K-9 Outlaw: A Kelton Jager Adventure Book 1

by Charles Wendt

  “Settle down back there,” he ordered.

  She could feel the mucous on the back of her throat beginning to interfere with her breathing and she tried to calm herself. She extended her legs to push her head more upright, thumping it against the door panel with a final push from her hands behind her back. She took a slow deep sniffling breath and then violently blew her nose, trying to clear her air passage. The snot sprayed all over the stained white blouse. Breaths came easier and she tried to look around.

  “I said to stop moving around,” he snarled with added emphasis.

  Dixie barely noted his tone. Finally facing upward without the blindfold she could see through the upper part of the truck’s windows, but it didn’t count for anything but a few treetops and a piece of a billboard. Unfortunately, she didn’t recognize it to get a bearing. The roof of the cab was cardboard, the headliner cutaway when it had sagged downward. Some remnants of the fabric could be seen in the moldings. On the floor were her high heeled shoes she’d kicked off in the struggle to try and leave behind a clue. He’d been able to gather her up over a shoulder and still kneel down to scoop them up.

  She remembered Buck telling her if she was being abducted in a trunk to try and push out one of the taillights. If you could get a foot or a hand outside, no one riding in the vehicle would be able to see it. A “Good Samaritan” cell phone call later and the police would be on their way.

  But the floor of the crew cab backseat seemed to offer a lot fewer options. He would hear or feel if she squirmed around too much and no one would see her through the windows if she didn’t manage to get higher.

  Slowly she extended her legs some more, trying hard not to bump the back of the driver’s seat. She got her hips over the hump and began to sit more upright against the rear passenger side door. The fluids in her sinuses and throat drained away some more and breathing became almost normal. She started to lean to her left to be able to see the driver, but thought better of it. If she couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see her. Dixie hugged the back of the passenger seat instead.

  Cocking her head, she looked upward through the corner of her left eye. She hoped someone might see the top of her blond head, but knew it wasn’t good enough. It was definitely a full-sized pickup she was riding in; meaning the only people who would see her blond hair would need to be looking down from a tractor-trailer. Anything smaller, even a full size SUV like a Hummer, wouldn’t have the angle needed. And frankly, a blond-haired head was unlikely to attract the needed attention. Only the duct tape over her mouth would possibly alarm a passerby.

  Dixie decided she needed to go for the door handle. It was an “in the armrest type” that a properly seating passenger would place his hand on the armrest with his four fingers on the vertical lever and pull it toward him. The mechanism would release the catch and the door could then be pushed open. Unfortunately, the cable tie held her hands quite fast and she could feel them and her shoulders beginning to numb. She decided to try with her face.

  She planted her face into the armrest, trying to get her nose behind the lever. She couldn’t breath and backed off for a few breaths before trying again. Dixie thought of the beak on a girl in middle school she had made fun of once and now wished for such a protuberance. Wishes or not, it wasn’t working. The right angle of the armrest and the door panel kept her nose from getting anywhere close enough, even if her nose would be strong enough to pull the lever. Cyrano de Bergerac wouldn’t be able to do it. It would have to be her hands.

  To do that, she would have to climb up onto the seat and attract a strong rebuke from the driver. She’d need to exit as immediately as possible to maximize her chances of getting away. If she didn’t, he’d be sure to take other measures that would make the next attempt impossible. She paused to think things through a little more.

  With the likely dual rear axle and accompanying wide rear fenders, she’d need to push hard with her legs to launch herself to avoid being run over. That would mean going out the passenger door backward head first and tumbling over to get her legs clear of the truck’s rear tires. It would also mean going out blindly. He would likely slam on the brakes and run around the front of the truck to collect her if there weren’t too many people around.

  Dixie doubted she’d be able to outrun him. Bare feet were not good for running, and she was not athletic. Should she jump back in the truck, and try to lock the doors and hold down the horn? She dismissed it. By the time he stopped the truck, he would be closer to the door than her and she would just be running back into his clutches. The best bet would be to run down the road for all she was worth and hope there was traffic. And the further they drove from St. Albans, the more rural and less busy the roads became.

