back to a third man and heard him say, “Stay alert. Capers will be back.”

  Mike moved the four wheel drive vehicle carefully down the rutted dirt road. Donal leaned forward to look into Claudia's eyes. “It's over, Miss Chatrian.”

  She sat rigidly between Donal and Mike, not responding. Mike pulled the vehicle slowly from the dirt track and guided it onto the paved country road. Five minutes later, he turned onto the access to Interstate 26 and took the truck up to eighty-five.

  Suddenly Donal felt the rigidity of Claudia's body give way to trembling. He put his arm around her and held her, attempting to ease the spasms and to keep her warm. He reached over and switched from cooled air to heat.

  Thirty minutes later as Mike steered the wagon off the interstate and onto the curving ramp that led to the outskirts of Ashville. Donal said. “Miss Chatrian.” Her only response was a slight shake of her head. Donal said, “Just a few more minutes to the hospital.”

  Abruptly Claudia sat upright, and pushed herself away from Donal's protective arm, saying hoarsely, “No. Please no hospital. Take me to Harry.”

  “When we get to the hospital, I'll call him. He'll come to you.”

  “No. Please.”

  “Miss Chatrian,” he began again. “It's hours to Moultrie Bay. You need . . .

  Again she interrupted, “Please, listen to me. How far are we from Spartanburg? I have a farm near there.”

  Mike stopped for a red light and looked at Donal. “What do you want to do?” He nodded in the direction of the lights of Ashville General four blocks away.

  Donal said, “Pullover. I'll call Trent.” He grabbed his cell phone from the Suburbia’s center console.

  Trent, relieved and overjoyed to learn that Claudia was safe, agreed it might be best to take her to Spartanburg. He would fly from the Lady Caroline Island airport where he kept a Cessna 162 directly to the farm and would meet them there.

  Donal, out of the vehicle and standing alongside, spoke quietly to Mike, “Trent will meet us in Spartanburg. He's flying there with Ms. Chatrian’s doctor.” More quietly he said, “Capers killed someone in that cabin; his accomplice, maybe his wife. You stay here and contact the North Carolina State Police. Rent a car and get back to McReney.” Donal stood by the side of the SUV, unconsciously scuffing his shoe in roadside gravel, thinking. He said, “Stall a bit before you call the cops. Give me time to get her away. Two hours. The last thing she needs is to be questioned.”

  “Right, Johnny. Will do.”

  Donal slid into the Suburban's driver's seat.

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  The Blue Ridge Mountains

  September 16

  Capers armed with Joan's little two inch .32 considered going into the cabin and taking the man who had been left behind. He could ... “Don't be stupid,” he admonished himself. “Get out of here, he's not important.” He released the revolver's hammer and pocketed the gun. He made his way back to the BMW, started it, and pulled from the concealed cut in the woods to the paved road. He jammed the accelerator to the floor and slammed the transmission through its gears. A fine misting rain had begun and he set the stalk to operate the wipers on intermittent.

  Capers's head pounded with intense pain; he fought an urge to vomit. Pain won over mental focus for an instant and Capers failed to anticipate the sharp curve in the downward sloping road. The BMW came into the curve fast, its rear wheels losing grip, cutting loose. Capers braked hard, an error. The rear wheels refused traction sliding out further on the rain slicked pavement. Reflexively Capers eased brake pressure and heel and toed accelerator and brake. The car steadied, tires biting into asphalt. The rear end straightened and the BMW accelerated into steerage carrying the car out away from the slide. The maneuver was fractionally late, the car’s right front wheel slammed against a rock outcropping on the side of the road, forcing the sedan left toward the pavement center. The car decelerated and stopped in a clearing several hundred yards further on.

  The damage appeared superficial. The right front fender well was pushed inward close to the wheel but the tire held air. Capers got a tire iron from the trunk and pried sheet metal outward, away from the tire. He started the car and drove back onto the road immediately feeling the hidden damage. The steering wheel lurched in his hands and the coupe fought toward the right side of the crowned road. Accelerating intensified the rightward pull; the suspension was severely compromised; the car virtually undriveable.

  Capers nursed the vehicle to a dirt road that intersected

  the highway. Approximately a quarter mile in he eased the crippled car through the door less opening of a sagging, abandoned barn. He dragged a bale of blackened, mildewed hay forward, broke it open, and scattered it over the car. For forty minutes he worked, covering the car with bale after bale of hay. He knew that the sedan would be found but the improvised camouflage job could buy some time.

  On the way into the barn he had seen a modern 'A' frame cabin situated in a clearing higher up on the side of the mountain. He estimated less than a mile to the cabin and began to walk toward the building. Twenty minutes later the woods opened to the clearing. Capers stopped and surv
eyed the scene, his senses alert. Blue-gray smoke wisps rose from the cabin chimney, trailing against the clouded night sky, leaving behind the mellow odor of burning oak.

  Still covered by the woods, Capers carefully walked the cabin's perimeter checking for signs of occupancy. He moved up onto the front deck and knocked. No response. He tried the knob; the unlocked door gave way.

  The cabin was warm; ashes smoldered in the fireplace grate; flamelets licked at the unburned portion of an split oak log. Someone had been there within the past hour and might still be inside.

  “Capers stepped in and called, “Anyone here?”

  No response.

  Capers closed the door behind him and began to move from room to room searching for weapons and money. His legs trembled from exhaustion brought on from fighting the intensifying headache. He carried Joan's handgun. The straight razor was in his pocket. He had twelve dollars in another pocket. Everything else he had left at the cabin with Claudia Chatrian.

  Rapidly, Capers searched the living area of the cabin for another weapon or ammunition for the .32. He was entering the kitchen area when he heard the crunch of automobile tires outside on the pea granite drive. Quickly he returned to the living area and concealed himself behind a wicker screen placed to one side of the fireplace.

  They came up onto the deck, laughing and talking loudly. “Get the glasses sweetheart,” a youthful feminine voice said. “Daddy has a bar over there by the fireplace and he told me that he stocked the fridge with Moet et Chardon.”

  “Your Father's the bomb.” The young man tossed his Clemson letterman's jacket and a carton of Marlboros on the coffee table and turned toward the bar.

  “He's your father-in-law now, sweetheart. She snapped on the stereo receiver, filling the room with Billy Idol's high decibel rock. “Gonna change into something sexy. Be back in sec.”