A few hours after dusk he'd have ample time to drive her into the desert where he could take his time, using the headlights of the truck to examine her nervous, shaking body. Forced to stand in the harsh glare, she'd be naked, shivering in the cool night air, worried what he'd do next, scared, living out her nightmare started when she'd come inside her house to ask her parents why she had to come home instead of spending the night with her best friend, three houses away.
The cold rubber mats of the floorboard had made Mary shudder when he lay her down in back. Vladimir had been oddly gentle with her, treating her with loving care as he'd cut her clothes off, confusing her enough she didn't try to kick him. His soft, disarming touch was unexpected from a man so creepy and deadly. The low rumble of the big diesel engine calmed her slightly as he drove away from her house. Deep inside her gut hurt, burning with terror after their eyes had met for an instant as he carried her in his arms, bound and naked, heading for his truck. It wasn't sexual, not that she knew much about sex, only that there were boys and girls and they could be more than friends and of course, kissing. His look was ravenous, like a hungry wolf. She'd felt like his luscious treat carried off to consume at his leisure, giving her the hope he'd be nice enough to let her go when they were done.
She tried to banish the image of her dead parents, their looks of fear frozen on their motionless bodies, bound to the heavy wood chairs her mother had bought recently, a bargain from a garage sale. The thin cotton cord coiled around her wrists and ankles was too strong to break, cutting into her delicate skin when she desperately twisted her arms, trying to snap it apart or loosen the knots. She didn't give up, sensing she might have a chance to escape. Something about his dreamy smile said he was distracted by his plans for her, confident she couldn't get out of her bonds, wouldn't try to escape him again. He'd ignored her after he'd placed her on the floor between the front and back seats, never checking on her again as he drove.
Her stomach ached, pulsing with fear again. The same strong will that had made her a handful for her parents provided a powerful urge to survive. She wasn't going to die like her mother and father. Their surrender to his lethal power set off a burning rage that filled her naked body, flushed and warming. She looked off, seeing herself running free, quietly working her arms and legs constantly, so she'd be ready to act when the moment arose.
The truck stopped with a squeak of the brakes, rolling her body forward. The driver's side door opened, and the truck rocked slightly as he jumped down the few feet to the ground from the elevated cab. Her heart sped up, seeing he'd left the door open, a sign he didn't think she could get free or wouldn't try. He was very very wrong.
The sound of his crunching boots quickly faded, covered by the low rattle of the engine. Mary burst into action, wiggling around, her legs bent, then straightening out, twisting to turn her body face down, then pulling up into a kneeling position. He'd tied her hands in front which gave her a chance, as limber as she was. She rocked back, to sit on her bottom, reaching for her feet where the knot beckoned. Her hands found the ties on her feet easily, illuminated by the dome light above, kept on by the open door. With manic, focused effort, she teased the knot loose, her hands not bothered by being tied together. She worked the line through the loops, then wiggled her legs and felt the binding loosen, then slipped her feet through – free!
She didn't hesitate, going for the door handle, she opened the passenger side, hoping he wouldn't notice, couldn't see it open in the darkness behind the headlights blazing out into the desert in front of the truck. She paused, freezing when she heard a loud squeak outside the cab, rusty metal surrendering to a hard shove, then another squeal of dry, corroded metal told her where he was, where to go to get away from him. She bent low, pulling on the door latch, happy the hinge was silent as the door broke free, opening a few inches, then wider. She slipped down, snaking over the cool metal frame of the door, stretching her foot out, covered by her socks he'd left on, feeling for the rocks and dust of the road.
Too scared to delay a second longer, she dropped. A sharp rock bit her heel, feeling like an animal's scared nip. Crushing her mouth shut, she swallowed her pain. Stepping lightly to the end of the truck after she'd pushed the door partially shut, she stood looking off into the brush and yucca, painted red by the taillights. An empty space defined the dirt road he'd found to get off the highway. She sucked in a deep breath then ran, a naked nymph in the moonlight as a grin of success pulled her lips tight. She'd done it. She thought of how proud her parents would be, then shook with a small shudder of regret, realizing she was alone now and they were gone.
