Abducted

by David R Lewis

  “Terrific,” Clete said. “That’s what I’d do if I were you. Punish myself because she decided it was time to punish you again and ran off. Makes perfect sense to me.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, and it’s bullshit.”

  Crockett glared at him.

  “There ya go,” Clete went on. “Your neck’s startin’ to swell an’ you’re bullin’ up. You do remember that she took off on you, doncha? You do remember that her takin’ off is not an unusual situation, doncha? You do remember that damn near your whole relationship with that woman has been on her terms, doncha?”

  Crockett stared at the tabletop.

  “I’ll take silence for agreement,” Clete said. “Oh, if only I had been there to save her. If only whatever I did that was so wrong hadn’t happened, I could have delivered her from evil. What a load a crap. Stop it, Crockett! I am gonna tell you a basic truth about women like Ruby, okay?”

  Crockett looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

  “That’s what I said. Women like Ruby. As much as you hate the thought that Ruby could possibly be like other women, son, she is. Where is the balance between the two of you? We all, to one level or another, spend our lives struggling for control. Women like Ruby base their entire identity on the control of power. Why the hell do you think she’s a therapist? Whatever happened to them in their twisted kidhoods, whatever bent them as they were growing up, don’t make a bit a difference. The result is the fuckin’ same.

  “If they’re homely like Hillary Clinton, they attach themselves to people they can manipulate in business or politics or somethin’. If they’re good lookin’ they do it the simplest way they can. And you damn sure know what that way is. For as long as I have known you, when ol’ Ruby whistles, you tap dance. Those women have a twisted view of the world, Crockett. They think they have a real grasp of a basic truth, but it’s bullshit. They believe that when the woman says yes, the man gains power, and when the woman says no, the woman gains power. One of their favorite tactics is to dole out a little yes here and a little yes there for a while, and then drop the big no. They think, consciously or not, that they’ve won something. That they’ve come out on top. But if the man is a man, and not some punishment dependent flake who thinks that’s all he deserves, eventually he’ll start pulling back. To save himself, he has to. Sooner or later she’ll drive him away. And then, she’ll wonder what happened and why he got so strange. That’s the reason so many of those women run a string of assholes over the years. A good man scares ‘em to death. Christ, Crockett, wake up! Ruby has yo-yo’d you around so much you probably got string burns on your dick. And no, I don’t wanna see.”

  Crockett removed a Sherman from the box and lit it. After the second drag, he looked at Clete.

  “You’re right. You’re right.”

  Cletus sighed. “I know it,” he said. “I don’t like it, but I know it.”

  It was about three in the afternoon when they stopped in Rolla for gas and Crockett relinquished the wheel. A few miles south, Highway 63 meandered through the corner of a Mark Twain National Forest. Clete smiled.

  “Pretty, huh?”

  Crockett looked around. “Yeah,” he said. “It really is.”

  “Got pieces of Mark Twain National Forests all over Missouri,” Clete went on. “Kinda like where we’re goin’ down in the Ozarks. Them Ozarkers are a different breed, Crockett. They’ve been stereotyped into some sorta cartoon characters over the years, but they’re a damn long way from Jethro and Ellie Mae or the Branson strip. They’re independent, clannish people who don’t put much stock in outsiders. And they’re tough. You can’t keep ‘em behind ten-foot wire and you can’t kill ‘em with a hammer. And the farther you get off the paved roads, the worse it is.

  “I’m feedin’ part of the stereotype here, and I know it. Truth is, most of ‘em are hard workin’, long-sufferin’ folks doin’ what they have to do to get by, just like anybody else. But there is a small percentage back in the hills and hollers that are a whole ‘nother animal. They’re not smart by most standards, but they’re sly. They wouldn’t be considered very intelligent by most people, but they’re cunning. Not very creative, but awful crafty. Not very bright, but terrible devious. And if your folks didn’t come from there, then you’re suspect. If you didn’t come from there, you are an alien, pard, and that’s exactly how you’ll be treated. The list of sharp-eyed and quick-tongued northerners that have been fleeced by these simple country bumpkins is endless.

