by Hunt-David
"Oh, she likes it, don't she, Buckoboy?"
"Real juicy, ain't she? Maybe she likes it too much."
"No such thing as too much, cuz."
When the metal touches me again, I moan and lie back, then seek refuge in sleep. Just before I fall off I hear a bee buzzing in my ear.
* * * * *
The man lies on his back. The woman lies on her back beside him, hand on his cock, drawing it into her. On the other side, two couples cavort, a woman penetrated by two men, one beneath her, the other above her, while a second woman, sitting beside the three, plays upon the organs of the males with her fingertips.
A revelation: it's they who writhe and arch, not me. How could I have gotten so confused? My thinking's fuzzy, my brain is fudge, my eyes see clearly one moment, are blinded the next. I hear the smooth sound of the action of a gun as the breech is opened, then snapped shut, hear the click of the trigger as it's dry-fired. They're torturing me with this gun, touching me with it, then pulling it away, rotating it before me so the light catches the engravings and burns them into my brain. And through it all I hear the buzzing of a bee.
Though I hate them for this, I allow my mouth to go slack. I want them to think I like what they're doing to me. Then my will goes lax again, I close my eyes and turn off my thoughts. A bee is hiding in the corner. I hide within my soul.
* * * * *
Nothing more frightening to me than a gun. Is this the gun Mom used to shoot herself? How could they get it? It couldn't be the same. But the terror remains. What is it I fear most? A gun. And now they're pressing one against my flesh.
* * * * *
They're talking about me. The blinding light is no longer on me. I struggle to open my eyes, see their faces.
There're four of them now, the two with beards — my captors, Chipper and Buckoboy — a third man standing in the shadows and another, clean-shaven, whom I've seen somewhere before.
I stay quiet so they won't notice me. Though they're talking about me, they're looking at one another. The clean-shaven man is bawling my captors out, telling them they're stupid, telling they shouldn't have abused me.
"We didn't hurt her none, just tried to scare the bitch," Buckoboy whines.
"What're these marks on her then?" the new man demands.
"That's from where she fell into the creature pit," Chipper says.
"Why's she undressed?"
Suddenly I realize I'm fully naked.
"Well, we just thought, you know—"
"Put something on her, for Christ's sake!"
"Oh, yeah. Well, see, her clothes got kind of ripped and all."
"Then find her some new clothes, you moron."
"You oughtn'ta talk to me like that, Vince."
"I'll talk to you any fuckin' way I want."
I can feel the anger between them, am relieved it isn't directed at me. The clean-shaven man, Vince, is my guardian, come to rescue me from my captors. This time, when I return to sleep, I'm no longer so afraid.
* * * * *
I'm in a vehicle again, not the pickup but a regular car, lying across the backseat. I squint. The light's dazzling. Must be morning. I catch a glimpse of two men in the front. We're moving fast. I concentrate on the driver, squint again, then open my eyes for just an instant, long enough to catch a flash-look at Vince Carroll, the man I photographed behind Sasha at the traffic light that day that seems so long ago.
Maybe, I think, this is the same car. No, that was a pickup, too. Why did I hear a bee? Was it buzzing or whispering? The car lurches. I feel soreness in my side. The sunlight's so powerful I shut my eyes.
Are they taking me somewhere to set me loose, then track me as if I'm wild game? Shoot me? Dress me? Roast and eat me?
Bury yourself in a dream and maybe the pain and fear will fade.
* * * * *
The car stops. The back door is opened. They lift me out carefully so my body doesn't touch the doorway.
In open air, I feel the heat of the sun. Now, I realize, I'm clothed. No sound of traffic. We must be far off the road. They carry me for a time. I can feel the coolness as we enter the shade. Then they set me gently down on resin-scented earth. Even so, I moan when my sore side touches the ground.
"She'll be fine here," the second man says. I haven't heard his voice before. "She'll wake up, orient herself, follow the path, find the road, stick out her thumb, hitch a ride."
"Leave the camera beside her."
"You're sure, Vince?"