Vladimir slammed the door shut after he got inside, looking over the seat to enjoy his prize he'd soon teach how to please him, for a few hours. Instantly he saw the floor was empty. He leaned over, then got out to look under the seats, then saw the far door in the back was open a little. The damned bitch had somehow gotten away in the desert. It forced him to turn the pickup around, making a circle as he raced the engine, weaving side to side on the dirt road until he saw the shine of the new blacktop in front of him. She wasn't going to get away from him, she couldn't.
Running up the highway naked, with her hands bound in front of her, after slipping out of the pickup, she was terrified, wanting to hide somewhere or find a dirt driveway to a mobile home close to the highway, how most people lived in this economically backward area. He'd let her keep on her school bag while he'd used his razor sharp knife to cut off her clothes. Laying on the living room floor, frozen with fear, she'd been unable to look at the bloody kitchen floor as he'd deftly worked the knife to strip her. That done, he'd used the pack straps to pick up her body like a suitcase, showing he didn't want to touch her directly. It was his cool logical way of handling other humans – troublesome meaty machines. Once in the air he'd clutched her to his body, changing in that instant, from a dead eyed killer, to something different, and far scarier.
Her stash of clothes, kept for sleepovers – pajamas and extra underwear – now warmed her naked body. Resourceful, she'd used the prongs of barbed wire, tautly strung out along the road. It worked, given her frantic energy, and cut into the Venetian blind cord he'd used to tie her hands. The rapid sawing motion gashed one of her palms but her panic made the pain go away. She was free in less than a minute. That done, she dressed out of the pack, then picked it up upside down, accidentally, not noticing at first when she ran across the road spilling out her books and other clothes – a dirty gym uniform, a spare shirt, panties, and fresh socks, finally her favorite stuffed bear.
She saw a pickup coming, the low growl of its engine the same as the one she'd just escaped from. Impossible to distinguish, all she could see were it's two headlights in the dark night drawing closer. The light it projected let her notice her clothes she'd spilled out, running for the other ditch which had taller bushes to hide in. The small clumps of bright clothing left a trail pointing to her hiding place, making evasion impossible, but she didn't have time to gather them up. Rushing into the tall prickly grease-wood, she'd caught her bare foot under a low branch, tripped then hit the side of her forehead on a big rock. The glancing blow stunned her, so she could barely call out.
“I love this time of year,” the weathered man was as brown as his boots, though not as polished. He'd need heels soon, the way he walked the line or kicked at the rocky soil of his ranch. Some ranch, three head of cattle, down from five, one lost to wolves the tree huggers said didn't roam up this far from the steep hills down south, leaking out of their natural range in Big Bend country, mountains filling the jagged, western tip of Texas.
“Chili?” his wife, Helen, asked, condensing an entire conversation, reminiscing, reminding him he'd lost to Allen Tuft, some city guy two years running. Him, the Chili King, dethroned by an urban cowboy whose boots were never dusty, never wore out, never swung over a saddle, never lost their 'new'. They were all real cowboys in his family, from long before Jonah to the latest, his twenty five year old grandson Jabo
Jr., Jacob Estes Bowie the second – a full name – full bore Texan, like his ancestor Jim, the one who died in the Alamo. His chili always had the pride of the Hill country riding on it, all West Texas, which made the wound deeper, enough it never healed, which was why his wife used one word to remind him and let the rest be.
“Meaning?” tit for tat, he'd keep it low heat, no need to battle over what's done, the past is buried daily around here, soon forgotten.