  “Some of these people have been born, lived, and died and never existed. No birth certificate, no driver’s license, no diploma, no medical records, no marriage license, no social security number, no tax returns, no census response, no record of employment, no government service, nothing. There are people down there that make the Unibomber look like a social gladfly. And the worst of ‘em, Crockett, are as bad as anybody on the face of the earth. If you’re looking for kindness and hospitality, you’ll find it. If you’re looking for Little Abner, Daisy Mae, and a bunch of ridge runners, you can find that, too. If you’re looking for some eleven-year-old crossbred that’s his own brother-in-law and uncle twice removed, sitting on the front steps of some shack while he plays Foggy Mountain Breakdown on a banjo his great granddaddy made by hand, he’s there. And if you’re looking for some tobacco juice dribblin’, crotch scratchin’, toothless dimwit that’ll put a shotgun to your head while his half-brother asks you to squeal like a pig, that sonofabitch is watching from the weeds. I guarantee it.

  “We’re going to one of the most beautiful places on the planet. And in that beautiful place, if you look below the surface a little ways, are scorpions, coyotes, bobcats, tarantulas, ticks, copperheads, cottonmouths, and rattlesnakes. It’s a near paradise with a native undercurrent that’s dark and moody, hateful and hurtful. Son, when I tell you it is a different world, I am not kidding.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Crockett grunted.

  Clete grinned. “Can be,” he said.

  Late afternoon brought West Plains, Missouri. Crockett and Clete cruised for a while looking for a motel and encountered a Super 8 on Porter Wagoner Boulevard.

  “Whatdaya think?” Clete asked.

  “Little seedy,” Crockett said. “Who’s Porter Wagoner?”

  “Country singer that was fairly popular back in the 60’s and 70’s. Did a lot of appearances with Dolly Parton. Kinda gave Dolly her start in the business. This is his home town.”

  “God! You’re so smart.”

  Clete grinned. “Kiss my ass.”

  “Was this before or after Dolly downsized her boobs?”

  “Before.”

  “Brave man.”

  “You wanna stay here or not, Crockett?”

  “Naw. Let’s eat someplace.”

  Clete returned to cruising Porter Wagoner Boulevard.

  “How ‘bout Kenny’s Walleye and Catfish?” he asked, pointing through an intersection and down the block ahead.

  “Walleye and Catfish?”

  “Yeah. Ever had walleye?”

  “No.”

  “Jesus, Crockett. Where you been all your life? You like fish?”

  “Not much.”

  “Well, I do,” Clete said, pulling into Kenny’s parking lot. “And I love walleye. Let’s eat.”

  “Oh, Christ. I’m on the edge of the fuckin’ Ozarks Mountains in the company of a shit-kicking Texican. Where did I go wrong?”

  “Promise you’ll quit bitchin’, and I’ll buy.”

  “I love walleye,” Crockett said.

  Crockett’s fried chicken was about the best he had ever had, and Clete finished off a pile of walleye nearly a foot deep. They both declined dessert and groaned as they peered at each other across the table working on the final cup of coffee.

  Crockett eased his belt and shifted his weight in the chair. “Jesus.”

  “No shit,” Clete said.

  A harried waitress with sweat on her upper lip appeared to take away the d
ishes. Crockett asked her about motels.

  “We got us a Ramada Inn over on Preacher Rowe Boulevard,” she replied.

  Crockett stifled his grin. “No kidding? Preacher Rowe Boulevard.”

  “Yessir. An’ a Holiday Inn Express on Imperial Drive. They’s both real close.”

  Clete watched her walk away and turned to Crockett. “Whadaya bet Preacher Rowe Boulevard is named after Preacher Rowe?” he asked.

  Crockett stared at Clete for a moment, then looked around the room. “How come all the big tables got carved pumpkins sittin’ in the middle of ‘em?” he asked.

  Clete’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

  “I said that I wondered…”

  “I heard what you said,” Clete went on. “Halloween is tomorrow, Crockett. There are Halloween decorations all over the place. There were even some in the visitor’s reception area at the prison.”

  Crockett rubbed his face for a moment. “No shit? Wow.”

