A Taste of Honey

by Tom Benson

  “Well done Connie,” Honey said when they stopped at the house where the girl was living. “Harriet would be proud of you.”

  “Thank you,” Connie said. “Will we meet again?”

  “It would be better if we didn’t, but I do want you to do me a favor.”

  “Name it,” she said as she gripped the door handle.

  “Remember, there are people like the Carsons all over the world.” She looked at the teenager. “Try to make some more friends. You’re a nice kid in a good college, and Harriet thought very highly of you.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Connie said and sniffed. “What about those two back there?”

  “You’ll never see them again, and you can trust me on that.” She nodded toward the house. “Go on inside now. Thank you, and goodbye Connie.”

  The girl got out of the car and ran to the front door. As instructed, she didn’t look back. She was conscious of the car remaining nearby with the motor running, right up until the front door of the house opened. She didn’t hear it creep away from the curb.

  Honey drove back towards the fancy neighborhood from where she had just rescued Connie.

  ***

  Chapter 8

  Free Delivery

  .

  Indianapolis, Indiana

  The renegade detective pulled off the main road and continued around the long and winding avenue that led to the Carson house. As she drove around the narrow road, she noticed that a lot of the driveways were short and had cars parked in them, although they all had garages. The roadway curved around to the left, so there was no way to see any oncoming traffic.

  Following her rapid recon earlier, Honey took a left and parked two streets away from the Carson house. She approached the rear of the houses in the neighborhood by using a dimly-lit footpath. There was a light breeze, and she could almost taste the blossoms from the overhanging branches.

  The cloudless sky gave her as much moonlight as she needed to sneak through the large rear gardens. She accessed the place via the back door just as she’d done earlier. There was sufficient light indoors from a nearby streetlight for her purposes, and she quickly made her way to the inner garage door.

  She raised the tailgate of the SUV and told Carson to climb out of the trunk. He made it look difficult until she warned him that getting out with a bullet in his leg would be more uncomfortable. He was suddenly more agile and cooperative. When he was out, Honey slammed the tailgate down, leaving Mrs. Carson inside, glaring as she was cast into darkness once again.

  Honey had seen very little of the couple, but on a short journey to take Connie home, she had asked the girl a series of questions. Honey was able to assess which of the two would be more receptive to questioning. Carson made no effort to fight, mainly because the fear of being shot for non-compliance seemed real, and he was a coward.

  They reached the spacious lounge and Honey stayed behind Carson.

  “Kneel,” she said and assisted him with a sharp kick behind his left knee.

  He was trying to turn, so when he dropped to his knees in the center of the room his head continued forward with the momentum and his chin bounced on the marble coffee table. The tape over his mouth prevented him crying out, but his eyes blinked several times, and a few self-pitying tears fell. He knew he’d chipped a tooth, and his jaw hurt.

  Carson tried to rock back onto his heels, and as he knelt on the floor with his hands bound behind his back, Honey ripped the tape from his mouth. He watched his captor wide-eyed but remained silent. The woman moved around the well-appointed room; her weapon always trained on her prisoner. She stopped to face him from two yards away.

  She said, “If you’ve been watching the news, you’ll be aware of the fire that took the life of your friend Alan Brett. They didn’t mention it in the news bulletin, but I happen to know he didn’t suffocate; he burned to death.” As she spoke, she pulled back her hood.

  “You can’t be-,” Carson gasped. “You’re d-,”

  “Dead,” Honey said. “No you bastard, sadly for you I’m not dead, but maybe I remind you of somebody.”

  “Christ,” he muttered, “you’re her sister, but you’re a cop-,”

  “No Carson, you’re wrong once again, I’m no longer a cop, so you don’t have to spout any of that ‘I have rights’ shit that your late friend tried. I don’t have to arrest you, but I am going to punish you.”

  “Please,” he said and blinked rapidly. His lips trembled as he began to whimper. He didn’t look much like a sexual deviant, but then his victims would have been bound and helpless when he was performing like an animal.

