Twisted Retribution

by Donna Arp Weitzman

  The next morning, Sarah slid a pot roast in the crock pot and called up the stairs to wish Pete goodbye. She thought she heard Pete barely grunt in return. Her work was consuming and delighting her. Self-worth and purpose were now her companions.

  ***

  Zach was already hard at work when Sarah arrived at the office and busied himself foraging through more yellowed files that had been left untouched for years by the formerly dismissed and dead investigative team. Zach was an unlikely compatriot for Sarah with his tattoos, scraggly hair, and ragged jeans. But a minute spent with him uncovered a brilliant and inquisitive mind behind his fine features, along with a soft heart.

  He could not hide his sexual orientation, yet his sad eyes told of some kind of horror he had endured. Sarah guessed extreme schoolyard bullying and possibly more. She sometimes wanted to wrap her arms around this little boy-man and show him compassion. This was not possible, of course. She was the county crime investigator; there was no time or space for Zach’s mental health counseling when she was on the job.

  Zach liked working with two women every day and vacillated between being their protector and the one needing protection. His nerves were raw and edgy but never allowed him to be unkind. Zach was a complex human with hurt and betrayal etched in his psyche. Lacking the courage to dream of future plans or goals, he was too vulnerable to hope for anything. The best he could do was to rely on his loyalty to Sarah and Ruby. He wore it proudly like a favorite badge.

  Every rural community has a public servant like Ruby, efficient and dependable with highly-honed gossip skills. Ruby knew most of the county history. She could name numerous thugs and drug users and identify all the poor bastard children born out of wedlock. She relished in sharing all the details of cases with her women’s Sunday school class and never missed a funeral, wedding, or her weekly beauty shop appointment. Should a gray hair escape her Lucy Ricardo red coif, she would sweetly remind her hairdresser, “Your job is to keep me a redhead. Is that asking too much?”

  Ruby could not tolerate having a broken fingernail or running out of cigarettes at work. She’d leave the office unannounced just for a smoke run or to fix a chip in her manicure. Ruby had one purpose: to collect the meager retirement 30 years would supply her for staying with the county. Every year marked another milestone. Ruby was happy.

  The smell of Ruby’s coffee brewing every morning was comforting to Sarah. She instinctively recognized this trio of misfits would be most effective at extinguishing Montague County’s hoodlums.

  Other big shot law enforcement offices throughout Texas would soon know Sarah Sears and her staff. With no further leads on Henry Lee Lucas, she decided she would kick start her reputation by finding the escaped bank robbers if they dared to leave a trace in her county. Her heart raced at the thought of pulling out her gun to arrest the criminals. If necessary, she’d use it without hesitation.

  “Come into my office, Zach,” Sarah said as she passed by him. She offered Zach the visitor’s chair in front of her desk and got down to business right away.

  “I have a case I want you to concentrate on,” she began. “Please read this file and then let’s talk.” Sarah pushed the Lucas file toward Zach. With a raised eyebrow, he said, “You got it, boss. I’m all over it!” He left, tucking the file under his arm.

  An hour later, Zach respectfully knocked on her office door.

  “Wow,” he seemed breathless. “This guy’s a doozy. You sure you want to try to catch him?” Zach appeared stricken by Lucas’ profile.

  Sarah shook her head, affirmatively. “Never been surer,” she replied. “You and I will take him down.”

  Unlikely simpatico partners, Zach and Sarah exchanged a look that communicated complete cooperation and agreement. A crime novice and a killer—not good odds, but they had enthusiasm for the task ahead.

  4

  HENRY’S STORY – ONE WEEK EARLIER

  Henry Lee Lucas had been on the lam from Florida’s inept law enforcement and was traveling through the South headed to Texas. His traitorous friend, Ottis Toole, had just been captured and had ratted on him to the Florida officials. Toole was ignorant and mean, a babbling fool. Lucas was a crafty smooth talker, filled with hate. If Lucas had been brought up with any stability and kindness, he might have functioned as a normal family man, probably working for his pay instead of killing for joy and sustenance.

