by GC Smith
Capers stepped from behind the screen and slipped behind the young man. He clamped his hand over the kid’s throat, pressed the silenced .32 to his head, and pulled the trigger. A splintering of bone and flesh splattered the bar top. A Rorschach blot of crimson stained the wall. Blood spilled onto the left sleeve of Capers's shirt.
Capers reached down and took the young man's wallet. Eleven dollars. The wallet also contained a couple of photographs, a Clemson University student I.D. card made out to Robert A. Barrack, and a South Carolina driver's license.
Capers positioned himself and watched the girl moving around in the bedroom, snapping her fingers to the deafening rock beat that filled the cabin. Stabbing pain tortured his
brain.
She was chunky, not obese, but carrying a few more pounds than she needed. She still had a semblance of waist line and her long legs were solid, fat pads only beginning to blend hip and thigh. Thick, luxurious blond tresses fell freely below her shoulders and framed a lovely childish face, dominated by rare violet eyes. She had a pert nose and several thousand dollars of orthodontically corrected teeth behind slightly puffy lips.
She stood in front of the mirror and pulled off her
cashmere sweater and stepped out of tight designer jeans. Large soft breasts with delicate pink nipples swayed slightly as she moved. She cupped her heavy breasts with her palms and, looking down, brushed silken skinned nipples lightly with finger tips. She smiled, pleased with herself.
Capers stayed at the bedroom door; he fingered the bone handle of the razor.
Smiling into the mirror, the girl tossed her heavy, golden hair and walked to a table. She licked her lips, took a chocolate from a gold foil box, popped it into her mouth, and reached into the open suitcase that lay at the foot of the bed. From it she removed electric blue silk bikini panties and matching camisole, calling out, “Bobby, sweetie, you're going to love this darlin' little outfit your bride's puttin' on just for you, honey. You're just going to love it, sweetie.”
Capers moved back, away from the door.
The girl came into the living room. “You pour the bubbly yet, sweetie?” Then she saw him sprawled face down on the carpeting. “Bobby! What? What's the matter?”
Capers, blood splattered, smelling of rotted hay, stepped forward with the .32 in his hand.
She looked at him, mouth agape. A dark stain spread from the crotch of her bikini briefs. Her hand dropped to her pubis to cover her embarrassment.
“Sit,” Capers motioned toward the sofa with the revolver.
“I ... , I can't,” she replied her eyes dropping to her urine stained panties; her face crimson.
“Sit, dammit.”
She obeyed, averting her eyes from the boy’s body.
“I want money, credit cards, and car keys.”
“Please,” she stammered, “Please don't hurt me.”
“You heard me.”
“Yes, anything that you want. Anything.”
“Get it.”
She rose unsteadily and took her bag from the bar and handed it to Capers. Capers turned the leather Coach bag over and spilled the contents; cigarettes, keys, plastic birth control pill dispenser, tissue pack, wallet. Junk covered the table top, spilling over onto the floor. He put the car keys into his pocket and unsnapped the clasp on the wallet.
“Take my credit cards,” she blurted. “There's money, take it too. Just don't hurt me.”
“Shut up.” He counted four twenties and two fives; ninety dollars. He looked into her violet eyes and issued a monosyllabic snort of a laugh.
“Please,” she whispered, “Don't hurt me.”
“It won't hurt,” he said as he placed the gun on the table top.
She smiled weakly, terrified, yet at the same time, survival instinct edging her toward the seductiveness that had always worked for her.
Capers motioned her to stand, left hand outstretched as if to help her.
She stood before him, lips parted, beginning to believe that he wouldn't hurt her; watching him as he appraised her body; forgetting her piss stained panties. Forgetting her husband. Forgetting all but survival. She smiled.
Capers took his right hand from his pocket and slashed once with the razor. Then again, again, again. He threw back his head and laughed aloud, headache pain was gone.
Capers discarded his blood stained clothing, showered, and changed into fresh Levis and a wool shirt that had belonged to the young man. He moved from room to room, searching, but turned up no weapons and no additional money. He pulled on the jacket that the boy had tossed onto the coffee table.
