The Final Veil: Who had kidnapped America's favorite belly dancer?

by Pat Powers

  A few moments after the others left, the kidnapper in Sandy's clothes left as well, using the keys to lock the door behind her. She had a kerchief in her hand, ready to bring it to her face and sneeze if anyone said "Hi!" to her. No one did, though she passed several people on the way out of the building and rode in the elevator with one. This was good. She walked out to Sandy's car and checked the door. Locked. She unlocked it, slid into the front seat, started the engine, fastened her seatbelt and headed down the street. She relaxed visibly when she was underway. Now the chance of discovery was minimal. Now it was time to drive to the parking lot of the Civic Center in Mount Pleasant and ditch the car. It would be a few hours. She turned on the radio and punched in the presets until she found a station she liked.

  Sandy continued mmphing and writhing as the van her box was in drove to a deserted warehouse. The whole task had taken less than an hour, if you didn't count the several hours of intense prep beforehand. Sandy had no idea how long it had taken. In the box, there was only the hissing of the cylinder. Her hands twisted in their bonds, her feet did, too, and she worked and chewed at the thing in her mouth, trying to dislodge it, but all to no avail. She was totally helpless and at the mercy of men. Men, she surmised, who had little or no reason to show her mercy and plenty of reason, from their point of view, to show her cruelty. More tears rolled down her cheeks at this thought.

  The pain of being so confined kept Sandy awake a long time, but eventually she slept.

  She was awakened by a small explosion o f pain in her arm. She moaned into her gag as unseen hands unbuckled the straps that had confined her.

  She knew that she should be trying to escape, but her arms and legs were so stiff from her long confinement that all she could do was move them feebly and moan as they pulled her out of the box and dumped her onto the floor.

  Almost immediately they picked her up and put her on a table face down. They linked the cuffs at her wrists behind her back. They took rope and tied it around her shoulders, her neck, her wrists and over and below her breasts. Then they flipped her over on her back.

  She was still blindfolded and gagged and so she couldn't see where she was laying, but it felt a lot like a gynecological exam table. There were extended stirrups for her feet, which were quickly strapped into them. She felt tuggings on her waist and at her neck as fastenings were attached to the collar and waist belt she still wore, secured somewhere to either side of her.

  They wrapped rope around her waist and between her legs. The rope was tied in place tightly, so tighly that it cinched her waist and the strands between her legs sank in between her labia.

  And just like that, she was bound as helplessly as she had been while in the box. It had taken no more than two minutes at most. She had been handled brusquely, efficiently, but not really cruelly. She had never had a chance to escape. And Sandy was by now very sure that her captors didn't intend to ever give her a chance.

  It was a frightening realization.

  Next, she felt hands working at the fastenings that held the hood over her. She was vaguely dismayed at the prospect of its removal. While it had rendered her helpless, it had also served as a sort of psychological barrier between Sandy and her captors.

  A few moments of tugging and pulling and suddenly, that barrier was gone, replaced by a brilliant blaze of light from directly overhead.

  Sandy wanted to see her captors, but there was nothing she COULD see but a screamingly bright light in the scant seconds between the removal of the head and the fitting of a thick leather blindfold over her eyes.

  On the other hand, it felt absolutely wonderful to have the gag out of her mouth. Sandy worked the stiffness out of her jaw. Then she screamed, as loud as she could, for help.

  The moment she did so, she felt a hard rubber ball being shoved into her mouth. It tasted like a rubber ball and felt like one. It was shoved so far into her mouth that it was behind her teeth and it was secured with straps pulled back so hard that they pulled her cheeks back into a kind of forced smiling.

  Except of course that smiling was the LAST thing Sandy felt like doing. She was not only terrified, she was also deeply humiliated and embarrassed at being displayed so nakedly, seen by so many people. (She did not know how many people were around her, but in her mind there was a crowd there.)

