by S. E. Hall
Perhaps I was the empowered one all along.
I felt my husband’s hand on my left thigh, just above my knee. He gently squeezed. A memory almost twenty-five years old rushed over me of another hand squeezing my leg. A harder, crueler hand. I turned to look at my husband, and even though he was looking straight ahead, he was aware of my glance. He gave an almost imperceptible nod. He’d decided for me. I was okay with that.
I removed my wide wedding band and lifted my left hand so Grizz could see it. He smiled ever so slightly. Then he looked at my husband, nodded once and said, “Let’s get this shit over with.”
The warden asked if he had any last words. Grizz replied, “I just said ’em.”
Leslie had caught the exchange between us and mouthed, “What?”
I ignored her. That was one part of my story that wouldn’t make it into her article. Even though I’d vowed to be completely forthcoming, some things, no matter how insignificant, had to remain mine. This was one of them.
Grizz wasn’t an easy prisoner, so the guards assigned to him were super-sized, just like him. Much to their surprise, this day he put up no resistance. He lay down and stared at the ceiling as his handcuffs were removed and he was strapped tightly to the gurney. He didn’t flinch when the doctor inserted the IV needles, one in each arm. His shirt was unbuttoned and heart monitors were attached to his chest. I wondered why he didn’t fight, wondered whether he’d been given a sedative of some sort. But I wouldn’t ask.
He didn’t glance around. He just closed his eyes and passed away. It took nine minutes. It sounds quick. Less than ten minutes. But for me, it was an eternity.
An elderly woman in the front row started to sob quietly. She said to the woman sitting next to her, “He didn’t even say he was sorry.”
The woman whispered back to her, “That’s because he wasn’t.”
The doctor officially pronounced Grizz dead at 12:19 p.m. One of the guards walked over to the big window and closed the curtain. Done.
There were about ten of us in the small viewing room, and as soon as the curtain closed, almost everyone stood up and filed out without a word. I could still hear the elderly woman crying as her companion placed her arms around her shoulders and guided her toward the door.
Leslie looked at me and asked just a little too loudly, “You okay, Ginny?”
“I’m fine.” I couldn’t look at her. “Just no more interviews for the rest of the day.”
“Yeah, sure, that’s understandable. I have just a few more questions for you before I can wrap this story up. Let’s meet tomorrow and talk.”
My husband took my hand, stood with me and told Leslie, “It’ll have to wait until we get home. You can reach us by phone to finish the interview.”
My knees felt wobbly. I sat back down.
Leslie started to object, then noticed the expression on my husband’s face and stopped herself from saying more. She managed a smile and said, “Okay then, until Sunday. Have a safe trip home.”
She left the room.
My husband and I were the only ones remaining. I stood to leave and couldn’t move. I fell into his arms, sobbing. He gently lowered me to the floor and sat down with me, holding me against him. I lay like that in his arms, crying, for a long time. A very long time.
Chapter One
It was May 15, 1975. A typical Thursday. A day just like any other day, nothing extraordinary or even remotely exciting about it.
But it would be the day that changed my life forever.
I’d gotten up a little earlier than usual that morning and done some chores before school. I didn’t have to do chores, but I was used to doing for myself, and there were certain things I wanted done. I had a quick breakfast of toast and a glass of orange juice, then loaded up my little backpack. It wasn’t really a backpack, more like a baggy cloth purse with strings that I could arrange around my shoulders and wear on my back for easy carrying. It looked small but could hold a lot.
That morning it would hold my wallet with my driver’s permit and four dollars. I wasn’t old enough to have an official license yet; I’d just turned fifteen three months before. The bag also held my reading glasses, a hairbrush, apple-flavored lip gloss, two tampons, a birth control packet and two schoolbooks: advanced geometry and chemistry. I’d finished my homework the night before, folded the notebook papers in half and stuck them between the pages of my books. Everything else I needed for my classes I kept in my locker at school.