  No fiber in either Lucas or Toole contained empathy for man or beast. Toole had kicked dogs to death with steel-toed boots and regularly tortured stray cats with lighters or threw them into fire pits. Lucas delighted in Toole’s sickness and had even sought a demented sexual relationship with the man.

  Lucas was not only a homosexual but a heterosexual rapist. Young, old, bony, or obese, his disturbed mind satisfied his sexual appetite while forcing women and men to carry out his deviant and demanding acts. He often finished his sexual fantasies by killing the prey by various methods. A friendly gas station attendant, a smiling housewife opening her front door, or a shop clerk bidding him hello could set off his animalistic killing instinct. Stealing rations and automobiles for pleasure was merely a necessary afterthought.

  Toole and Lucas were the perfect murderous playmates, often accompanied by Toole’s niece Becky. Repeatedly raped by both men, she became a willing accomplice, fulfilling her teenage angst with their evil deeds. Lucas was the mastermind, and the others were his assistants.

  However, Toole was at times belligerent and uncooperative, and that worried Lucas. Both men despised anyone with authority. “Ottis, you’re a crazy bastard,” Lucas would say and shake his head whenever Toole was particularly wild, sometimes smearing a tortured soul’s blood on his arms and body, smiling through his black and rotted teeth.

  “Don’t be stupid or you’ll get those fucking police bastards coming after us,” Lucas had warned him. As Lucas drove west, he thought back on the night it had all gone so horribly wrong when Toole got caught.

  ***

  The Florida Panhandle had been hot and humid, the kind of weather that agitated the killers. Toole particularly wanted trouble. Lucas had seen a young mother loading groceries in her sedan and harbored a desire to keep her a few days chained to his bedpost. He described her beauty and innocence to Toole, who grew more enraged with Lucas’ glowing description of his prey. Toole liked having Lucas as his lover, and he was highly disturbed that this bitch could take his place in bed with Lucas.

  Henry had followed the young woman home and noted her house and street number. “I’ll get her tomorrow,” he told Toole.

  Staked out in an abandoned shack, the men slept that night on a filthy mattress, a small fan whirring in the corner. The niece was on the floor. Toole couldn’t sleep, knowing his lover would soon have a sex slave he had no desire to share. He cared little for rape but enjoyed watching the pain he could inflict on another human. This bitch would give him no pleasure, only stirring more jealousy regarding his lover. Toole hatched a plan: find the bitch’s house and kill her before Lucas could take her from her family. If anyone got in his way, Toole would kill her husband or kids. But the bitch was his real target.

  Typically, Lucas drove the getaway car, but around 4:00 in the morning, Toole revved up the old Chevy’s engine and drove toward the nearby small town. Ottis Toole was on a murder mission. No cunt would replace him with Henry, if even for a few days.

  The night air was slightly cooler as Toole drove down the little burg’s short streets. He rubbed his eyes, trying to see the street signs without using his high beams. The small, well-kept houses cradled the town’s families, unaware of the presence of a bloodthirsty killer.

  Lucas had described the home to Toole, and there it was: the tiny white clapboard house with two small clay flowerpots on each side of the front door. Toole, never a planner but rather an explosive personality, thought to himself, “I’ll knock and whoever answers the door, I’ll kill first. But I’ll make sure I get the woman.”

  Parking on the street directl
y in front of the house, Toole walked around the car, opened the passenger door quietly, and grabbed his shotgun. This would prove to be a poor choice of weapons for his crime. Sneaking across the tiny yard toward the unpainted porch, Toole tightened his grip on his gun. A cop car suddenly turned the corner, flashing its headlights on Toole. The young cop had been assigned to the night shift for that neighborhood and had spotted a shadowy man toting a long gun.

  Toole ran for his car. The officer hopped out and shouted for his suspect to stop. Instead, he turned and aimed his gun toward the officer, cocking the trigger.

  The cop would have been a dead man, had the young woman’s husband not heard the ruckus outside in his yard. Recently returned from military service, the husband was an expert marksman. From the front porch, he shot Toole in the leg, rendering Ottis helpless and leaving him yelping like some of the dogs he’d delighted in torturing.