  As a dancer, of course, she was accustomed to being on public display. But her dancing was very different. For one thing, her costume generally covered her in opaque, patterned silks from head to toe. And though she danced exuberantly, her moves were not a rank sexual display as with dancers like April, but a more pure expression of joy, of being one with the universe and Mother Earth. There was nothing sexual or even suggestive about it, just pure joyousness. And anyone who saw things differently was probably a man, or one of those sad women whose perceptions had been entirely corrupted by patriarchal culture.

  Now, Sandy feared, she was about to find out what it was like to REALLY be corrupted by patriarchal culture.

  After the blindfold was secured, and the ballgag was in place, they strapped earphones over her ears. The earphones were secured with straps running over the top of her head and behind her head.

  They finished up by tying her head down with a strap secured to the buckle at the top of her head.

  If Sandy had been thinking rationally she would have said this was overdoing it, but then, she was not thinking rationally. She felt woozy and disoriented, so much so that she was rapidly losing her fear. She was in a frightening predicament, but the fear just didn't seem to be materializing. Her mind itself didn't seem to be materializing.

  The jolt of pain that had awakened Sandy was from a hypodermic needle. She had not been awake enough to know it, and she wouldn't be awake enough for some time to come, since the needle contained scopolamine, AKA "truth serum" although scopolamine was in fact no such thing. Her captors used it because the disorientation combined with fear would make Sandy more likely to tell them the truth -- they were knowledgeable enough to know that Sandy wasn't going to tell the truth just because she'd been injected with the drug.

  A strange, almost mechanical voice suddenly called out to Sandy, "Testing! Testing! Can you hear me, Sandy? Wiggle your feet if you can hear me!

  Sandy wiggled her feet. It wasn't a conscious decision on her part, really. She had been told to wiggle her feet, so she wiggled them.

  "Good," said the strange, mechanical voice. "Now, if my voice is too loud, wiggle your feet. If my voice is too soft, wiggle your hands. If it's just right, nod your head side to side."

  It was a lot of options to give Sandy under the circumstances, but she managed to parse through them after a moment. She nodded her head side to side.

  There was general smiling and nodding at these signs of biddability on Sandy's part among her captors. Things were going well.

  They'd discussed the best approach for dealing with Sandy, and they'd come up with a plan.

  “Now, we know that you are one of the people who kidnapped April Dancer,” said the voice. “And we know you know where she is. And that's what we want you to tell us.”

  Sandy felt a chill as she heard these words. They were certainly going to torture her! She braced herself for the worst.

  “Now, our first thought was to torture it out of you,” said the voice, as if reading Sandy's mind. “But we had a better idea. We figure you would resist really hard if we tried to torture it out of you, and you might not come through with the truth. So we have a guest victim along to help out -- you might remember your girlfriend Melissa.”

  “Greet your friend or we'll hurt her,” growled a voice.

  “Sandy!” came a familiar voice, high and stressed but still she recognized it. Sandy's whole body stiffened in unconscious response. It was Melissa! They had Melissa! Because of her!

  “Mmmeewwiwa!” Sandy cried through the gag.

  “Sandy!” cried Melissa, or more accurately, slave nora, as she sat comfortably in a chair next to the bed Sandy was strappe
d to. Slave nora felt pretty good about her voice impersonation of Melissa after spending two hours practicing nonstop.

  “Well, now that we've introduced ourselves,” said Master Brendan, “here's how it's going to go. I'm going to ask you questions, Sandy, and you're going to answer them. And if we think your answers are lies, guess who's going to get a hit of blowtorch or a jolt of electicity? Melissa!”

  “NO!” cried Sandy and nora simultaneously in similarly horrified tones.

  “Yes!” responded Master Brendan. “Take the gag off her,” Brendan added. “And wet her throat just a little.”

  Master Brendan then removed the gag and slowly and carefully poured small amounts of water into Sandy's mouth.

  “Don't worry,

  Master Jameson stood by with a blowtorch and a container full of pork chops fresh from the grocery store and a taser with its loud buzzing sound. They had deliberated using some noisier sound effect for the taser, but they decided to go with authenticity just in case Sandy knew what tasers sounded like.

