by Paul Blades
He landed one more blow to her breasts and then one to her belly and three more to the front of her thighs. The girl’s body shuddered and shook and she screamed anew each time that the switch kissed her. He paused. Bright red lines ran across her body in a parallel series. She was moaning and crying and her face had turned bright red from her exertions. It wasn’t enough. “Let her spend twelve years in stir and see what it’s like,” he thought. She had no right to endanger him. Who did she think she was! She was just a stupid cunt! She deserved everything she got!
He went to her legs and untied them. Then he brought them back over her head and tied them to the headboard, exposing her ass and the backs of her legs. He ass was still raging red. It was going to hurt like hell.
He raised the switch and brought it down on her blooming red cheeks. She howled again and her legs swayed back and forth in desperation. He worked his way down the back of her thighs and up again, her howling and screeching through her gag all the way. He gave her ass three more blows. Then he was done.
The room was filled with her dismal sobbing. He found his smokes and lit one. He sat in his chair. He felt drained. All his anger had left. But the feeling that she had betrayed him remained. He realized that she was probably more trouble than she was worth. The main point was to get away, not get laid. Pussy was a dime a dozen in Mexico. He knew that he should probably do her right now. Release her legs and draw his blade across her throat. Then he would leave. The old man wouldn’t find her until tomorrow morning. He would be hundreds of miles away.
He looked at the bottle of Jim Beam on the table. He didn’t drink, but he felt that he could sure use a belt now. He opened the top and took a deep swig. It burned going down, burned real good. He took another swig and put the bottle down and capped it. A feeling of ease flowed through him. “I’ve got to think this out,” he said to himself. She could still be useful. And fucking her was such a pleasure. He would make up his mind when he came back.
He got up from his chair and went to the bed. He released her legs and let them fall. The girl’s sobbing had subsided, but she was still crying. He undid her hands and then flipped her over to her belly and tied her hands behind her back. He needed her secure while he was gone. And he would make it so that she would think long and hard while he was away about who was the boss.
He had tied her hands palm to palm, unlike usually where he just crossed them. It had the effect of pulling her shoulders back. He took another piece of rope and tied one end around her arm just above the elbow. Pulling her arms together, he tied the rope off so that her elbows touched. She moaned in pain. He got off the bed and retrieved the roll of duct tape. Then he flipped her over to her back and put three long pieces across her mouth, sealing in the muffling ball. Her eyes were wide with terror. “Good,” he thought.
Pulling her up from the bed, he led her into the bathroom. She had to hop because her ankles were still tied together. He lifted her and put her in the bathtub and made her lie down on her belly. With another length of rope, he tied her knees together. Then he brought up her feet, pulled them up towards her head as far as they would go and tied them off to her hands. She screeched in protest. He stepped back to admire his handiwork.
She was tied up just about as tight as a woman could be tied. She wasn’t able to move a muscle. She whined and squealed and tried to look up at him over her shoulder. It would be uncomfortable and get more uncomfortable the longer she was there. That was the whole point. Maybe she would be good after this. He had showed her what could happen. It was all her fault.
He went back to the bedroom and pulled a pillowcase off of one of the pillows. Back in the bathroom, he draped it over her head and tied it off around her neck. Not so tight that it would choke her, but tight enough so that it wouldn’t come off. It would deaden her moans and squeals, although she would have to squeal pretty loud to be heard through the duct tape. She would not be able to move from the position he had placed her in. She would have to overcome the smooth sides of the tub and that would be impossible. Barring the intervention of some independent force, she would be right where she was when he returned, no matter how long it took.
It had just started to get a little dark outside. He turned on the floor lamp by the bed and then the TV. He turned the volume up. The car would be gone for a while and he wanted the old man to believe that someone was still there. It would also cover up any faint noise that might come from the bathroom. Girls could wail real loud when they were unhappy.
He went back to the bathroom. She was moaning. Her body was vibrating violently. She hardly made a sound. He shut out the bathroom light, leaving the fan on to mask her limited noise, and closed the door.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He knew exactly where he was going. He had spotted it on the way in last night. Of course, it had been closed then. But now it was open.
As he pulled into the army-navy store parking lot, a light green Chevy Trailblazer pulled out. There were no other cars in the parking lot. He drove around towards the back and saw a red, late model Sonata parked there in what he presumed was an employee’s spot. He drove the maroon Malibu to a slot towards the side of the front entrance and parked.
The building was stand alone. There were no other stores near it. Behind it was just woods and woods a hundred yards on either side. It was perfect for him. Not that he was looking to knock the joint over or anything, but if something did happen while he was inside, like some kid pointing at him and saying, “Mommy, isn’t that the man who was on the TV today?” he would be in a better position to deal with it than if the store was in a strip mall.