  So she waited for her moment. The big diesel sang for long minutes, but then she felt the automatic transmission down shift as revolutions fell. The truck started to make a right turn, and she felt the centrifugal forces helping her to sit up as she sprang up on to the backseat. With a thrust of her legs, her back was against the door and even with bound hands found the door latch. She started to pull just as he slammed the brakes.

  Her body was thrown forward, her neck whiplashing sideways into the passenger headrest. It felt like a punch to her temple, and she dropped like a losing boxer to the mat of the floorboards. She felt the truck speeding up again.

  “The child safety locks are on. Now do what I told you and lay there real still.”

  Dixie’s eyes began to well up, and she felt the rumble in her sinuses as she labored to breathe again. She had no further ideas, was powerless and knew it. Her imagination turned from a friend helping her find an ingenious escape, to a creative sadist savoring possibilities which lay ahead. Vibrations from the truck hid the trembling from herself at first, but she couldn’t help tuning in to her body’s physical reaction to the fear.

  The wait wasn’t long all told. She estimated some thirty minutes of driving, but with several turns and a stretch of gravel road knew they could be anywhere. The last bit was twisty with potholes, and trees were thick in the window tops. Dixie didn’t try and get up as the truck stopped, the engine ceased and he got out. A moment later her head fell backward as the rear passenger door opened and he towered over her. The scream came out her nose as he ripped a section of silver duct tape off a large roll and pressed it over her eyes. Dixie tried to scream again, but this time his large hairy hand pinched her nostrils shut. She writhed trying to break free and then heard him laugh as he released while she sneezed and sputtered. She felt his other hand grab her hair on the top of her head and use it to pull her out of the truck, feet dragging behind. He left her shoes.

  Through the torn pantyhose she felt the gravel transition to smooth concrete, and a greasy oily smell get stronger. At the same time, she could feel the air transition from sunny breeze to stale cool darkness. She was inside a machine shop or a garage of some sort. The hand let go from her hair, dropping her but she didn’t bang her head too hard on the floor. There was a scraping noise of metal on concrete for a second, and then the rumble of an approaching nearby train kept her from hearing anything else.

  There wasn’t any horn blowing, but the big locomotive gently shook the foundation slab upon which she lay. Then the hand was grabbing her hair again, and she felt an arm around her waist lifting her up. Her feet weren’t dragged but a couple yards before she felt them lose contact with the floor and fall beneath her. Then the arm about her waist let go and she was falling.

  The handful of hair kept her from dropping and she writhed liked an unfortunate at the gallows. Her legs thrashed every which way as she struggled to find any purchase. Even her gyrating hips, convulsing in fear of the abyss, failed to make contact with any edge or lip of a hole that Dixie knew must be there. Regardless, she couldn’t tell if solid ground was feet away or merely inches. She just felt herself sinking lower, her flailing feet not finding bottom, dangling by a giant meaty hand smelling of used engine oil holding tight to the hair on top of her head. T
hen the hand simply and calmly let go.

  She screamed, nostrils spraying again, but she ran out of altitude before she ran out of breath. Her left foot hit first, but off balance, so she twisted backward and sideways to slam her left shoulder and hip on the concrete. Heat and pressure surged about her ankle as she lay on her side, knees drawn up toward her chest as much as bound hands would allow.

  She could hear the train continuing, and then become muffled all of a sudden like an exterior door had been closed. Or a cover had been placed upon the pit like a jar’s lid with a bug inside. Even muffled, the train was loud enough for her not to hear anything else. Nor could she see with the tape still in place. Tape also sealed taste off from sensation. Smell was overwhelmed with used engine oil, and her fear driven sweat. Only feel spoke to her, the comforting solidarity of the unyielding slab upon which she lay. It was strong and stable and it meant she was somewhere.

  Dixie suddenly realized she was not alone, the mental shock destroying any fragment of memory of how she became aware in the first place. Maybe she heard something after the train’s departure or felt the stir of breath, warm fresh and alive. It panicked her, but her wrist’s bounds held and the ankle kept her from rising. Before she could do something rash, she felt the grabbing at her cheek.