  Honey said, “You know what happened to Brett, because I know it’s been in the news. In your case, if you don’t answer my questions, I’ll set fire to the rug and the drapes, which should give you about five minutes maximum to live. Of course, your wife will last about five minutes longer, or until the flames reach the fuel tank.”

  “Please don’t kill me,” he said. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Please, just ask.”

  “What would have happened to Connie if I didn’t turn up earlier?” She watched his wide, staring eyes as she walked over to him and placed a foot on his right shoulder. She pushed, and he fell backward, his legs flying open naturally for balance.

  Honey stepped forward quickly and placed her right foot between his legs, the sole of her shoe pressing down on his groin. She stretched her right arm forward and aimed the gun at his abdomen.

  “We would-,” he started, then swallowed and briefly closed his eyes. “We would both have abused her.”

  “You would both have sexually abused her?”

  “At first, yes,” he murmured.

  “What about afterward?” Honey placed more weight on his groin and maintained a steady pressure. Carson’s eyes screwed tight, and he replied through his clenched teeth.

  “We ... might have taken her … down to the basement.”

  “Might have?”

  “We would have taken her down to the basement.”

  “Where is the basement?”

  “It’s through the narrow white door in the hallway,”

  “Is there anybody down there now?”

  Carson closed his eyes. “Yes, one girl.”

  “Are there any other victims in this house apart from her?”

  “No,” he muttered, “she’s the only one. We never keep more than two and Constance was-,” He was cut short and coughed when Honey’s foot left his groin and returned to the same spot in a kick.

  Honey said, “If I search this place and find anybody else, your balls won’t hurt anymore. They won’t hurt because I’ll fucking slice them off.”

  “Please,” he sobbed, “there’s only Miranda and she’s in the basement.” He gasped again. “That’s the truth.” He was trying to save himself and catch his breath at the same time.

  Honey stepped back, picked up the tape, bent down and gagged him again. She stood and turned to go to the basement, but then turned back and kicked Carson in the balls. Honey didn’t see him curl up, or see his eyes bulge. She was already on her way to the basement.

  *

  The room under the main Carson household was several classes higher in comfort than the previous dungeon she’d seen, but it was still a prison to somebody. A rack of whips, crops, and other paraphernalia lined one wall. In the middle of the room was a vaulting box contraption similar to the one she’d seen before, fitted with handcuffs on all the legs.

  Once again, there was a cabinet complete with a tray of drugs, syringes, and a thin rubber tube sitting on top in a stainless steel tray. There was also a bottle of surgical spirit. Honey heard a whimper and looked around into the darkness. She found a spot-lamp and switched it on, but aimed the beam high into a corner to deflect the light.

  A dark-haired teenage girl was lying on a large bed. Her wrists were handcuffed to the modern chrome headboard, and she was wearing a gag. Over her eyes, she was wearing a sort of eye mask that some passengers w
ore on long-haul flights.

  Apart from the mask and a gag, the girl was naked. She was lying half on her side; her legs bent up towards her abdomen in a pathetic attempt to protect herself and her modesty. She trembled violently, not knowing who had entered her torture chamber on this occasion.

  Honey spoke softly. “Please try to be calm Miranda. It is Miranda, isn’t it?”

  The girl nodded slowly.

  “I’m a friend,” Honey said quietly, “and I’m going to get you out of here.” She eased the mask up from the girl’s face and untied the gag to give the youngster a little confidence in her words. The girl stared, her eyes wide with terror, and although no longer gagged, she didn’t speak or attempt to scream. Tears flowed down her pale cheeks.

  Honey continued to speak quietly, to reassure the captive youngster.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I find the keys to those cuffs, but for now I’ll cover you up, okay.” She drew the blanket up over the girl’s trembling body. “Just give me a few minutes.”

  It only took the threat of another kick in the groin to make Carson give up the location of the keys to the handcuffs. Before she left him, Honey kicked him anyway.