He stepped inside. The store was called ‘The Rack’, and sold all kinds of army style clothing such as camouflaged pants and combat boots. There were all kinds of outdoorsy things, like hunting jackets, waders, even tents and sleeping bags. The store carried some women’s clothes too. There were denim jumpers and miniskirts, as well as some tops and accessories. It also sold guns. As Jack walked in, he passed a cabinet full of Glocks and .45 Magnums. He tried not to look at them. He had been thinking that it was too bad he didn’t grab one of the guards’ police issued 9 millimeters when he had the chance. He had the money to but one, but to get a gun legit, you needed at least a driver’s license, something that he was just plain out of. And he wasn’t about to steal one since that would bring down the entire State of Wisconsin down on him.
He passed by the handguns and headed for the men’s clothes. He picked out a pair of green cargo pants and a pair of black combat boots. As he was trying on the boots, the store clerk, who had been sitting behind the counter where the pistols were kept reading a magazine, decided to come over. He was a mid sized guy, in his late thirties, with a more than slight beer gut and hair that had lost a lot of comrades over the years, and was struggling to subsist with the few survivors. He was wearing a Brewers jersey with Sal Bando’s name and number on it.
“Those are good boots,” the guy said.
“Mmmmmmmmmm,” Jack replied. The last thing he wanted was to start a conversation with him.
“We sell a lot of ‘em,” he continued. “They were on sale last week. If you want, I could give you the sale price.”
“Sounds good,” Jack replied.
“Those boots you’ve been wearing don’t seem too worn,” he pointed out, referring to Jack’s state prisoner issued footwear.
“Don’t fit right,” Jack replied. He was lacing the combat boots to the top, looking away from the guy. He didn’t want to give the guy any reason to remember him.
“Yeah,” the man said, “too bad you can’t return ‘em.”
“Yeah, too bad,” Jack returned. He really wanted to tell the guy to go get fucked, but that would just cause problems. In the joint a guy like that would have never have had the balls to talk to him.
“Course,” the guy continued, “they might take them back down at the State Prison. The pants too.”
Jack’s head snapped up, alert.
“Oh, I don’t mean nothing by it,” the guy said. “My cousin did a stretch for check fraud. He came back in them same clothes. Got rid of ‘em as soon as he could. Just like you. I mean, it’s only fair, isn’t it. You did your time. Why should you have to go around dressed like some guy who might’ve escaped from state pr….”
His voice trailed off at the same time that Jack stood up, the surgical saw in his hand. He was at the guy’s throat in a second.
“Oh, gosh! Oh, jeeeze! I didn’t mean nothing! I don’t know who you are! I won’t say nothing!”
Jack had the knife to the guy’s throat. “Shut the fuck up!” he hissed. “Come with me!”
He took hold of the trembling, whining man by his shirt collar and led him towards the rear of the store. There was a storage area in the back. Jack came out alone a minute or so later. He wiped the blade clean on a t-shirt on his way back to the front of the store.
On the door, the sign said that the store closed at 6:30. It was 6:15. Jack decided to chance closing the store rather than having to risk killing again. Once was enough. Three men in two days. He hated killing. It always left a sour taste in his mouth and sometimes he dreamed about the people who he’d sent on. There weren’t all that many, at least not personally. Maybe twelve, if you didn’t count these three. And most of them had been guys. Guys on the make who got greedy or who didn’t deliver. Guys who had gotten arrested and were cooperating with the cops. He had done two women. The first had been an innocent bystander to the killing of a guy who really deserved it. She had just popped around the corner when he had just finished twisting a 7” long blade in the guy’s insides. He had had to chase her down and slit her throat. She was older, maybe in her forties, and a little heavy set, so she didn’t run too good.
That had been when he was just starting out, making his bones. The other was he had to take care of this cunt who kept running away from this place where the gang had her spreading her legs for the club’s benefit. The leader at the time, a guy named Drummer, whose real name was Cal Drummond, had ordered her taken care of in a very public way so that the rest of the girls would get the message. He and this guy Jed, took her out to the woods and he strangled her. Jed refused to do it. The girl cried and whined and pleaded. She was a looker too. They dumped her body where the cops would be sure to find it. Sure enough, it was headlines for a few weeks. None of the girls ran away after that for a long, long time.
He thought of that girl a lot when he was in stir. He was sorry for having done it. That Drummer was an ass and didn’t last out the year. Some Pagan killed him in a bar fight in Muskego. There was a lot of bad blood between the two gangs for a while after that. But eventually, there was a sit down and it all got straightened out. It was a Pagan bar after all and Drummer had no business being in there and shooting his mouth off. Jack was elected Chapter President right after that.
No, he took no joy in killing. But he couldn’t take the chance with this guy. He could have tied him up, but he probably would’ve gotten free eventually. And he would have known what clothes Jack had bought. And he would have known about the cut hair and the shaved beard, although the cops probably guessed that already. The guy had to go. There was nothing else to do.
He locked the door and pulled down the shade. He turned off the light on the sign outside. Grabbing a cloth from behind the counter, he wiped everything he had touched. If the cops didn’t trace him to the killing right away, it could save him hours, maybe a day. He put his old clothes in a plastic bag and put on some gloves.