"I took the film out. She finds her camera she can't say she was robbed."
I feel them staring down at me.
"She's really out."
"Like a light."
"She'll be okay?"
"Should be."
"She didn't sign a release."
"Doesn't matter. She'll be confused, not sure where she was, what happened. She'll never be sure, really. It'll all be very vague."
"They didn't really hurt her, did they?"
"They were about to. They would've I hadn't showed up."
"They're goofballs, both of 'em."
"Imitating their bosses. Wish I could fire 'em. Can't. Mr. Carson likes 'em, plus they know too much."
"Well, good riddance to her."
"Yeah, we sure don't wanna see her round again."
They stare down at me awhile longer. I breathe evenly as if sound asleep. One of them touches me gently with the toe of his boot. I react slightly without breaking the rhythm of my breathing. They study me some more; then I hear them walk away. I wait a long time, till all sound of them is gone, then I fall back into real sleep.
* * * * *
It's hot. The sun's drilling my eyes. I feel around for my shades, remember I left them with my bike. I sit up, squint, shield my eyes with my hands, gaze about.
I'm lying on pine needles in a glade surrounded by pines. Maddy's old Nikon is beside me and also my canteen. I'm enormously thirsty. I pick it up, unscrew the cap, take a gulp of water, then, remembering how I was drugged, spit it out. I can't drink now even from my own canteen in case they spiked it too. I pour some of the water on my hands, sniff it, then rub it on my face. I feel woozy, but don't want to sleep anymore. I check my wrist, find my watch. Four o'clock. I realize with horror it must be four in the afternoon.
I'm even more horrified to discover that the clothes I'm wearing aren't even my own. The boots are mine, but the jeans and T-shirt are not. Pulling them off, I'm grateful that at least my underwear's familiar. I inspect the pants and shirt. Men's clothes, freshly washed, sized far too large. I check the pockets. Nothing. I put them back on, then struggle to stand.
I've got to get out of here. I'm desperate for water, afraid of dehydration. I'm also hungry, but that can wait. A measure of hunger, I know, can make me feel powerful. Thirst will only make me desperate.
I take a step forward, feel dizzy, go to a tree, lean against it for support. I don't want to sit, am afraid if I do I won't find the strength to rise again. I must have water. Do I dare drink from my canteen? If I drug myself again, I'll collapse, then... maybe... die. No! I must find my way out of here, find people, help... and water. Water most of all.
I shut my eyes, hold my right hand over them, slightly scissor open my fingers and peer between. If I squint, then crack my eyes open for a fraction of a second, I can see enough to create an afterimage which I can use to guide me as I walk. Take a few steps, blink again, capture another image, take a few steps more. A tedious process, but with luck, I should be able to blink my way out of here.
There's a path. Must be the way they brought me in. Follow it and I should find a road. There'll be no shade outside the woods. In open sunlight it'll be nearly impossible for me to see. Should I wait here for dusk and risk further dehydration? Can't! Got to get out of here while I've still got strength. Got to find water, then help.
Farther down the path I gain the impression I'm in some kind of park. No redwoods, so it's not Jackson State Forest, but I know there're numerous public wooded areas in
Mendocino County. If this is public land, there should be picnic tables, trash barrels, pay telephones. I don't see anything like that. I think that if I do find a phone, penniless though I am I can still call 911.
* * * * *
I'm outside the woods, standing beside a dirt road, hoping someone will come along and pick me up. But who would stop for me? I'm hideously dressed and must look a wreck. My lips feel cracked and I smell of sweat. Anyhow, there's no traffic, so I cross to the shady side. Right or left? The light's more oblique now. If I walk with the sun behind me, I'll be able to see a little better. I turn left.
After walking a mile, I catch a glimpse of a structure off the road. I find a dirt track and follow it in. The track leads me to a cabin. No sign of habitation. The door's bolted, windows shuttered. Probably someone's weekend camp.