  She was as good as her word and returned to the girl in the basement within a few minutes, but apart from the key, she took a glass of water and a bowl of fresh fruit. She undid the cuffs and helped the girl to hold the glass of water as she drank greedily. The girl was drinking the water, but paused and looked at Honey’s hands and then her face.

  Honey said, “I’m wearing gloves because I don’t want to leave any fingerprints in this house. Don’t worry, it’s for no other reason.”

  When the girl finished the water, she pulled the blanket up to her neck with one hand and grabbed an apple with the other. She devoured the fruit in silence, like a deprived, starving, wild animal. A banana followed the apple and Honey stood up to look around. She found a drawer with clothing, a purse, and accessories. She deftly removed something from the purse before turning.

  “Is this yours?” she said, holding up a pair of jeans and a pink sweater.

  The girl nodded and started to sob. She cried so hard that her body convulsed. Honey crossed the room and dropped all the clothing, a purse and a pair of pink sneakers on the bed.

  She said, “When I go upstairs in a moment, I want you to get dressed, but wait here for me, okay?”

  There was another nod from the wide-eyed, traumatized teenager. Tears were silently flowing down both of her cheeks as she listened and tried to respond to her savior.

  Honey said, “There are two dangerous people upstairs, and I’m going to deal with them and get you out of here, okay?”

  The girl nodded and continued to eat her way through the contents of the bowl.

  *

  Honey was on her way through the hallway to the inner garage door but stopped and looked at the cowering animal on the lounge rug. She went into the lounge and pulled out her list of victim’s names, but before questioning Carson, she placed her foot on his already aching groin. He winced, expecting another kick.

  “Tell me the names of all the victims you know and their ages, and remember I have some listed already.”

  “I can’t remember surnames,” he murmured and felt an increasing pressure coming down on his manhood. “I know all the first names-,”

  “Tell me!” she snapped.

  Carson named every girl on the list by her first name, and though he couldn’t recall surnames, he remembered their ages. Honey filled in the details that had been missing and then folded the sheet.

  She said, “What do you know about Brett and his part in the abductions?”

  “He brought in a hitchhiker more than once, and he sometimes took care of things.”

  “Like what?” she asked and lifted her right foot back, ready to strike. “Are you telling me he wasn’t just a participant in your filthy little group.”

  “He sometimes took care of-,” he hated the word, “of disposal.”

  “Disposal?” she asked, remembering that it was the description that Brett himself had used. She hoped she’d heard Carson wrong, and she was feeling nauseous.

  Carson said, “Yeah, he’s a … he was a butcher-,” Except for a sharp intake of breath and a groan, he became silent for a moment following a kick in the ribcage.

  “Did anybody else deal in this disposal?” Honey needed confirmation.

  “Higgins helped him, Gus Higgins, the outward bound guy.”

  “Where is the syringe?”

  “What syringe-,”

  Honey lifted her right foot back, and Carson’s memory improved rapidly.

  “It’s in the rear right door pocket of the SUV.”

  “What’s the substance your wife was going to use on that girl today?”

  “It’s an equivalent to a date-rape drug but given intravenously.”

  Tape over Carson’s mouth silenced him again.

  *

  Honey went through to the garage, tucked her automatic into the waistband of her jeans and opened the tailgate of the SUV. She gripped Mrs. Carson’s ankles and pulled her so that her legs hung over the loading sill, but the woman was still lying on her back, inside the large trunk. She looked up with a defiant stare, her eyes narrowed, and nostrils flared with her noisy breathing.

  It took Honey a matter of seconds to find what she wanted. She reappeared at the back of the car, her right hand behind her back. She reached in with her left hand and ripped the tape from Gillian Carson’s mouth. Carson spat at her but didn’t speak.

  “Now,” Honey said as she looked at the spit on her jeans, “I will ask you some questions. If I think you’re lying, or you refuse to talk, I’ll use this.” She held up the syringe and removed the small cork from the end of the needle. She realized that Carson was trying to work out who she was. The hood of her sweatshirt was down.