“Spices,” she looked out the window, wishing he'd soften with age, but his face reflected the rocky interior she'd learned to avoid or ignore, “there's a whole counter of them in the new place, discount city, or whatever.” Memory went first, so you were reduced to describing what didn't pop to mind like it had before. That's why they preferred the desert, all dull chalky tones with dark ancient lava rock busting up out of the sandy flats in huge rugged heaps. Here nothing mattered but the present and each other, no social whirl or judgmental neighbors close enough to drop by. At night their serenades were launched into the ether in Mexico, teased out of the radio dial, joined by the howl of the coyotes or punctuated by the lone hoot of a desert owl. He liked how it reminded him of bigger things – where he'd come from thousands of years ago, the circle of life – and where he was going, far too soon. This dry, flat expanse was teeming with hidden life all fighting for one more day, like them.
“I'll think about it,” which meant no, disguised as maybe – a concession to Helen, the woman he'd hauled out of a shitty wartime marriage when he'd come back from far too much death and destruction so many years ago, the first major war that wasn't – Vietnam. He was going to say something...
Whipping his head back to look at the road, from glancing over at his wife, he stared down the new blacktop. His foot stomped on the brake and the truck quickly rolled to a stop without scrubbing off rubber on the road, thanks to anti-lock brakes he still didn't trust in an emergency.
A stream of old kid's clothes stretched in a sinuous, chaotic rainbow across the new gleaming asphalt highway, re-coated and re-striped a month ago after years of complaints and driving to meetings nearly sixty miles away in Alpine, the local hub with a private University marooned in the middle of town, one that never won in football – almost an insult in the cowboy state. Education without fierce student pride felt worthless, a factory job composed of classes.
“Stay in the truck,” he told his wife, not worried anyone would jump them, that dog wouldn't hunt – 'cause the traffic here was too sparse. The illegals and drug runners avoided the paved highways like the plague. Cautious, conscious constantly of how vulnerable they were in the desert, he still pulled up the back of his denim coat, removing it from the handle of his Sig226 automatic. It was 40 caliber upgraded to 357 magnum, as much gun as he could handle with deadly accuracy.
Jonah reached back to confirm it was there, in the right position, just behind his hip in the new soft nylon holster his grandson Jabo had bought him, some new fangled thing he'd slowly taken to, replacing his fat leather paddle he'd retired, resting in his tshirt drawer in the bedroom where it held his backup gun, a well worn Brownie High Power 9mm, his first decent pistol, bought when he was Jabo's age. He was always armed and ready to use it. His tired eyes could still shoot a four inch group at thirty feet, not that fast but fast enough. Helen chided him about the boxes of ammo he went through every month, standing in the backyard, blasting cans and paper targets. She let him have his fun, secretly loving his rugged, manly side that let her sleep at night, far too many miles from the closest Sheriff's deputy or Border Patrol station.
Outside the truck, the low idle dropped away as he walked toward the line of scattered clothes. The tough engine kept the A/C cooling the air inside the cab, topping off the battery as the intense headlights flared out to light up nearly a quarter mile of the highway, throwing his lean shadow a few hundred yards down the twin bright cones flaring across the road in front of him. They were the strongest headlights he could find, some sort of Halogen stuff that would blind you if you looked into them directly.
It reminded him of landing lights on a C-130, making night into day, descending down to a tiny jungle strip, on the normally muddy ground for only fifty seconds. They would drop in, crazily askew, turned sideways, making the huge roaring aircraft fall out of the sky until it straightened out at the last second to slam down on the packed dirt and hit the brakes, rutting the field as the fat, bald tires dug into the washboard surface, rattling and bouncing to a fast stop – the props still roaring as they reversed. Never stopping, the large plane would make a delicate pirouette, their wingtips busting through the tree branches lining the narrow airstrip corridor until it faced the opposite direction, ready for a rapid take off. The blazing landing lights were always clicked off instantly on touchdown, to surround them with infinite blackness. Dust washed over the windshield, generated when the props reversed to howl in protest on landing. Everyone riding along inside was certain they were going to get shot to hell. As big as they were, they were rarely hit – the few roughly patched holes scattered over the fuselage were turned into exaggerated stories to terrorize the new guys, amusing the loadmaster.