  “Be still, Dimwit. Trying to get this crap off you,” the soft voice said. A woman’s voice.

  Arms gently helped her up into a sitting position, her legs and the throbbing ankle straight out in front of her. The hands slowly and gradually started picking at the tape on her mouth. Despite the sweats of terror, the adhesive maintained a mean grip on her tender skin.

  “Stop sniveling. It will be worth it to breath better, okay? Nod if you can understand me.”

  Dixie nodded her head so quick those soft hands lost the edge of the tape.

  “Hold still so I can get a bit more edge.”

  Lip and skin pulled away from the side of her mouth, lipstick doing little to blunt the abrasion. A little air began to leak in from the corner, gurgling from her mouthful of saliva. Then her head suddenly jerked to the right as a savage tug tore the tape away, ripping skin and hairs from her face. She screamed as her face burned in agony.

  A scream that felt good because she could breathe air again. All the saliva, blood, mucous threatening the breathing she once took for granite, swept away. She gulped in the air, coughed and spit with no regard for being a lady.

  “Thank you,” she breathed again. “That was terrible.”

  “Lean forward a bit and I’ll get your hands. This might take a while.”

  “Will you please take the tape off my eyes?” begged Dixie.

  “As soon as I free your hands you can do it yourself.”

  Dixie pleaded, “Please don’t cut me then. I’m already so hurt.”

  A sarcastic chuckle replied, “I’ve an old fender washer that I’ve been scraping the edge on the concrete. Those cable ties are tough stuff and its duller than a butter knife. Raise your hands a little so I can get this piece of brick underneath them. It helps to have something hard to press against.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Bambi. My friend Baylee Ann is sleeping on the desk in front of you. She’s usually the one who helps people. Even people like you.”

  “Thank you. I’m Dixie.”

  “Yeah, we’ve seen you strutting around, even though you never gave the time of day to us. You’re Ed’s girl.”

  The voice was behind her now and Dixie could feel the back and forth rhythm as Bambi sawed at the hard plastic cable tie.

  “He’ll pay you for helping me. And my boyfriend’s a deputy. He’ll get us out of this.”

  “Buck may come to get you out, but he isn’t going to do shit for us.”

  “You know him?”

  “This county only got one deputy anymore. Everyone knows Bucky Boy.”

  “Oh,” Dixie considered.

  Dixie waited in her darkness as she felt the back and forth scraping of the makeshift tool. Bambi grunted, and drops of sweat fell in the back of Dixie’s collar.

  “Try and pull your hands apart. I know it won’t give yet, it just works better if things are taut.”

  Dixie pulled until her arms quivered, feeling the broad plastic strap dig into her skin.

  “A little lower. Keep it on the brick,” she instructed as she sawed away.

  Bambi shifted, switching sides to use her other hand. This brought a renewed vigor at first, but it quickly trailed off. Dixie felt the hot breaths on the back of her neck. Years of cigarettes and joints, without teeth brushing, made it quite foul.

  “Just a second. Let me get something.”

  Bambi was back in just a moment like she said.

  “Okay, Dixie, pull them tight again,” she directed. “Yeah, and push down so the bottom part of the strap is on the brick.”

  Dixie strained to comply, feeling the girl place the edge of the washer on the strap again but this time not sawing back and forth. Instead came a sharp blow from a second brick, a stone, or maybe just a chunk of left over concrete. More blows came down.

  “Ow! That hurt!” Dixie sobbed as the flesh on the edge of her hands was pinched between makeshift hammer and anvil.

  “Stop whining, dammit. I think it’s almost there.”

  Another string of blows, with deliberate and focused tapping renewed the assault. And then suddenly, her hands were free.

  She brought them immediately around in front of her and rubbed the tortured wrists. Needles of pain shot through her arms and shoulders as circulation returned. She moaned and fell backward into Bambi, splaying out flat on her back. Bambi embraced her gently, and rocked her as Dixie cried just a little.

  “Okay, sit up so I can stand up and check on Baylee Ann.”

  “I thought you said she was sleeping?”