Outside, Capers slid into the leather bucket seat of the candy apple red Corvette and started the engine. He glanced over the instrument panel; the fuel gauge read barely over the empty line. “Stupid kids,” Capers muttered. “Sixty grand car and damn near no gas.” He sat for a minute while the engine idled. Shouldn't take the car anyway, he thought, it'll be hot in no time. He began to walk back to the highway. At least now he had a clear head, a hundred and thirteen dollars, credit cards, and a warm wool and leather jacket.
Air brakes hissed as the over the road rig rolled to a stop. Capers ran forward and the truck driver reached over the passenger's seat and opened the cab door. Capers grasped the chrome hand hold and pulled himself into the eighteen wheeler's cab. Over the throb of the diesel the truck driver hollered, “Where you headed?”
“North,” Capers shouted back. “Toronto.”
“Come on. I can take you as far as the Pennsylvania Turnpike.”
Capers swung up into the cab and settled in the passenger seat. “Thanks. Appreciate the ride.”
The driver nodded, gunned the diesel and double clutched into gear. The huge truck hesitated, straining against its load, and then began to roll.
They drove west for five miles and the driver said, “Few more miles and I can cut over and pick up the interstate.
Take U.S. forty for a few miles and I can catch route 81. Straight shot north from there.”
The truck lurched slightly to the right and the driver aided by the vehicle's power steering brought it back onto a straight line. “Goddamn. Losin' a tire.” He eased the rig over to the shoulder, “Damned retreads,” the driver said. “There goes my schedule. Shot to hell.”
The driver and Capers dismounted. Capers walked around the cab and stood alongside the driver. The driver said, “I better get on the C.B. and make contact for a repair truck.”
A North Carolina State police car pulled in behind the disabled eighteen wheeler. Capers tightened his hand around the revolver in his jacket pocket, the feel of the checkered walnut grip reassuring.
The trooper strolled forward to where Capers and the truck driver stood.
“Trouble,” the Trooper asked?
“More inconvenience than any thing else,” the driver replied. “Lost a tire.”
“Tough luck. There's a fellow by the name of Jason Breen has a garage two miles from here. He's equipped to handle these big tires. He might still be open. I'll drive on up and send him back.”
“I know Jason. Done bidness with him mor'n one time.
Tell him it's Barton Hawk stuck out here. Appreciate the help.”
The State cop nodded and started back toward his cruiser, then stopped and turned to the truck driver, “switch your C.B. over to channel six-eight. I’11 call back as soon as I talk to Breen.” The cop had hardly glanced at Capers.
“Will do, thanks again.”
Hawk and Capers climbed back into the cab. “It'll be a while to fix this. I'll try to get you another ride.” Hawk picked up the C.B. microphone and on channel nine contacted another trucker. The second trucker's voice came back over the radio, “Can do, good buddy. I'm jammin' this here reefer load a smoked hams straight on through to Toronto. Ya'll are fortunate I still had my C.B. turned on. I was about to shut her down and play me some Carrie Underwood Mp3s. Woo-wee, but that Blondie do be one sexy little singer. Hot puss.”
“Lucky break,”
Hawk said to Capers. “Guy says he can carry you all the way.” Hawk twisted the tuner knob on the C.B. radio to channel sixty eight.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Spartanburg, South Carolina
September 16
Donal drove through Spartanburg. He continued on past a sign on U.S. Route 29 that identified Spartan Fields, a horse breeding farm that Trent had told him to watch for. A half mile further he turned the SUV through field stone entrance posts that guarded Claudia Chatrian's estate, Peregrine. Within two hundred yards the tree lined drive widened and the house came into view, lights blazing from windows on two floors. As Donal pulled to a stop in the circular driveway, the door of the house opened. Trent and another man emerged.
Donal carried Claudia inside and Trent introduced the man with him as Dr. Manley Robinson.