  Both the officer and the shooter ran toward Toole, wrestling him to the ground and handcuffing him. By sheer luck, a rookie cop on a new beat had captured a serial killer.

  The marksman husband grabbed Toole’s shotgun and helped the policeman slam Toole’s torso against the hood of the patrol car while the cop called for back-up. Ottis Toole, a demented killer, was on his way to jail while his lover and partner, Henry Lee Lucas, slept until daylight.

  When the sun streamed through the broken windowpanes, it woke Henry. He looked around and saw that his partner was gone. He yelled for Toole but got no response. Becky was still fast asleep on the floor.

  “Where the hell is he?” Henry wondered. He had a strange feeling that Toole had gone on a solo murderous spree. Henry often worried about being outed due to his lover’s stupidity.

  Henry yelled louder for Toole. Nothing. Becky awoke.

  “He must have took the car, the stupid bastard!” Henry concluded, baffled. “Where the hell would the fucker go this early?” Mornings were typically reserved for a little grub and planning whatever mischief the two thugs could devise.

  Vowing to curse Toole when he returned, Henry heated water for instant coffee and cold cereal. He switched on the small radio he kept and tuned into the local news. A reporter was telling a story about a man named Ottis Toole who had been arrested for attempted burglary earlier that morning and was being held in jail. Most small-town radio men loved to announce criminal apprehensions, and locals loved for their tax dollars to pay for heroic acts of law enforcement.

  Henry knew his friendship with Toole was likely at an end. He’d better pack his few things and get out of town today. Henry would make sure Toole’s niece would go with him, as he didn’t need anyone left to talk to the police. Toole better keep his mouth shut, or Henry would kill him too.

  Henry was rarely without stolen transportation or enough money for necessary travel. He was an expert at picking a car door lock, and today was no exception. Walking a half mile up the road, he saw an empty blue Chevy sedan on the front lawn of a small, yet well-kept clapboard house. Unlocked. This was a cakewalk for a seasoned thief.

  Henry was slightly saddened to continue without Toole. Although the fool was dim-witted and overly careless, Henry would miss having a partner. Clever and cunning, Henry decided he’d head west to Texas and determine his next move.

  ***

  Henry and the girl rarely said a word during the long, hot drive across Florida’s Everglades toward the Texas border. Becky was on edge, leaving behind the only relative she had ever known, although he never showed her any empathy. To her, Henry was scary yet beguiling. When she occasionally shot a glance toward the driver, she experienced a sudden sexual stirring. Her short skirt offered her the opportunity to rub her crotch to entice Henry. He took his eyes off the road to eye her and her legs. “I’ll take care of you later, little girl,” he snarled, yet he was happy this young girl was willing to please him.

  Henry would be labeled a bi-sexual in future newspaper articles written about him and his crime spree. Man or woman, he only knew that he liked to satisfy himself occasionally. This girl might work out fine for a while. But Lucas fully realized he was easily bored and would need others to keep him stimulated. If he had to kill them, so be it.

  Driving throughout the night, Henry stopped only to “take a piss” and get gas and food. He wasn’t concerned when the girl went to the bathroom and bought soft drinks and chips. She’d been schooled by Toole and knew to keep her mouth shut.

  Hitting the Alabama line, Henry was careful to stay within the speed limit, not alerting some local cop that he was breaking the law. Lucas was careful and admired his own ability to fit into society.

  Mile after mile, Henry silently planned his next moves. He was adept at providing himself the necessities such as food and transportation. If the girl became too much trouble or talked too much, likely getting both of them in trouble, he’d be forced to dispose of her. Lucas never felt remorse for his life of crime but considered himself superior to others. He didn’t have the burden of an eight-to-five job like most men. Henry was only burdened by the moment, finding vulnerable prey and then doing any clean up that protected his deeds. He hated to mop up blood, so most often the tortured lay dying in their own pool of blood while Henry moved on.

