He put her on the bed, bent through the little door into the cab, and glanced at the mirrors. The street remained empty. You’re mine now.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Deep into the country, no stops planned until they were faraway, the van rolled on. In the seconds, minutes, and hours after a kidnapping, distance was Ricky’s best friend. But travel was the toughest part. Once he touched a child, placed his hands on her flesh and she was in his possession, the wait was near unbearable. Only self-preservation pushed him on.
Lindsay was in the back, knocked out from a second dose of chloroform. She would have a splitting headache when she woke, but he didn’t care about that. Her comfort was not a concern.
She reminded him of his childhood neighbor, the younger of the two sisters he used to peep on. Their appearances were undeniably similar, and he recalled the original feel of obsession awoken within him all those years ago. The girl’s young, female form dominated his thoughts. He wanted to be with her, around her, to touch her.
* * *
On a few occasions, he and his parents went over for dinner. This was his favorite. He was in the same house, close to the girls and able to brush against them while they played. The sisters included Ricky in their games with an elaborate Barbie collection. Even then, he realized the importance of appearance. If anyone watched, he played nicely with the dolls. He dressed Ken in masculine clothes, careful to go with the flow. But when no one was looking, things changed.
He stripped the Barbies and examined them methodically. He ran his fingers over them—much the same as he did Lindsay Watson’s newspaper photo—and sniffed their spore. It was real to him, more than a wild imagination. His heart raced as sweat glands clammed his skin.
He dreamed of doing obscene and vulgar things with the dolls. Sex was an unexplained mystery, but the compromising positions pleased his mind. At first, it was enough to excite him. Eventually, however, one doll always became violent toward the other, one dominant and one submissive.
* * *
Now, traveling down the dark road with cargo far more precious than a Barbie, Ricky recalled the unmentionable things he did to those poor pieces of plastic. The progression of his actions was plain to see: dolls, peeping, and, finally, finding a way to actually caress real human flesh. He wondered if things would have escalated to their current status had he ever been caught.
Could I have gotten therapy? Was I … curable?
But like cancer, no cure existed, and he knew it. This cancer wasn’t in his body. It was in his mind, a deep-rooted, mutating growth, out of control, undetected, and unchallenged. Satisfaction was the only real treatment, and only temporary at best. A drink of poison could merely quench the thirst.
“Turn left in five hundred feet.”
A female, computerized voice emanated from the portable GPS and pulled him from thought. He was close. They were close.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Everything felt fuzzy. Lindsay thought her eyes were open, but it made no difference. Wherever she lay, darkness was complete. Something bit her ankle. Then she felt the same bite on her other ankle. Neither leg would move. She tried to sit up, reach down, and scratch. Suddenly, grogginess faded, and her senses sharpened. I’m tied up.
“Hello?” she shouted. A gag stifled the call into a guttural, throaty noise. She hadn’t noticed it before.
Now panic gripped her, and she writhed. Her gusto faded with the sting of rope fibers. The road vibrated beneath her. She could feel it and hear it, the hum of tires on pavement. A bump, the sway of a turn, and its pull on her body were decipherable. She tried to think and remember how she had gotten there. Pain prevented a clear picture. Her head, ankles, and wrist hurt badly. She squirmed again and rebelled against the impossible restraints. I have to get loose. I have to get help.
Her teeth clenched down on the gag, defiant. She fought to exhaustion. It seemed hopeless, but the road noise had stopped.
Then someone spoke. “Hi, there. Do you remember me?”
A man was with her now. The only light came through a small crack of an open door behind him. It wasn’t much, dusky and barely enough to see him hunched over. Who is he?
“It’s okay. You can nod your head if you don’t want to talk.” He latched the door and flicked a toggle. A yellowish glow illuminated everything.
Memory hit her like a slap to the face. The man with the wheelchair was no longer in a wheelchair. I’m in the van. A lump in her throat grew, and her tummy bounced with a sob. She knew this was bad.