I wore hip-hugger, bell-bottom blue jeans with a macramé belt, a flowery peasant top and sandals. I had on the same jewelry I wore every day: silver hoop earrings and a brown felt choker that had a dangling peace sign. Even though this was South Florida in May, the mornings could still get a little cool, so I wore a red and white poncho Delia had knitted.
That morning my stepfather, Vince, had driven me to the bus stop. I could’ve walked, but it was far, so I grabbed rides from Vince whenever I could. He would’ve taken me all the way to school, but he had to drive in the other direction to do that, and I had no problem riding the bus.
I might have asked Matthew for a ride, but something was off with him. Matthew was a senior I was tutoring, and we’d become close. We weren’t a couple, but I knew he was interested. I was also becoming close to his family. I actually spent more time with them than my own. Less than a week ago, he’d kissed me goodnight on my front porch. But now he was telling me he wouldn’t need my help with tutoring and he didn’t have time to be my friend. Before, he was always offering to give me a lift to and from school. Not anymore, I guess. But like I said, I didn’t have a problem with the bus.
“See ya later, kiddo,” Vince said as I jumped out of his rickety van.
“Later, Vince.”
That day was a regular day at school. I was spared the awkwardness of running into Matthew. We didn’t take any of the same classes and didn’t hang with the same crowd. But still, it would’ve been nice to ask him the reason behind the abrupt halt to our friendship. I was more curious than hurt. I mean, it was just a simple goodnight kiss.
I’d finished all my homework by the time Study Hall ended, which meant I could allow myself to go to the public library after school. If I’d had homework, I would’ve gone straight home or to Smitty’s. But on days I didn’t have homework, I loved to go to the county library and immerse myself in books. I’d been going there since grade school, and I’d made friends with everyone who worked there. I’d just need to take a different bus from school. We weren’t supposed to swap buses without a signed permission slip each time, but the bus drivers all knew me, and Delia had given her approval earlier in the year. I did it so often they’d stopped asking for a slip.
“Hey Gin, no homework today, I see,” Mrs. Rogers, the librarian, said as I walked through the doors. I just smiled and nodded at her as I headed for the card catalog. For a long time I’d been meaning to look up some books on John Wilkes Booth. We were studying President Lincoln’s assassination in school, and I’d already devoured the books from the school library. I wanted to see if the local library had anything else to offer on the subject. I was in luck.
By five o’clock it was time to start packing things up, so I hauled my three books to the desk to check out.
“Need to make a call?” Mrs. Rogers asked.
“Yes, please,” I replied. They were used to letting me use the phone to call Delia or Vince for a ride home.
Vince must have been running behind on his delivery schedule and wasn’t back at the warehouse yet. I left a message saying I needed a ride home from the library, but that I’d try calling Delia too. Which I did, but there was no answer where she worked. That could’ve meant a few things: She’d left, or she was talking to a customer and didn’t want to pick up the phone, or maybe she was in the back room and didn’t hear it. Oh well, this had happened before. No big deal.
“You going to be okay, Ginny?” Mrs. Rogers asked. “I don’t want to lock up and leave if you don’t have a ride. I�
�d be glad to take you home.”
She was sweet. She offered this every time I didn’t have an immediate lift home.
“Oh, no problem, Mrs. Rogers. I’ll walk over to the convenience store and get a drink. Vince knows to come by there if the library is closed.”
And that’s what I did. Like I had done a hundred times in the past. I bought a soda and sat out front with my back against the entrance. I drank my soda and was so engrossed in one of my books I barely noticed when a noisy motorcycle pulled up.
It wasn’t until the person driving turned it off and started walking toward me that I realized someone was talking to me. I heard a little chuckle and then, “That must be some good book you got your face buried in. I’ve been asking you what you’re reading since I got off my bike and you didn’t even hear me.”
I glanced up. He looked like a typical motorcycle guy. Average height. Brown, shaggy hair that just touched his collar. He wore jeans, boots and a white T-shirt under a leather jacket. He smiled then, and I answered with a smile of my own.