Donal followed the doctor up the curving stairway, Claudia in his arms. A door opened at the end of the upstairs hall and a short, round, grey haired woman, dressed in traditional nurse's white, motioned Donal to enter.
Donal turned Claudia over to the care of Dr. Robinson and left the bedroom. Downstairs he joined Trent in a comfortably furnished study where a fire burned in the grate.
“What happened to MacAndrews?”
“He went back to Hilton Head,” Trent replied. It was work to convince him to go home. The man meant well, but ...
“I get the drift. You're right, he wasn't helping.”
Trent, changing the subject, said, “I can't tell you how grateful I am.”
Donal noticed that Trent had shed the harried look of previous night.
“A drink,” Trent offered?
“Irish, if you have it.”
“Ice?”
“Straight up, neat.”
Trent poured a goodly dollop from a bottle of Bushmill’s and handed the glass of whiskey to Donal. “How did you find her?”
Donal explained, crediting Mike Sullivan with coming up with the scrap of paper that led them to the remote mountain cabin. He described Claudia's condition and advised Trent to use whatever influence he had to prevent her from being harassed either by the police or the press.
Donal described the bedroom scene where he and Mike had found Claudia, omitting the details of Claudia's appearance when she had stumbled from the closet. If Capers had raped her, Trent would know soon enough.
“Micah Capers and Joan,” Trent asked?
“No sign of them, but from indications in the cabin it looked like they intended to return. My first consideration was getting Miss Chatrian out of there. I left one of my men behind at the cabin and Mike Sullivan is contacting the North Carolina State Police. They have a good shot at apprehending them.”
Donal didn't go into the bloody condition of the cabin's bedroom and his near certainty that Capers had murdered his wife. He'd wait for confirmation, if and when that came.
Trent shook his head. “I knew Joan Wiley-Capers well; or least I thought so. It's almost impossible to believe that she and her husband are insane. That they're murderers, kidnappers. It's incredible.”
“Yeah, I know, a creditable face seems their stock in trade.” Donal stopped speaking as he heard footsteps coming across to the study.
Dr. Robinson entered the room and allowed himself a slight smile.
Trent said, “Was she ... , is ...
“No, she wasn't raped. Some rest and she'll be fine.” The doctor sat down on the sofa across from Trent. “And I'll be fine with a drink.”
Trent fixed a three finger scotch with a dash of soda.
He didn't ask Robinson's preference; it was obvious they were old friends.
Thanking Trent and taking the tumbler from him the doctor continued. “A few minor bruises and abrasions are the extent of her injuries. She's stiff and sore and exhausted, but she'll be fine.”
“Thank God,” Trent breathed.
Silently Donal added, amen.
Ashville, NC
September 17
Shortly before ten the next morning Mike called Donal.
“I contacted the North Carolina State Police,” he said. “A Lieutenant Carter is in charge. He swung the machinery into operation, got out an all points, set up roadblocks.”
“And?”
Mike sighed, “Son of a bitch vanished. After Carter got things moving, he and I and two uniformed troopers went back to the cabin. McReney reported that everything was quiet. We staked out the place for the rest of the night, but no sign of Capers. A police detail is still there. They found the bodies of Capers's wife and two men wrapped in plastic tarps and stuffed in a niche of a small cavern. Caper's wife was mutilated.”
“That starts the rampage that I've been fearing. I'm coming back up there. We have to stop the bastard before his trail goes cold or we're going to see more blood. A lot more.”
“Catch up with me at State Police headquarters?”
“No. I'll talk to the State cops later. There's a restaurant near Ashville out on route seventy four called the 'Country Bull.' Meet me there.”
“What time?”
“Make it about one o'clock.”
Donal brought Trent up to date, telling him that he was returning to Ashville.
Trent told Donal that Claudia wanted to see him before he left, adding that his office was handling the press and Claudia would not be questioned until the doctor pronounced her fit. Trent chuckled, “Sometimes being the senior partner of a third generation South Carolina law firm has its uses.”