  “First question,” said Master Brendan. “Where is April Dancer?”

  “I don't know!” Sandy replied.

  Master Waterston held the taser where nora could see it and triggered it. Slave nora screamed, not at full throat yet, but a very loud, scream. “STOP, PLEASE STOP!” she cried a moment later, her voice hitching and half sobbing.

  “NO!” shouted Sandy.

  “That was not an acceptable answer,” Master Brendan said ominously. “When you give me an unacceptable answer, Melissa will suffer.

  “Don't tell him Sa-AAAH” slave nora sobbed, her words interrupted as she was “tased” again by Master Waterston.

  “If we want to hear from you, Melissa, we'll tase you, Master Waterston said. They were all really working well together. Of course they would, many of them had started out doing Gorean roleplay, and this was roleplay of a sort. Waterston just oped they didn't get careless because it was so familiar to them. But they all knew it might mean years in jail if they slipped up, so that gave them a bit of an edge.

  “Now, where is April?” asked Master Waterston.

  Sandy knew exactly where April was, one of her Sisters had told her they were in a house near the site of the Southern Folkabilly Womyn's Festival near Cade's Cove, Tennessee. But to tell them where April was might possibly undo all their work, might make all the risks they'd taken go for naught.

  But if she didn't tell them, Melissa would be tortured. But if she gave in too easily, they might think she was lying. But she could not STAND to hear Melissa screaming like that, knowing it was her fault.

  “I DON'T KNOW WHERE APRIL IS!” Sandy screamed. “PLEASE STOP!”

  The taser buzzed, and slave nora screamed again, this time a louder, more full-throated scream. Slave nora was just guessing on the way that Melissa's screams of pain might sound. But screams of pain were very much alike.

  “That is a shame,” said Master Waterston, “Melissa is going to suffer a lot for your ignorance. Especially since I KNOW you know where April is.”

  “Now, where is April?” Master Waterston growled, his voice full of menace.

  “All right, I'll tell you ...” Sandy sobbed.

  Sandy tried lying. She tried a number of lies, but Master Waterston seemed to see right through them. The sound of Melissa screaming filled her mind. She had no idea that Melissa could scream that loud or that long, but then, she's never tortured Melissa with a taser.

  But the thing that broke Melissa was not the screaming. It was something else. After about half an hour of fake tasering, Master Waterston nodded to Master Jameson, who turned on the propane torch.

  “Time to move things up a notch,” said Master Waterston. “We've tried to keep Melissa's body intact, but … I guess that just won't be possible.”

  Master Jameson viciously applied the propane torch to one of the pork chops which was lying on a table not far from Sandy's nose. Slave nora drank some water to protect her throat, then as the first wisps of smoke began to curl off the charring pork chop, she began screaming, starting with a normal scream but peaking at one of the high notes. She'd once sung in a choir, she knew how to hit the high notes.

  Sandy smelled the charred flesh, heard Melissa's heart-rending screams and every resolve she had made to keep April's location secret broke like a dam overtopped by a flood.

  “She's in Deep 13!” sobbed Sandy.

  “The Satellite of Love?” responded Waterston. “This is not time to be joking!”

  More pork chop charring, slave nora worked the high notes even harder.

  “NOOOO!” Sandy screamed, struggling in her binds. “It's not a satellite! It's a safe house!”

  “A safe house for a dance troupe?” Waterston asked suspiciously.

  “No, it's a safe house for victims of domestic violence,” said Sandy.

  “Why would a place like that agree to be party to a kidnapping?” Waterston asked.

  “They may not KNOW about it,” Sandy said, happy to be talking and keeping Melissa safe from these male fiends. “It's not part of the regular shelter, it's a remote location that is only used for women who have signed an agreement to be kept there if they prove to be weak willed and return to their abusers. It has rooms with bars on the windows and doors that lock on the outside.”

  “Ah, cells,” said Waterston. He had not expected Sandy to come across with the truth so easily.

  “Where is this Deep 13?” asked Waterston.

  “It's in a house in Waleska, Goergia, owned by Sanctuary House,” said Sandy.