I look around the back. The windows here are shuttered too. I find an outhouse and a canister of propane, which tells me there are provisions inside. I look around some more, discover a woodpile, a rusty axe hidden within. I take the axe to one of the back windows, smash it against the shutter several times. Six hard strokes and I splinter the wood. Unfortunately the window behind is locked. No choice but to break the glass. I smash it with the axe, undo the clasp, open the window and peer in. The room is dark, welcoming darkness. I crawl through, search around, find a propane stove, two Coleman lanterns and, in a cupboard, ten full sealed plastic gallon bottles of springwater.
I grab one, rip off the plastic top, hold it to my lips, drink. It tastes wonderful. I take another gulp, savor it, swallow it slowly. Then I sit down on a stool and do some serious drinking. After guzzling a quart of water, I take a few deep breaths, then shake my head to clear out the sludge.
There should be food here. I search the cabinets, find assorted packages of pasta, cans of beans, sardines and tomatoes, put them in a saucepan, heat them up. I find a bathtub, beside it a barrel of what I assume is old rainwater. I strip off my clothes, stand in the tub, ladle water over my body, soap up and rinse. By the time I've washed, toweled off, found some men's clothes that fit me better than what I've been wearing, my pasta water is boiling. I cook up some spaghetti, cover it with heated canned tomatoes and devour my first meal in more than twenty-four hours.
Now that I'm clean, thirst and hunger assuaged, with the numbness caused by the drug quickly wearing off, I pace the cabin trying to reconstruct events.
I'm certain I wasn't raped, though I know I was threatened with rape, and that's illegal. I also know I was held captive and drugged against my will, and that's illegal too. I know further that I was caught trespassing on private land and because of that my hands aren't clean. Above all else, I know that the treatment I received at the hands of G.G.C. employees was odious beyond anything I've ever experienced.
Seething, I pick up the axe, am about to smash it into the cabin floor. I stop myself. I've done enough damage here. If I hadn't found this place, I'd still be wandering around. Thank God for this cabin, the water and food. Now... if I can only figure out where I am.
In one of the drawers I find a sheet of directions instructing weekend guests how to find the cabin. Studying the document, I realize I'm less than a mile from a paved road. I wash out my canteen, refill it with bottled springwater, straighten up the cabin, scribble a note apologizing for breaking in, borrowing clothes and using provisions. I promise to pay for all the damage, sign the note, give my phone number and address, then close up the smashed shutters as best I can and walk back out the drive.
It's twilight. My vision's good. I'm striding fairly well. I feel much better, though there's still some cloudiness in my head. As for my anger, I try to put that aside.
I find the road, flag down the first vehicle that comes along. To my amazement, it stops. I run forward. It's a battered Ford Taurus with a young couple inside.
"Where you goin'?" asks the woman. She's got freckles and a friendly smile.
"Nearest public phone."
"We're headed for Fort Bragg."
"Fort Bragg'll be great!"
She exchanges a glance with her husband. He shrugs.
"Well... get in," she says.
I love you, people! "Thanks!"
* * * * *
Her name's Clarice. She chatters nonstop. I let her words wash over me while I think about what I'm going to do. Two things seem most important: report what happened to the cops, then retrieve my bike, bedroll, wallet and G.G.C. map from where I stashed them in Jackson State Forest.
Except I begin to wonder whether going to the cops is such a good idea. I was a trespasser in possession of a G.G.C. security map. My intrusion into club property was obviously planned. How can I explain what I was doing there and why? Also, from what I've read, the G.G.C. is tight with local enforcement. Poachers have been shot, at least three have been hunted down by G.G.C. shooting parties; a club officer and founder was possibly murdered in a duel on the firing range... yet, for all this, no club member or staff person has ever been arrested.
Still, impossible for me to accept what I endured. I simply can't let it go, thankful I wasn't raped or killed. The stuff Buckoboy and Chipper did to me, the attitude that made their abuse possible — that had to come from the top. A so-called gentlemen's shooting club that holds solstice orgies and sponsors guns-and-sex parties in the Capp Street
apartment, that shoots poachers dead and partakes in manhunts is an environment where the worst kind of staff abuse is possible.