In the bedroom, Claudia Chatrian sat beside open French doors. A small balcony overlooked a vivid green manicured lawn and beyond to acres of rolling country squared by white fencing into horse pastures. Trees on the horizon, their leaves autumnal hues, shimmered in the brilliant September sun.
“Mr. Donal,” Claudia said, holding out both her hands.
“I don't know what to say. Thank you seems inadequate.” She took a fold of her satin robe between her thumb and finger, rubbing the inside of her wrist; the unconscious action the only sign of tension. “Has he been captured?”
“Not yet. He will be.”
“After he killed the other woman he locked me in the closet and said he'd be back. He said he didn't care about the ransom. He said I was mad. A taker, he said. He screamed at me. Always taking he screamed. And he called me baby sister. Why? I don't understand.” The machine shop shrill of cicada clamor almost drown her words. “Why would he say those things and why call me baby sister?”
“I don't know,” Donal said, dissembling. He believed that he did know why Capers accused her of being a taker and why he had referred to her as baby sister. But, he was not yet ready to state his belief, especially to her. “Capers is a psychotic,” he said. “I know that's not much of an answer, but it's all I have. You're safe now.”
“Harry told me about Capers, about the women he and his wife tortured and killed. I'm not safe. Not until he's caught.” Her gaze met his. “Get him, Mr. Donal. Please.”
“I will,” Donal said. “Count on it.”
Donal left the estate and turned the SUV toward Ashville. He had never doubted that Capers intended to kill Claudia. What she had told him about his calling her baby sister confirmed his certainty. He reached back to the earlier investigation and the strange interview in Bluffton with Capers’s fanatic aunt. He was convinced that Claudia Chatrian had been the infant child alluded to by the aunt and who had by sheer chance escaped the fire that had killed Capers's mother and stepfather, Claudia's mother and father. He was equally convinced that Capers accusing Claudia of taking referred to what the man perceived as a loss of his mother's affection after her remarriage and the birth of a daughter.
Donal had promised Claudia that he would get Capers. Dammit, he said to himself, do it. Put him away permanently this time.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
Ashville, North Carolina
September 17
A bottle blond waitress sauntered across the dining
room. Her starched cotton uniform, r
eminiscent of the 1950's, revealed a wasp waisted 'Dolly Parton' figure. She smiled, a smile every bit as pretty as Dolly's.
Leaning toward Mike, the waitress gave the table top a slow, unnecessary wipe, and her customer a peek see. Bright red lace accentuated freckled cleavage. “What all can I get for ya,” she asked.
“A steak, with fries and a salad.”
“Would ya want some wine with your steak? We got a nice Boo Joo Loousie. Ain't too dear.”
“Beaujolais,” Mike hazarded?
“Yeah, that's it. Cain't never get them fancy French
words right. It's that red wine what ya drink without no ice. Comes in a green bottle with a cork.”
Mike smiled, “No, thank you. I'll just have a cold one. Michelob.”
“Beer's a good idea. Can't go wrong with a beer, no how. Don't myself know how anybody can drink wine without no ice. Put in some ice and mix in a little soda water, I can maybe drink it. Ain't like beer, though. I'm a beer drinker same as you. Wouldna' even ast if you wanted wine, but the boss wants us to push that there Boo Joo ...” she hesitated, tongue tied. “That there frenchy wine. How ya want that steak?”
“Rare, please,” Mike answered, his smile broadening with her chatter.
Writing on a green check pad, she commented, “Mooin’?”
Mike's smile widened into a grin. “No, not quite. Just some red in the center. Ask the chef not to overcook it.”
“That's a laugh. Old Orley back in that there kitchen ain't no chef. Jest a retired Army cook. He ain't all bad though; he can do ya a steak that'll melt in your mouth. I like my steaks chicken fried an' all smothered with country gravy. Mmmm-ummm.”
Mike cleared his throat, “I' ah, --I'll just have mine grilled. Plain. No gravy.”
The waitress shrugged, “I'll get your beer right away.
Want a glass or will the bottle do?” she asked over her shoulder as she moved away giving her can a come on twitch.