“History. Lincoln.” That was all I said. I wasn’t a flirt and didn’t think he required any more than that. I immediately looked back down at the book I had propped up against my knees.
That answer seemed to suit him because he didn’t say anything else as he swung the door open and proceeded inside.
He came out a few minutes later with a Coke. He squatted next to me and looked at the book I was reading as he drank his soda. Without any prompting he started to engage me in conversation about Abraham Lincoln and more specifically about Booth. I found what he said interesting so I closed my book and turned to give him my full attention. He was nice and seemed like an okay guy—nothing like what I’d expected a man on a motorcycle to be like.
After a few minutes of discussing John Wilkes Booth the conversation turned personal, but not in a disturbing way. He asked how old I was and seemed genuinely shocked when I told him fifteen. He asked me what grade I was in, where I went to school, my hobbies, stuff like that. He seemed really interested and even teased, “Well, I guess I’ll have to come back in three years if I want to take you on a real date or something.”
Oh, my goodness. He was flirting with me. I had boys at school flirt with me all the time. They’d say things like, “Gin, how come you’re not out there cheering? You’re just as pretty as the cheerleaders.” They were always offering to give me a ride home or asking if I wanted to hang out after school.
The boy I’d been tutoring, Matthew, had seemed interested, too. At least up until a couple days ago. He was a popular senior and our school’s star running back. He went by the nickname Rocket Man. He was cute and sweet and flunking two classes. I was tutoring him in English and math. Truth was, I liked boys, and Matthew was growing on me. I liked the kiss we shared. But I wasn’t interested in a serious boyfriend, especially one who would be leaving for college in the fall. I had too much to accomplish before I could get involved in a relationship.
But this was a man flirting with me, not a boy. And I realized I was more than a little flattered that he was taking an interest in me.
Unfortunately, I didn’t know how to flirt back, so I reopened my book and just pretended to keep reading while he talked.
After he finished his soda he asked, “So, what are you doing sitting in front of the convenience store? You waitin’ on someone?”
“Yeah, my stepdad is supposed to pick me up. He should be here in a minute.”
He stood up and looked around. “Well, I can give you a ride home. How far ya live?”
“Oh no, that’s okay. I wouldn’t want him to show up and me not be here. He would worry.”
Actually, that wasn’t true. Vince wouldn’t see me here and assume Delia picked me up, and he would just go home.
“Can you call him or somethin’ and let him know you’re gettin’ a ride?” Before I could answer he said, “You ever been on a motorcycle before? You’ll like it. I’m a safe driver. I’ll go real slow and let you wear my helmet.”
Again I didn’t answer, just looked at him.
He laughed then and said, “It’s not like I can do anything to hurt you while you’re on the back of my bike. Seriously, it’s just a ride home. If you don’t want me to know where you live, I can drop you at a corner close to your house. C’mon. Make an old guy’s day.”
“Why not?” I thought as I tried to mentally guess his age. He was older than me, but I didn’t think he was an old guy. I closed my book and stood up.
“Well, I guess it’d be okay. I live off Davie Boulevard, just west of I-95. Is that out of your way?”
“No problem at all.”
He tossed his Coke in a garbage can, came back over to me and held my bag open while I stowed my library book away. He made some comment about how my satchel was probably heavier than I was. He walked toward his motorcycle and grabbed his helmet, which had been hanging on the handlebar, and gave it to me. I put my bag on my back, took the helmet from him and put it on. It was loose, so he tightened the strap under my chin.
He swung a leg over the bike, started it up and then stood. I realized he was standing to make it easy for me to get on behind him, which I did with no problem. He revved the engine and I felt a little thrill at being on the back of a motorcycle with an older guy. I wasn’t the type to care, but for a second or two I actually hoped someone I knew might see me. How prophetic that thought seemed much later. I yelled that I was going to have him drop me at Smitty’s Bar and asked if he knew where it was on Davie Boulevard. He nodded yes.