I sit up straight! Clarice is still gabbing but I don't hear a word. I'm thinking about what I saw that night from the Wongs' attic: the standing man, dressed in black, shoving the pistol into the mouth of the woman naked and on her knees. Then what Baggy Bigelow and Agnes Fontaine told me about Ramsey Carson's collection of guns engraved with erotic scenes. And then about the gun I saw when I was spread-eagled and drugged on the pool table in the club lodge, the gun they pressed against me, the gun I feared they would use to probe me... on which I saw naked men and women having sex.
Yes, what was done to me did come from the top. And what might have been done to me — that too! Vince Carroll told his buddy I'd wake up confused, wouldn't remember anything. Which must be why he thought it was okay to dump me in the woods without even a sealed bottle of water by my side. All that, I think, will have to be avenged.
"...well, here we are, good old Fort Bragg," Clarice says. "Where should we drop you?"
"Paradise Saloon'll be fine."
A minute later they stop in front. I get out, thank them, wait till they pull away, then turn and enter the bar.
Bartender Joe, he of the drooping mustache and samurai topknot hair, doesn't recognize me at first. When I remind him, he smiles warmly.
"Yeah... sure... you and the Indian guy — I remember now. I set you two up with Hank and Gale."
For which, I tell him, I'm most grateful. I lean forward.
"I'm in trouble, Joe. Lost my wallet, got roughed up. Now I don't even have a quarter to make a call."
"No problem!" He slaps a ten-dollar bill down on the bar.
I thank him, but tell him a quarter's all I need, just something to put in the phone so I can get hold of an operator and place a call to Sasha collect... after which his quarter'll be returned.
He lays four quarters on top of the ten. "Pay phone's back by the toilets." He points the way.
* * * * *
Sasha picks up on the first ring. I tell him everything that happened. His groans of sympathy nearly break my heart.
"You should go straight to a hospital," he advises. "How can you be certain you weren't raped?"
"A woman knows."
He mulls that over, acknowledges that a woman probably does.
"They must have dissolved roofies in that water."
"Roofies?"
"Rohypnol, also called flunitrazepam. Someone doped with it wanders into our ER about once a week. It's like Valium, but ten times stronger. Knocks you out, clouds your brain. Know what they call it? 'The date-rape d
rug of choice.'"
I wince.
He tells me Rohypnol washes out of the system quickly, after which there's no evidence it was ever imbibed.
"If you want to bring charges, you should be tested right away. And even though you took a bath I still think you should get swabbed."
He goes quiet when I tell him I'm not going to a hospital and to please stop telling me I should. Also that I have no intention of bringing charges and why.
I ask him to give me Hank Evans's number so I can call and ask if he and Gale can put me up for the night. He finds Hank's number, reads it off to me.
"I love you, Kay. I worry about you," he says. "If anything happened to you—" I hear him choke up.
"I did something stupid," I tell him. "But now I'm safe. I'll deal with those G.G.C. bastards in my own way.
I put down the phone, sob a little, catch my breath, then dial Hank's number. Gale picks up.
"We were talking about you just the other night," she says. When she tells Hank I'm on the line, he picks up the extension. After hearing my story, he says he'll be by in five minutes. I should wait for him out front.
When I try to return the ten dollars to Joe, he holds up both hands.
"No way!"
"You don't even know me, Joe."
"I like you just the same."
"What if I'm conning you?"
He laughs. "All the better. You need ten bucks that bad I'm glad to be the one gets conned."
Hank pulls up in a dark pickup just as I step out of the bar. He jumps out of the cab, wraps me in a big bear hug, the kind Dad always gives me, then hustles me into the truck, slams the door, peels off.
"Asshole bastards!" he says, apropos of the G.G.C. guys. "If I knew where to find 'em, I'd haul 'em out now and shoot 'em. He looks at me. "Why didn't you call me, Kay? I'd have gone in with you. Armed too. With me along, they'd never have gotten the drop on you." He pauses, gives me another glance. "It wasn't wild game you were looking to photograph, was it?"
