by Karl Tutt
Chapter Five
He watched her from the shade of the doorway of an abandoned pawn shop. The lurid images flashed through his mind. The lady cop was good. He hadn’t really expected a natural blond, but when he ripped her panties off, he was met with a nice surprise. He liked nice surprises. And was she wet . . . holy shit . . . the silk was flooding down her pink thighs even before he poked her. She’d kept quiet . . . before, during, and after. That surprised him, too. It might be risky . . . hell, he knew it was . . . but he’d love to hit that again. The throbbing in his jeans was insistent. In the meantime, he’d be patient. Now he was searching for another target, youngish, sexy, maybe even willing, but then again . . . that would take all of the fun out it.m
----------------------
Priss wasn’t sure, but she suspected the worst. The extra weight was only a couple of pounds, but she wasn’t eating anything different and the nausea in mornings was something new and unexpected. It had only been two months, but something was different. Her body spoke, and she had no choice but to listen.
She picked up the test at the Walgreen’s, along with a new tooth brush, some mouthwash, and a couple of tubes of lip gloss she found on sale. She knew the tests were much more accurate than they used to be. She went back to the apartment and into the bathroom. She looked at herself in the full-length mirror and turned for a view from the side. She unfastened her jeans and let them fall to the floor. Then she put her palm to her belly. There was a slight bulge. She almost wished it had been there before, but she knew it wasn’t. She went to the bathroom, slid her panties over her knees and sat down. She waited for full stream, then placed the strip beneath it. She set it on the Formica basin and waited. The three minutes seemed like three days, but the color began to appear. It started out a pale yellow and began to take on a bluish tint. She’d followed the instructions, done everything right. She was . . . it was hard to whisper the word even with no one listening. That word was “pregnant”. She wished there’d been others, but that fucking monster was the only one who could have left his seed inside her. She collapsed on her bed, made herself as small as she could. She shook and wept like the lost child she was.
-----------------------
Maria Elena could smell herself. Her skin crawled with grit. She thought it was a warehouse. It was drafty, and permeated with a stale, moldy scent. The few rags she found on the stained floor of the cubicle would do little to staunch the warm red flow she knew was soon to come from between her legs. The cramps told her it wouldn’t be long. The small portable toilet stunk from the moment he brought it in. At first she gagged, but in a sick sort of way, her nostrils had become numb.
She tried to shake the wire of the cage loose, rattled the lock until her fingers swelled and her hands ached. No luck, no escape. At least they had fed her. It was an endless series of soggy Big Macs, cold fries, and sometimes burritos that probably came from a nearby Taco Bell, but it was food. The small window high up on the wall had announced day and night, but she had no real sense of time. She thought she had been there for four or five days, but after the hallucinations came, she lost track. It all became a gauzy gray mist. Her keeper almost had a kindness about him, and there were no threats . . . no indication that she would be beaten, much less raped. She almost longed for his short visits, just to hear another human voice. Still, in her muddled state, there was a sense of dread . . . a fear that an awful thing was stalking her.
She longed to stand in a hot shower and scrub herself raw. Surely someone would come, but who would that someone be . . . and what would he want? There were no tears left. She ran her grimy fingers through her long black hair. It was oily and it had taken on the scent of despair. If there had been any instrument or tool that could have ended this agony, she would have used it yesterday, but there was nothing. She balled herself up on the concrete floor, trembling and whimpering in quiet, hopeless, waves.
-------------------------
Bart thought about closing the bar, but it was his only source of income and he knew finding his daughter would cost money, and perhaps much more. The obvious thing to do was give up, accept the reality that he would probably never see her again . . . at least alive. People in this border hell-hole did it all the time. But if that was in the cards, the only solace he would ever find was in a personal pledge to do whatever it took to find her. If he didn’t, Maria Elena’s dead mother would creep out of the grave and haunt him for all eternity.
He finally decided to leave the Bebida Mexicano in the hands of his assistant. Pedro would probably steal him blind, but it was the only choice Bart had. When the money ran out . . . it ran out. He prepared a little speech about trust and honor, but when he met with Pedro, it all sifted away. The man grinned at him like he’d just hit the lotto . . . all the time promising loyalty and announcing his deep affection for the owner who had dreadful business that absolutely must be attended to.
“I have your back, Amigo.”
Those were Pedro’s words as Bart walked out the door, offering a sad wave to a few of his regulars as they rocked on the shabby stools lining the bar. He tucked a box cutter into his pocket, grabbed a bottle of Cuervo Gold, and walked home. Pepe was with his grandmother. The lady was kind and patient. The boy would be safe. It had to work for a while.
Bart reached up to the back corner of the shelf in his bedroom closet. He grasped the shoebox. It felt leaden and lifeless in his hand. He placed it on the bed, the same bed where he had lay with his beloved Estrella . . . the same bed where they had whispered, caressed, mingled their sweat, and made the love that produced Pepe and Maria Elena, the most beautiful things in his life. The one was gone. Only God knew to where and for how long. He fought back a tear, but it continued to struggle until it ran down his cheek in one crystal stream.
He lifted the top from the cardboard. The thing was wrapped in an old t-shirt yellowed with oil. The cloth fell aside as he gripped it. It was hard and heavy, but the rosewood grip and the weight felt good in his hand . . . a sense of something steady … and deadly. It had been so long. He’d never even fired it. Bought it from one of his bar patrons whose tab was large, and luck had gone bad. Only for protection. That’s what he’d told himself and Estrella. It was a Kimber SIS Custom II .45 caliber. He’d read somewhere that the LAPD SWAT Team used them, but he didn’t care. He’d never killed a man. He didn’t want to. He was strong and quick, both of which helped when a rowdy customer got out of hand at the bar. But this hunk of metal was the extra ace. It would do what he needed it to.
Bart shuddered. The Kimber would talk, but only he could be the one to translate its deadly message. He shook his head and laughed to himself. He remembered an old American expression, “going to see a man about a dog.” But he was going to see a dog about a man. He popped the magazine and slid the seven brass slugs in place. Then he patted the box cutter. He wasn’t sure he was ready, but then again, did he really have a choice?
---------------------------
Lobo was feeling good. Big Mig and his lieutenants had done an admirable job. He sipped a hot cup of Columbian laced with just a touch of Captain Morgan’s 100 proof spiced rum. It gave the dark liquid a sweet bite that soothed his throat and eased into his gut. He looked up at the huge Mexican and spoke.
“Mig, you have done well. This cadre will serve us quite nicely. Now we need photos. Get them ready. Feed them. Make sure they are clean. A touch of sweet ecstasy in their beverages. It will make them more compliant. Be sure to dress them well. Revealing, but not overtly sexy. Maintain a bit of the girlishness. You know the drill. Their assumed innocence is always a big selling point. I want to display the merchandise immediately. Several of our wealthiest clients are sending their representatives for the show. They should be able to see it in the flesh on Friday. It will be a wonderful party . . . champagne, delightful hors d’oeuvres, a solo violinist, and, of course, the most beautiful young things a man could ever
desire. It will be a bonanza.”
Mig nodded dutifully. He knew how it all worked. The girls must be pristine. He just had to make sure no one touched them. Men with exotic tastes and big bank accounts did not like their purchases compromised, especially when the price was very high . . . and there was, of course, a definite no-returns policy.