  Dixie grabbed at the edges of the tape on her eyes as she heard Bambi move around to the front.

  “Passed out would be a better way to put it,” explained Bambi.

  Dixie took a deep breath and ripped the tape away. Her carefully plucked eyebrows were annihilated, and blood flowed freely as skin around her eyes ripped away. Only her thick makeup kept it from being worse. She rubbed at the gunky adhesive left behind, struggling to get her eyelids open. A small shop light with its dirty bulb initially blinded her, but soon allowed the dingy vault to come into view.

  Bambi stood on the far side of a scarred and battered desk, stroking Baylee Ann’s dark hair. Baylee Ann’s naked form lay upon the desk, head hanging down on the far side. Dixie hobbled over with the genuine concern of a fellow woman. A thin metal strap with small holes down its center, like the bracing for a garage door opener, went over the back of Baylee Ann’s neck and had been screwed into the wood of the desktop. The heads of the screws looked stripped, like he had used an electric drill with the torque control set too high. Her bare feet were on the floor, but knees were bent as her hips sagged upon the near side after the strain of countless hours. Angry welts, perhaps inflicted by pinching hands punctuated her bare white buttocks. Dixie averted her eyes downward.

  Even with the low light and the black stains of engine repair on the floor, the small pool of blood between Baylee Ann’s feet was evident. Dixie tried to resist following to the source with her eyes, but couldn’t help tracking the dry bloody streaks. Little trails of crimson snaked up her ankles, arched over her calves and continued up her thighs. The smears were thicker here, and redder with the glisten of sticky wetness. Dixie tried to prepare herself for the sight of the ripped and battered lips of Baylee Ann’s sex, and then choked in horror as she realized it was fine. The engorged and torn source of the blood was above it.

  CHAPTER—6

  Deputy Buck Garner silently seethed driving around the new partners in his patrol car. He went east on Main Street and, before reaching Ed’s Truck Stop and the interstate, took a right at the flashing yellow light to go south on Thigpen Road. Buck stole a peek in the rearview at Azrael pa
nting on the back seat behind the grate. The dog’s black face watched the road, not paying him any mind. It was degrading to be playing chauffeur to a dumb animal. It was humiliating to see a homeless man effectively elevated to his status as a deputy after being in town for only a day. And it was outright mortifying not being able to immediately slap down Rebel for taking his frigid bitch girlfriend. The faster this could be resolved the better. He didn’t want this drifter getting comfortable in town and deciding he wanted to stick around.

  “So who’s this Braxton guy?” asked Kelton.

  South on Thigpen Road, after passing Coalson Street on the right with its old but well-kept houses, quickly became rural with untamed groves and pasture land. The road’s windy direction slowly drifted away from the busy lanes of the interstate to the east.

  “A local guy who’s been in trouble for weed a few times over the years,” Buck said feigning courtesy.

  “And he has a blue truck?” pressed Kelton.

  “Yeah, just like Mr. Butler said.”

  “What would he want with your secretary?”

  Buck snapped, “What does every man want? And her dad is one of the richest businessmen in town.”

  Buck took a breath trying to get the annoyance out of his tone, while Kelton nodded thoughtfully. The deputy was shrewd enough to know he wanted to talk as little as possible. The more he said, the more things that could possibly trip him up later. However, he had to play a game of civility or Sheriff Fouche would want to know why. Fortunately, the sharp retort seemed to have headed off more questions and Braxton’s place wasn’t far. But Kelton’s question about motive was one he would have to confront sooner or later.

  “Okay partner, it’s just up ahead on the left,” said Buck reconciling.

  They were less than five miles south of Main Street, but there were other ways to measure distance from the kept brown brick buildings of St. Albans. The home looked nearly dilapidated, only a stray splotch of white in an eve indicating it had ever been painted at all. The scrubs and dogwood trees sported wild branches with spring blossoms in a yard choked with saplings and briars. A trace of wood smoke wafted above the crumbling chimney and a light blue Chevy pickup was parked on the side. No other houses were in view. The small lot nestled into scraggy cow pastures.