  “You didn’t even notice, did ya?”

  Crockett shook his head, stood up, and began his walk to the truck. Clete dropped two twenties on the table and walked to the bathroom. No hurry. He had the keys. They needed a liquor store.

  Three hours later Cletus threw a bedspread over Crockett where he lay, snoring violently, in room 206 of the Ramada Inn on Preacher Rowe Boulevard. He then picked up the empty bottle of Glenlivet from where it lay on the table and dropped it in the trash. Taking the key to his room out of his pocket, Clete opened Crockett’s door and paused to look at the sleeping man before he shut off the light. Jesus. Maybe now the poor sonofabitch would get a little rest.

  Goddamn woman.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Ruby LaCost leaned against the rock wall of her small cul-de-sac and sponged at her eye with salt water. It was getting worse. The vison was now blurred so badly that she could see nothing more than light and shadow. The constant headache was worse too, probably caused by the eye and the sinuses around it. If that weren’t enough, her mouth was infected where fragments of two teeth were still lodged below the gum line. She rinsed with saltwater and diluted moonshine several times a day, but it wasn’t sufficient. Her gums were so badly swollen that none of her teeth could even come close to touching. The best she could do to eat was to mash food with her tongue and swallow what she could with lots of water that was straight from the river. Water that produced nearly continuous cramping now that she’d been drinking it for so long. Several times she had fouled herself in her sleep, unable to wake and get to the latrine bucket soon enough.

  And her hair. Her beautiful thick hair that she had taken for granted all of her life, was bent and broken straw with gaping bald spots. Jesus. She touched her head with her fingers, feeling patches of completely bare scalp in a dozen places, her hand coming away with more hair clinging to it. As an experiment, she tugged lightly at a thin lock hanging in front of her right ear. Without pain or resistance, it fell free in her fingers. She peered at it dully for a moment then began to cry, huddling against the cold stone. Pulling her knees to her chest, Ruby let it happen.

  Self-pity overcame her. She cried for her lost hair, for her wounded eye, for her broken and battered teeth. She cried for the loss of her beauty, for her waist encircled by chain, for her nails so roughened and broken by her prison. She cried for her arms and legs, now so much thinner than they’d ever been, so flaccid and fragile from poor diet and no exercise. Ruby cried for Ruby, and there was no one more deserving to give or receive tears.

  Boog didn’t show up until late morning. He appeared to be hung over again. Over the past week or two he’d been hung over several times. Ruby knew the signs. Plus, he was not as careful with her welfare as he had been. He’d let her go hungry once or twice, forgot to empty the latrine bucket once, and had not replaced the soap she had finally used up. Whatever her being his prisoner was supposed to do for Boog didn’t seem to be working anymore. Ruby had no illusions. If he had no use for her, all he’d have to do was just go away.

  He came walking down the shaft and stopped in front of her area, looking in her general direction, but not directly at her. She’d noticed that he’d had some trouble looking at her lately.

  “Hello, Boog,” Ruby said, her voice distorted by the swelling in her mouth. “I wonder if I could have some fresh water?”

  He stared at her waist for a moment. “Thet chain’s a gittin’ too big fer ya agin’,” he said. “Face the wall an’ I’ll fix it. Then I’ll gitcha some water.”

  She turned her back to him and stared blankly at the rock wall, five feet or more of slack chain on the floor by her feet. Boog came up from behind her and roughly slid the chain around her waist until the lock was in the small of her back, then he pushed her forward so she had to use her hands to keep her face and torso free of the rock. He opened the Craftsman padlock, pulled the chain two links tighter, and snapped the lock closed. When he did, he dropped the key. It hit Ruby’s left foot and bounced to the wall. Boog bent over and reached around her leg to pick it up. At that moment, without planning, thought, or hesitation, Ruby struck.

  Boog’s head was right there in front of her, his eyes searching the floor, his attention misdirected. She flipped a portion of her chain over his head, grasped it firmly on each side of his neck, gathered what adrenalin-fired strength she could summon, leaned back and pulled.

  Boog went ballistic.