He moved steadily and deliberately. She watched him like a hawk while he took things off the shelves, set up camera equipment, and wrote in a book. She should have been glad he left her alone, but even at nine years old, it was plain to see he had something big in mind.
The only naked male she had ever seen was in a museum. Hardly any of the stone statues had clothes. But those men weren’t real. This one was. When the bad man took everything off, she didn’t know what to think. It was certainly different from the statues. Wrong somehow.
He boasted like a little kid with a show-and-tell trinket. He bragged, struck different poses, flexed his muscles, and came closer. On the side of the bed, his naked hip pressed against her ribs as he sat down. She wanted to scoot away, but the tight ropes and tiny space left nowhere to go.
He placed his hands on her chest, worked them up and down in circles, and closed his eyes.
Tears of anger, fear, and embarrassment welled up in Lindsay, and she screamed at him. “Stop it,” she commanded. “Stop it right now.” Her face was livid and strong, but the muted orders were indecipherable.
“A spunky one, I see.” He open-hand smacked her on the cheek, enough to aggravate but not hurt. “I like spice. That’s something girls your age are in short supply of.”
Lindsay’s body had started to mature earlier than most. He looked down at her. A devious smile played across his lips. She kicked to get loose.
“Whoa! Now we’re talking.”
Her resistance excited him. He was finished being gentle and immediately ripped off her shirt. The fabric held tightly enough to bruise her skin before pulling away. Silvery and cold, his hunting knife sliced until she was down to skin.
Crystal tears of torment ran down her cheeks, and she crooned in agony. She tried to get enough air through her runny nose and tears to fight the feeling of suffocation. She coughed and sputtered, struggling to gain a rhythm. Her heart and mind were strong, resilient to the stress. Unfortunately, it warded off shock, and she felt everything.
His hands prodded and molested, and she retracted at his vile touch.
He bent down to her ear. Gently, with his blue eyes in a penetrating stare, he smoothly said, “Sugar, do you like red?”
Lindsay couldn’t gain a full breath. Mucus ran down her throat, and she retched. A cough would clear her windpipe, but the gag was in the way. Asphyxiation was now scarier than the man was.
“Do you like red?” he repeated.
She tried to answer, but her throat caught, and her face bulged with blood as she gagged.
“Oh, fine.” He slipped the knife between her cheek and the rope. “No one can hear you scream out here anyway.” After a harsh flick of his wrist, the rope popped loose. The back of the blade lacerated her cheek, and a bead of blood mixed with tears.
Lindsay sucked in. She inhaled one, two, and three deep breaths. She looked up, and despite the circumstances, was grateful for her captor’s mercy.
The man was on his knees, between her legs. He leaned over and used his arms to hover above her. “Now.” His voice was edgier this time. “Do … you … like … red? Hmmm?”
Instinct told her to answer and hope for the best. “Yes,” she whispered, relieved at the ability to breathe again.
Yes. She likes red. And with that, he began and watched the anguish spread across her face. She had no choice but to suffer through the humility, the ultimate stripping away of decency.
Chapter Twenty-Fi
ve
“Hey … Hey …” Lindsay heard the man calling and felt a stick whack her across the tummy.
“Would you like to play for me?” he asked.
He had removed a black case from under the bed and opened the latches. Inside was her elegant violin. He put it to his shoulder and pulled the bow across the strings. It hissed, and Lindsay turned to look. Her body was in bad shape, but her mind was far from broken. A strong mental fortitude had allowed her to master the instrument, harness its music like few others her age. She froze the wiry man in her glare without blinking.
“Well, that got your attention, didn’t it?” He was seated on a stool, bouncing up and down like he was playing a jig. With sweat-laced blood slathered across his naked body, he brought a jumble of screeches to a crescendo and bowed like a stage actor who’d just completed a masterful performance. “Thank you … Thank you.” Again, he swatted Lindsay with the bow, this time on a swollen foot. “That’s the last time you’ll ever hear music, baby. I can promise you that.”