Jonah knew the sad story behind the desperate hordes from down south of the border. Worse of all were the kids, even toddlers who could barely walk, making the trek across the hard dry land, driven by traffickers of humans and drugs, often at the same time these days, when the world was going to hell faster than... well faster than it used to. They made their human cargo do double duty, packing the lumpy plastic wrapped drug bundles that squared off the heavy cheap packs that tore into their shoulders, staggering their steps – sheep not humans.
Jonah was worried about finding another small, pale body in the tall brush that thrived in the bar ditches along this run of the highway, watered by a local spring, damp with occasional open pools.. It was a pit stop that drew wild animals and border jumpers, the human variety of lawless, desperate fools – another beast that made the desert home. The Coyotes that had brought them here were home by now, drinking a beer in one of five decent cantinas he'd often visited until it became too dangerous to go anywhere near the border, even on the Texas side.
A long walking stick grabbed off his gun rack let him poke the clumps of pampas grass and thick sage that fought for light and water. They were the favored shady lair of rattlesnakes waiting for a vole to visit the tiny water pools that formed randomly then dried in the relentless heat of the hard sun. Jostled, they'd rattle a warning but rarely strike, the distinct sound enough to let him step aside as he worked a path deeper into the brush that was thicker in this patch. Luckily he didn't find any this time.
Nylon, the abandoned pack he found was one of those Japanese designs, a smiling kitty, what the kids liked then hated when puberty hit, then liked again when nostalgia flared up as young adults. Stretching it open with the blunt end of his stick, he looked inside, but nothing was left, making him think someone had dumped it out on the highway then tossed it before heading on. Who'd steal a pack from a kid bouncing the border? A small torn fuzzy animal lay on its back, bothered apart, bleeding out stuffing, torn up by rodents or a hawk, mistaking it for a meal, confirming it was a kid's toy, kid's stuff. Sad, another statistic and soon a small body to find somewhere, looted, perhaps ravaged then left unburied.
He turned to hurry back to the truck, feeling antsy, like he did long ago, in someone's sights. He shook his head, dismissing the cold shiver, meaningless. Nobody had been killed outright in this area since that Roberts kid went nuts and wasted his entire family, then himself. Shit happens if you live too far out like he did, surrounded by the quiet solitude of nothingness, shared with the wilds who never accepted your intrusion into their world, their lives. Some couldn't live with the loneliness that released the nightmares lurking in their minds.
He liked it, nobody close enough to bother getting to know, useless talk on a far too regular basis. Me and the old lady... he almost included Butch who'd recently passed. Blind, useless as a
guard dog and he knew it, embarrassed to be so broken down, pointing the way, how he'd look in a few. Maybe he could bring it up next time they hit Alpine, call on his friend who used computers to do everything, find a dog, a huntin' dog, even though he'd never hunt again, too old for that too. All that hiking up and down the hills just made him hurt, everywhere. He hated being old.
“Ssss,” he turned, orienting on a high pitched, human sigh, hard to distinguish from the rustle of the wind after sunset, a light breeze that carried the scent of sharp sweet desert flowers luring the evening insects to their rich nectar.
Turning to scowl at the brush and stunted mesquite he'd just walked out of, he turned his head so both ears pointed back, to see if someone was calling to him.
“Pooorrr faaa...” then it died out again, clearly Spanish, someone asking 'please', with their dying breath?
“Hey,” he waved at Helen and signaled her to move over behind the wheel and maneuver the truck to point it at the bar ditch, laying out the wooden stick like Aaron in the Bible threatening the Pharaoh, pointing at the place he thought he'd heard the sound coming from.
“I hear you, 'diga',” which he hoped meant 'speak' in Spanish, he was never sure, but the real Mexican's liked that you tried and failed. A light whimper merged with the tall grass that swished with a sudden gust then silence, frustrating him as his truck's lights swept past him, bringing the mesquite tree to life, far bigger than it seemed in the failing dusky light. Something moved and he forgot to sweep for snakes, confident there weren't any, stomping between the clumps anyway, last bit years ago, he didn't want it now, when a life was at stake.
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