I guess that was the moment I was officially abducted.
We started out in the direction I’d told him. At a red light he turned and asked if I was enjoying the ride. I nodded yes and he said very loudly that he was going to take a different route to give me a little longer ride. Not to worry though, he would get me safely to Smitty’s. I didn’t worry. Not even for a second. I was enjoying myself too much.
It wasn’t until we were on State Road 84 heading west and missed the right turn onto U.S. 441 that I felt my first stirring of fear. It was then I realized I didn’t even know his name, and that with all the small talk and questions he had for me at the 7-Eleven, he’d never even asked mine. That suddenly struck me as very weird.
I leaned up so my mouth was near his ear and shouted, “Hey, this is the really long way around. I have to be home soon or my parents will be worried.”
He never acknowledged that he heard me.
I leaned back against the backrest on the motorcycle. Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic. My bag was still on my back, and I could feel the library books digging into me through the thin fabric. It was then that I noticed his jacket for the first time.
It was a skull with a sinister smile and what appeared to be some kind of horns. A naked woman, somehow tastefully covered, was draped seductively across the top of the skull. She had dark brown hair with bangs and big brown eyes. As I peered closer, I saw she was wearing a brown peace choker. I raised my hand to my neck. It looked just like mine. Before I could ponder that strange coincidence I looked lower. To my horror, I noticed the name embossed beneath the morbid design.
Satan’s Army.
Chapter Two
I’d soon find out I was nothing more than a thank-you gift after a long initiation ritual.
I sat in the rickety lawn chair and surveyed my surroundings. I clutched my bag to my chest as I tried to adjust my eyes to the dimming light. There was a campfire and a hodgepodge circle of people surrounding it. I can’t remember now if I couldn’t make out their faces in the waning light or if I was too frightened to notice. I knew where I was but wasn’t exactly sure what to do about it. I’d started praying as soon as I realized the seriousness of my predicament. I should’ve taken my chances when there were more people and cars around. I should’ve risked jumping off a moving motorcycle. It would have been better than what I faced now.
I remember starting to physically shake when the reality hit me as
we’d made our way west on State Road 84.
These days 84 is updated and modernized, but in 1975 it was an underdeveloped two-way road. Today it runs parallel to a super highway, I-595, that takes you from the Everglades to the beach in a matter of minutes with all kinds of development in between—houses, schools, shopping centers and gas stations. In ’75, it was the highway to hell, famous for its head-on collisions. It had little to no turnoffs with the exception of a little bar called Pete’s.
When we passed Pete’s I felt the nausea rising in my stomach. I knew there was nothing beyond it except the entrance to the deathtrap highway called Alligator Alley that connected the two Florida coasts. I thought the Miccosukee Indian Reservation was out there somewhere, but I didn’t have a clue where.
It was getting dark and there were no other headlights in sight. About ten minutes after passing Pete’s, we slowed and made a right onto a dirt road. I noticed some dim lights for the first time. Just a little way off the road, and barely visible due to the growing brush, was an old motel.
It was one of those little fifteen or twenty-unit motels with old jalousie windows. It had an unlit sign identifying it as the Glades Motel. I hoped maybe it was still in business. A working motel might be good. Someone had to be running it. This might be my chance to explain I had made a mistake and ask to use the phone.
I guess it was originally built with the intention of giving travelers a place to stop in the middle of nowhere, but for whatever reason, it couldn’t stay in business. As we pulled into the pitted and worn-down parking lot, I saw old gas pumps off to the right. It was obvious they were no longer in use. A couple of rooms had lights on, but what looked like the office showed no signs of life.
As we passed the old gas pumps I looked to my left and noticed a group of people between the motel and us. They were sitting around a dying campfire among the rusty old swings, slide and an antiquated carousel. It looked like a picnic and playground area that had seen better days. On the other side of the playground looked like a pool area. I couldn’t tell for sure, but I thought it looked like it didn’t have any water in it.