Music had been such a joy in her life. Now it was used to mock and provoke. She didn’t care though. She just wanted to go home.
He put the violin back in its case and took a second to change his focus. Lindsay sensed a pivotal shift. The man straddled her and came to rest on her chest. One hundred and seventy pounds pressed down on her tiring lungs.
She looked directly into her captor’s eyes and silently begged for mercy. Life was a precious gift she hoped to keep. She didn’t want to die. She wanted to live and see her parents again.
This feeling of solitude and helplessness was not fun, and she pled, “Please.” It came out faintly more than a whisper. “Please don’t hurt me anymore.”
His knuckles made a smacking sound as they flew across her cheekbone. The contact broke the skin, and water filled her eyes. She shied away, but he hit the other side. There was nowhere to go. Her hands and feet felt like balloons from the cutoff circulation. She lost count of how many times he wailed on her, but then it stopped.
He pulled out the hunting knife. Its silver blade glowed in the yellow light. It slashed across her chest and made a laceration six inches long and an eighth of an inch wide. Her accelerated heart rate pumped more blood from the wound than it normally would have. Another slash seared from the menacing sickle. The man was mad now, unstoppable. Her skin turned to ribbons beneath the torture, and blood ran down her sides. Precious little energy was left, but she managed to scream one last time before passing out.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Not even a Pentecostal preacher’s wife would have suspected Ricky of anything other than being a well-groomed gentleman. He had cleaned himself up and behaved like a world-class citizen.
Lindsay remained unconscious, and he dressed while waiting for her to come around. It aggravated him that she wouldn’t wake up. The beating and cutting had exhilarated him, but none of it was worthwhile if she couldn’t open her eyes for the final picture. It gave so much more effect if he could coax his victims to look into the camera. He checked her weak pulse several times and made sure she was still breathing.
He was parked at the back of an abandoned rock quarry. When he had first arrived, a padlock was on the old but still effective gate. A set of bolt cutters solved the problem. Appearances were everything, and after pulling through and closing the gate, he put the rusty chain and padlock back to give the notion of security. Still, he didn’t think it would matter. The property had been out of commission for years and looked like it would stay that way for many more to come.
His chosen spot was so far into the bowels of the quarry that the entrance was way out of sight. Even if someone did come to prowl around, it would have been near impossible to find his van tucked into a tiny alcove under the black, country night. The surrounding walls were light gray and branched off into a myriad of sub-quarries. Not only was it the perfect place to do his dark deed, it could not have been better for body disposal.
He stepped outside, opened the back doors, wrapped a thick wad of Lindsay’s hair around his hand, and jerked. She didn’t twitch. The blood from her face had run onto her scalp and glued her hair into maroon clumps. One giant glob clung to his hand, and he shook it off.
A first aid kit hung on the wall just inside the back doors. Smelling salts were one of many useful items he kept there. He was resolute on taking the final picture of Lindsay with her eyes open. The hard packet popped and became saturated with pungent liquid, and he held it against the bottom of her nose. She immediately awoke with eyes wide.
He climbed back into the van and sat on the stool beside the bed. Worse than the smell of ammonia, urine and feces hit his sinuses. He looked at the bed between Lindsay’s legs and turned his face away in disgust. She had lost continence. A pile of brown mush was partially smeared on the sheets and on her inner thighs. Urine had pooled, and a large yellow stain was visible. The combination, mixed with the blood and smelling salts, was sickening. He knew it was his own fault, but that didn’t make cleaning the mess any more appealing. No matter. I’ll make sure and get it in the picture … for effect.
He worked his way to the foot of the bed and tried to breathe through his mouth, but the humid, Kentucky air held the scent closely. “Oh, you nasty, little bitch! You stink! Oh …” He continued to degrade her, wondering if she heard him. When he finally took the Polaroid camera from its place, he clapped his hands and then whistled. She moved her eyes in his direction, and he snapped the capture button. Again, he whistled and clicked.