There was about $800 in the register. But in the safe behind the counter, Jack hit the jackpot. The door had been left open so that the clerk could put today’s receipts in it before he closed up. There was $5,700 in small bills. Jack put it in a shopping bag and then in the larger one where he had tossed his prison pants and boots. The display case with the handguns was locked. Rather than go back and get the key from the dead guy, Jack smashed the glass with a hatchet. He loaded up a duffle bag with all the pistols in the display case plus ammunition. He stuck a Walther P99 into one of the pouches on his pants along with two extra clips.
Since he had already killed the store clerk, Jack figured he might as well outfit himself all the way. He gathered a sleeping bag, a two man tent, a small gas stove, a large bowie knife in a leather sheath, the hatchet and some cooking gear. He added a couple thermoses and a few more odds and ends. He felt like he was on one of those game shows where you had to gather as much crap as you could from the store aisles before the bell rang. On the clothes side, he added some more underwear, t-shirts and some more socks.
He stopped by the dress rack. What was he going to do with the cunt? He still hadn’t made up his mind. Well, if he didn’t get anything for her to wear instead of the yellow dress, and he decided to keep her along for a day or two, he would be sorry. He gathered a couple of denim miniskirts that looked her size and a few t-shirts. He also got her a dark blue parka to replace the one she had now. He got a dark green one for himself.
“Shoes,” he thought. The only shoes she had now were the canary yellow pumps. He got her a pair of ankle high workout shoes and some white socks. “That should do it,” he thought.
He loaded the stuff into the car. The Malibu had a lot of trunk space and he was able to pile most of the stuff towards the back and leave a little room up front for emergencies. He closed the trunk and went back into the store. He double checked to see if there was a burglar alarm to turn on, but he couldn’t find one. He locked the front door from inside and then went around the back. As he walked through the back room, he could smell the odor of the man’s spilled blood. He made careful that he didn’t get any on his shoes and stepped out the back door.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Attorney General Preston Baker was presiding over a meeting of the task force he had assembled in response to the Blackjack Jackson escape. He had been assured by the prison authorities that they would have him captured within 24 hours. It was now well into the second day and the results so far were butkis. They hadn’t even recovered the Ford Eclipse the guy had escaped in. This morning, the Deputy Warden in charge of the search assured him that Blackjack was still within 50 miles of the prison.
“We’ve got this area sealed off tighter than a drum,” the Deputy Warden said. “Not even a fart could escape.”
“That’s reassuring,” Baker replied doubtfully.
“All the main and secondary roads have been cut off. I can assure you that the car is somewhere within the search zone.” It was the Chief of the State Police speaking. “And my men have instructions to shoot first and ask questions later.”
“But what if he made it outside that 50 mile area? Suppose he got hold of another car and drove by one of your checkpoints at night? What then?”
“We’d have heard something by now,” the Chief told him. “My guys are keyed into every crime report in three counties. Nothing indicating that our man has stolen a car has come up.”
That was at 10 a.m. Now it was a little after 6 p.m. and the men in the room were looking pretty grim.
A snazzy State Police lieutenant had a blown up map of the state on an easel and was pointing at it with a long aluminum thing that folded up and you could stick it in your shirt pocket.
“Here’s the presumed point of capture,” he stated, pointing out the approximate location of Frawley’s Gas Station. “The phone was found a little over 10 miles north of there. We have surmised that Jackson is headed back towards the Wausau area where he has many contacts. Once there, he can connect with a number of potential remote hideouts. He is a known woodsman and could probably last the whole winter out there by himself with just a knife and some warm clothes.”
AG Baker looked at his assistant. He had done some checking on the girl’s bank account and on her credit cards.
“This confirms the information we have,” the assistant stated. “Several withdrawals were made at the Green Mountain Bank and Trust facility in Halleyville.
A credit card was used about 12:50 this morning at a Shop and Go convenience store abut 20 miles further north. I’d have to agree with Lt. Peterson. He’s headed for Wausau or he’s probably there already.”
“Which means he’s gone to ground. Which means that it will take weeks, if not longer to catch him,” AG Baker snorted. “I’m sure the Governor will be pleased with this information as well as having to look at that young girl’s picture on every national newscast for the foreseeable future. We can only hope that they don’t start one of those countdown things, ‘Two Days Since Carly’s Kidnap’, ‘Three Days Since Carly’s Kidnap’ right up to the April primary.
“We still don’t know for sure that he’s kidnapped her,” one of the junior assistant A.G.’s interjected.
“Oh, he’s got her all right,” the State Police Chief replied. “The boy at the convenience store confirmed it. We’re getting the photo from the bank ATM machine now. That should show them together too. What we don’t know is if she’s still alive.”
“I want her picture plastered over every newscast in the state,” Baker ordered. “I want a description of her car given to every reporter out there. Somewhere, some member of the public is going to spot it. Then we have him. I want all teams south and west of Halleysville moved up to the Wausau area. I want all air patrols diverted as well.”
“But what if he didn’t go that way? Suppose he used the charge card at the convenience store as a ruse to make us think he did and then backtracked and headed south or west?” the junior assistant A.G. spoke up.