  It would have been better if Ruby could have gotten a full twist around Boog’s neck. She would have had more leverage and control. But she didn’t. What Ruby did have were anger and fear. Anger and fear kept her on him like a cougar on a whitetail. Boog bucked and wheezed, Boog thrashed and reeled, Boog clawed at her hands, Boog kicked at her feet, Boog pulled her clear up on top of his back and slammed her into the wall with his weight. Screaming hysterically, Ruby hung on with her legs entwined around his body. Shrieking manically, Ruby pulled on the chain, not noticing as two of her fingers broke in the battle. Crying uncontrollably, Ruby rode him to the floor and clung to the chain as Boog gurgled and thrashed. When he finally lay quiet, Ruby held the chain into his flesh until she smelled his urine. She broke from him then, her hands recoiling in pain as she loosed them from the chain, and rolled to her back on the cold and dusty floor, gasping for breath, feeling hot flashes above her right kidney where ribs had broken in contact with the wall.

  Ruby wasn’t aware she’d passed out until she came to. She hurt everywhere. Her hands were torn and bleeding, two fingers bent at a frightening angle. Her ribs made it nearly impossible to breathe. Her head throbbed so badly that she would have gritted her teeth from it if she could have, but just the attempt brought even more pain. Panting, she crawled to the water bucket for a drink and to rinse her torn hands. It nearly empty, lying propped against the wall mostly on its side, a victim of the fight. Only then did Ruby remember the key. She turned to pick it up.

  It wasn’t there. It wasn’t where he dropped it. It wasn’t by the wall where it should have been. Fighting panic, she rolled Boog’s body over to check under it. No key. She looked, she searched, she sought, and she finally she stood up and let her eyes roam out into the main shaft. There, fifteen feet past the end of her chain, in a small pockmark of a hole, brass glinted on the far side of the main tunnel. Without her glasses, Ruby couldn’t be sure if it was the key, but she knew damn well that the key was nowhere within her reach.

  She kicked Jerome Jeffery Jeter squarely in his unfeeling face, sank to the floor beside the dead body of the only person on the planet that could have kept her alive, and gave herself over to tears once more.

  Crockett stuck a piece of toilet paper to the razor cut on his chin and peered into the mirror. God. What a hangover. The specter glaring back at him was a wreck. He looked into his own bloodshot eyes and shivered. The connecting door between the rooms slammed open and a cheerful Texican barged into his bedchamber.

  “Mornin’ there, l’il podnuh!” Clete said. “Are we in the bathroom?”

 
“Go away.”

  “Sounds like we are. And in a great mood, too.”

  “Bite me.”

  “Aw. Does him have a wittle heady-ache this morning?”

  “Kiss this.”

  “Do I dare peek, or will I be turned into a pillar of salt?”

  “Eat my shorts,” Crockett said, rounding the corner out of the bathroom as he attempted to ponytail his hair. The hair tie broke and shot across the room.

  “Little problem with motor skills today?”

  “Goddammit, Marshal, why don’t you take your happy ass out of here and go make somebody else miserable?” Crockett asked, searching through his bag for another hair tie.

  “Sorry, pard. You’re all I got. Hungry?”

  “Oh, Christ. How can you talk about food at a time like this?” He found another tie and went back into the bathroom.

  “Fix your locks and put on a shirt. I got your key to the truck. I’ll be outside. There’s a pancake joint down the street. Hurry up. I’m starving.”

  Crockett was out of the room in two minutes, bitching heavily as Clete drove them to the restaurant.

  The place was nice and cozy with a pleasant country feel that was totally lost on Crockett, so deeply was he sunk in his own hungover misery. Clete ordered the entire left side of the menu with extra grits, while Crockett asked for two scrambled and toast from a waitress that kept smiling at him.

  “Goddamn,” he complained. “First you’re behaving like it’s your birthday or something, and then our waitress keeps looking at me like she’s the Cheshire Cat. What’s with all the fucking grins this morning?”

  “I’m grinning at you because I find your pain and discomfort entertaining,” Clete confessed. “On the other hand, the waitress is probably amused by the wad of toilet paper flapping on your chin. Just a thought.”