She was barely cognizant, and he felt no remorse when he popped her over the head with a ball-peen hammer. Eerily, her eyes didn’t close.
Ricky cut her loose, drug her body out the back, along with the ropes, sheets, and clothes, and pulled her to the base of a rock wall. He couldn’t tolerate the smell any longer and soaked the pile of fabric and flesh with a whole bottle of lighter fluid. A match lit the heap, and he listened to the “woosh” of air as the fire consumed the surrounding oxygen and shot ten feet high. While she burned, the van doors closed, and he drove up a path to the top of the wall. Back outside, the smell of cooking flesh carried up in the rising heat. Soon, the flames died out, and all that remained was a smoking, black mound.
The location of her body was not random. Twenty feet above, next to where he stood, a massive hill of small stones awaited use. They ranged in size from pebbles to tennis balls. With a little coaxing by his shovel, they began to roll over the edge and bury everything below. Finally, a rockslide started, and several tons poured down at once, encasing Lindsay into a deep, stone tomb.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Cream-colored paint shone gray in the breaking daylight as Isaac peered up at the ceiling. There was no breeze outside to rustle the windows, nor did the air-conditioner blow through any vents. A rhythmic hum from the overhead fan made the only noise.
He continued to gaze through the semi-darkness, saying a silent prayer that today would go smoothly. The past few days, to his delight, had been closer to the way things were before. Josie was going full tilt with her friends and showed fewer signs of sadness every sunrise. Sarah, however, had made the biggest change. Since the arrival of the letter, she settled back into a more solid state of mind. Purpose and Josie’s future well-being abruptly became more important than the past.
He moved his legs from under the covers and searched the hardwood floor for his house shoes. When he found the warm, shearling-lined moccasins, he went to the window and opened the shutters. The room brightened as he observed a thick fog set over the forested landscape.
Sarah stirred in the bed. He loved every ounce of her body and mind. But something was lost between them, and it saddened him. Time, he hoped, would be the cure.
“Honey, it’s time to get up,” he said.
“Mmmm,” came a sound from the bed. “What are you doing?”
“Rise and shine.”
Sarah yawned. Her eyes were still shut. “What time is it?”
“Six
forty-five. I’ll get Josie up.” Sarah was not a morning person and never would be. “Coffee will be ready in the kitchen.”
“Okay.” She rolled over.
“Honey, are you awake?”
She pulled the covers over her head in response, completely vanishing beneath the duvet.
“I mean it. I have work, and both of you have hair appointments.”
“Okay, okay, okay … I’m up. I’m up. I’ll be there in a minute.” She still didn’t budge, and the linens muffled her voice.
“Coffee,” he reminded as an incentive.
He silently strolled down the hallway, opened the door to Josie’s room, and found an empty bed. The covers were neatly pulled up, not a pillow disturbed. Neither he nor Sarah had the heart to change Caroline’s side of the bedroom. They felt like she belonged to them, still, in their house.
He sat beside Josie, his hip against her side, and stroked her hair. It was messy and beautiful. “Pumpkin, it’s time to get up.”
She stretched, needing only one call to wake. “Am I going with Mom today?” she asked through a yawn and squinty eyes.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I couldn’t remember.”
“It’s because you’re so busy playing with friends. Summers seem shorter than when I was a kid.”
She nodded. “I had good dreams.”
“What were they?”
“I dreamed of breakfast burritos.”
“Burritos?”
“Yeah. Can we have some?”
Isaac looked to the clock on the nightstand. It was six fifty. If she and Sarah were going to make their hair appointments in Las Cruces, they needed to leave in an hour or less.
“You are a strange little thing,” he said, referring to her dream, “but it’s your lucky day, kiddo. I have to fly, so I need a good breakfast, too. If you can get all the way ready first, that will give me time to cook. What do you think?”
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