  The girl slept most of the way through Alabama. Henry was aroused by the innocence of his accomplice, her mini-skirt hiked up around her thighs. Henry caught glimpses of her emerging breasts showing through her open blouse. He needed to fuck this girl and many others.

  When he could take it no longer, he pulled off the highway onto a crooked country road.

  “Where are we?” Becky asked, wide awake now.

  “In the middle of bumfuck,” Henry said and smiled. “I’m going to fuck you.”

  The girl smiled and pulled up her skirt. Henry pulled her toward him in the front seat, thinking it would not take long.

  Usually careful of his surroundings, Henry didn’t expect the old pick-up advancing toward his parked car. The girl was giggling and laughing as he heaved against her.

  “Shut up,” Henry demanded.

  She let out a yelp.

  Henry was agitated now.

  An old Alabama farmer was looking through the driver’s window, not sure if these people were consenting adults or maybe cheating on their spouses. Perhaps the man was even raping the girl. He decided to rap lightly on the pane. Henry was highly irritated at the old man, the stupid girl, and himself. But he was a capable sociopath, so he controlled his rage.

  Remembering his handgun was under the driver’s seat, Henry sat up and let down the window.

  “What’s going on here?” the old man asked. He looked curious.

  Henry smiled and said, “Just a little pussy this morning.”

  The old man frowned and starting walking away. The guy might talk to his coffee shop buddies later that morning, and Henry could not chance that. He warned the girl not to make a sound.

  Sliding out of the driver’s seat, Henry called out, “Hey, mister!”

  The man turned toward Henry and gasped before Henry pulled the trigger on his handgun, hitting the farmer in his chest and firing a second shot to the man’s stomach. Another killing was no problem, just a distraction.

  Henry started the car, which lunged forward and made its way toward the interstate. Henry thought, “I don’t owe redneck Alabama anything. I’m gonna keep going to Texas.”

  ***

  Driving all night to distance himself from the farmer’s body, Henry was hungry and tired. The road sign ahead read, “Welcome to Texas.” Henry and the girl had finally made it to Texarkana on the border between Arkansas and Texas. The girl slept most of the drive once again, which annoyed him more.

  “Bitch,” he thought. “I’m not sure she’s worth a little pussy. I’d rather have a real woman.” Henry made plans to ditch her when it was safe. Instinctively, Henry knew he’d have to kill her. He didn’t like witnesses; they were too dangerous.

  Henry wheeled in a small diner, shook the girl awake, and opened the
driver’s door. “I’m gonna pee and eat something. You’d better do the same,” he told her.

  Clothes wrinkled and beard unshaven, Henry sat in a booth. The girl slid in the other side. She suspected Henry was in a foul mood because she was accustomed to reading Ottis Toole’s moods. Henry exhibited little difference from her uncle. Anger mixed with anxiety were both men’s constant companions. She knew when to keep quiet and go along.

  Eggs and pancakes on the way, Henry sat next to the window. He never sat with his back to strangers. Bells on the dirty glass door jingled as two patrolmen walked in. Their guns in holsters and badges proudly pinned to their chests, these men were younger and much stronger than Henry. He sensed trouble.

  Henry waved to the skinny waitress by the coffee station, and she smiled back at him. “Whatcha need?” she said as she walked over and looked at Henry.

  “I gotta get my daughter back to her mother and need to get goin’. Can you put my grub in a box or two and make the coffee to go?” She agreed to do so, and Henry added politely, “Thanks for hurrying it up.”

  The cops were talking to a local townsman when Henry paid the ticket with cash. Leaving a big tip, he and the girl walked to the getaway car and drove west. The Texarkana police had let a serial killer slide through the border town unnoticed. Henry slightly smiled, thinking how dumb most cops are. Evil can sit right beside lawmen, and they are more worried about what they will have for their next meal.

  “Stupid bastards,” he said under his breath. “I’m gonna kill me a Texas cop just for fun.” Henry drove west with the morning sun coming through the back window of the car.

  Nocona, Texas, was located about three-and-one-half hours from Texarkana. About 2,000 residents made up the little town on the Red River, whose banks form a natural border between Texas and Oklahoma.