  Gillian Carson said, “You’re supposed to be-,”

  “Dead?” Honey said. “Unfortunately for you, my sister is dead, but I’m very much alive and I’m going to make sure you and your asshole of a husband both face justice.”

  “Fuck you,” Mrs. Carson spat defiantly. “You don’t scare me.”

  “I thought you were that type,” Honey said and dropped the syringe on the floor. She stepped on it and pressed her foot so that the broken glass crunched on the concrete. Honey stepped to a cabinet beside the doorway. She lifted the item she had brought up from the basement.

  Honey raised the switchblade knife and pressed the release catch. The long narrow blade flicked out and gleamed in the fluorescent lighting of the garage. She looked down at Carson’s long legs, the high hemline of her light summer dress, and then along her body to glance at the smirk on Carson’s face.

  “You’re not that kind of woman,” Carson said. “You wouldn’t-,” but she went silent for a moment and squirmed when Honey lightly traced the point of the knife blade up along Carson’s left thigh.

  “It does seem very sharp,” Honey observed.

  Carson remained defiant. “All I have to do is scream-,”

  “Go on then,” Honey said and looked into the woman’s eyes as she reached in with a gloved hand. She pushed back the dress and lifted the flimsy underwear from Carson’s body. In a swift movement, Honey flicked the blade upwards.

  Carson gasped and then lay there silently with her lips parted, staring as her expensive underwear was slung into a corner.

  “There is one problem with the idea of cutting into you,” Honey said. “You might enjoy it at first.” Honey leaned forward and lifted the hem of the dress. The dress fell open as the razor-sharp blade traveled upward and parted the material from hemline to neckline.

  Honey watched Carson’s eyes narrow. She bit her lip and squirmed, trying hard to hold out until she realized the crazy blonde bitch would be capable of using a blade on her. There was no pressure as the blade slid along her body, but the threat was increasing.

  The tip of the blade slipped under the center of C
arson’s bra between the cups. There was a slight upward movement, and the well-filled bra fell to the sides. The woman’s body was available for whatever treatment her captor decided was appropriate.

  “Now,” Honey said. “Instead of killing you outright, I think I’ve found an area to carve.” She painted a smirk on her face and bit her lower lip as she lifted the tip of the blade to touch Carson’s right nipple. “I could give you some permanent scarring here,” she paused, “or perhaps carve your pretty face.”

  “Okay, okay, for Christ’s sake,” Carson cried. “What do you want to know?”

  It took less than five minutes for Honey to confirm what she remembered of the contents of Harriet’s journal. The Carsons were guilty. Gillian Carson had been as brutal if not more so than the men. So much for being a woman making any difference, Honey thought. She withdrew the threat of the knife and stood back.

  Honey said, “I have a list of victims here,” and she unfolded the sheet of paper with her left hand. “I want the names of any victims you know, and their ages.” She held the knife in her right hand, the blade tapping her shoulder, glistening in the bright lights of the garage.

  Carson spouted five names rapidly which were all on the list. There were no new names. Unlike her husband, Mrs. Carson recalled surnames. Honey checked them and then folded the sheet of paper with one hand and slipped it back into her pocket.

  Honey had given her word to somebody about her two prisoners, so she resisted the temptation to kill the woman right there. The knife was thrown into a far corner where it smashed something made of glass and then clattered to the floor.

  Honey gagged Mrs. Carson again and then went through to the lounge. She threatened the husband with more punishment, and he moved without question. He rejoined his wife in the trunk of the SUV. The tailgate came down, and the pair found themselves locked inside together once again.

  *

  Honey brought the terrified teenage girl up from the basement and through to the SUV where she coaxed her into the front passenger seat. She sat staring to her front, clutching her pink purse in both hands. There was a commotion behind them and the girl looked back, her eyes wide, but she couldn’t see anything.