  “What's the address?” Waterston asked.

  “I don't know!” Sandy said. “How many Sanctuary Houses can there be in Waleska? It's a really tiny town. I think it's some kind of Methodist Church thing.”

  Waterston nodded. This looked like it was worth checking out, it was just the kind of thing that would work. Feminists would be familiar with domestic violence shelters, and the secrecy and security with which such shelters typically operated.

  “I can't find a Sanctuary House listing for Waleska on Google,” Master Lattering announced from his seat at a laptop.

  “Wouldn't be on Google, it's a secret location. Look for properties owned by the Methodist Church in Waleska that are not churches or day care centers. Probably something not near any other Methodist Church properties,” said Waterston.

  There was silence in the room except for typing and the occasional deep moan of pain from nora, keeping the psychological pressure on Sandy.

  “Hmm,” said the typist. “There is a big Methodist Church in Waleska, it's got several buildings that are adjacent to the main church property. But there is a building owned by the Methodist Church, it has no title, it's just indicated as a residential property. Google Earth shows it in the middle of a lot of trees, but to be honest, that's true of a lot of properties in Waleska. It goes from university campus to rural really fast. And it's way off campus, whereas the Methodist Church is basically on the campus.”

  “University campus?” asked Waterston.

  “Waleska is a college town,” said the typist. “Reinhardt University was founded by Methodists, in fact.”

  “Another plus for Waleska,”said Waterston. “Small rural towns have a way of being full of people who see every arrival and departure. College towns, not so much, plenty of strangers coming and going. We got an address?”

  “Yes, we do,” said Lattering. “207 Murder Creek Road.”

  Waterston nodded.

  “We will check your story out,” said Waterston, “in the meantime, we will treat Melissa's injuries. If your story does not work out … we'll create new injuries for Melissa.”

  “It's the truth,” Sandy sobbed, feeling horrible for having betrayed the other Sisters, but what choice did she have?

  Chapter 37

  The words “Up To No Good” might as well have been stamped on our foreheads

  I got a call from Jeff not long after talking with Bulloch. He'd gotten a call
from an informant saying that April was being kept in a house in north Georgia and was arranging a rescue with some of his Gorean friends. I immediately tried to talk Jeff out of it, but he was adamant. The best I could do was get him to let me come along.

  As I drove to Jeff's house I was fuming. I did not like the idea of a raid by a group of vigilantes on a house that might or might not have April in it. It struck me as an incredibly bad idea, the sort of idea that gets people killed unnecessarily. As a cop I had seen all sorts of bad, stupid decisions that had fucked people up, and this looked like one of them.

  Kitten greeted me and took me to Jeff, who was sitting in the living room with four other men. He introduced me to them. Carl was a compact man whose shoulders were very broad, a Marine drill instructor. Frank and Bill were Navy Seals, both rangy and sun-bronzed, and Jack was introduced as a private contractor, which I THINK meant he was a Blackwell op, though no one was willing to say.

  “All right, why are you so sure that April is in a house in Waleska?” I asked Jeff once the introductions were completed.

  “We got a tip on the phone,” said Jeff. “And it checks out from a number of angles. We're not ABSOLUTELY sure, but we think there's sufficient reason to go get her. But apparently, it's a safe house for victims of domestic violence operated by the Methodist Church.”

  “The Methodists?” I asked, brow raised.

  “Yeah, I thought that was strange, but you know, a lot of these domestic violence programs pull in people from all over,” said Jeff. “Probably some crossover going on.”

  “Still, why would the Catholics need to go to the Methodists for this? Surely they have shelters for victims of domestic abuse they could use, too,” I pointed out.

  “Probably not as ideal as this one is,” said Jeff. “This is a special facility for women who have abusive spouses, who have agreed to be kept away from them for their own good. It's isolated, out in the woods. It's often empty. It has all sorts of secrecy and security around it. If you wanted to design the perfect place for keeping someone you've kidnapped, you couldn't do better than this place. That's why they went with the Methodist house.”