He didn’t know what scared him worse—the fact that his mind was slipping enough to leave Kansas the puppy behind, or the fact that the dog was evidence. Messy criminals were incarcerated criminals. That was just how it worked.
The flashlight drop in Ruidoso and now this. It’s sloppy. He coasted along the road for a second longer, and contemplated the potential fallout. Is there any way they can track the pup back to me?
The dog was from a lady giving them away in a convenience store parking lot. No names were exchanged. There were no registration papers for the mutt and no transactions of any kind. Pretty sure that Kansas wouldn’t be useful to the police, he relaxed. It couldn’t be taken back, and didn’t seem devastating to his freedom anyways. He stepped on the gas.
In just a few hours, his efforts were finally going to pay off, and Bailey’s waking nightmare would begin.
Chapter Thirteen
Just before midnight, Ricky pulled into a truck stop outside of Sioux Center, Iowa. He wasn’t tired, and he didn’t need a bathroom break. The location was the stage for his next crime.
He liked to be out of the public eye, as far from scrutiny as possible, but a few years back, he discovered how much privacy a truck stop could provide. Eighteen-wheelers and other road-weary travelers used the large lots to park, rest, and be undisturbed. Many Americans have jobs that keep them on the road for days at a time, and sleeping in their vehicles is cheaper than renting a motel room. Those seeking repose will leave their engines running, headlights off, and parking lights on. It signals that the vehicle is occupied and desires privacy. It’s an unspoken code between travelers of America’s roadways.
He found a suitable slot, turned on the parking lights, and locked the doors. Behind the two front bucket seats, he had constructed a wall to separate the cab from the cargo area. It was covered in gray carpet to match the interior and had a door in the middle. He bent low, stepped through, and latched it shut.
Bailey was lying on a small bed designed to fold up against the wall. She huddled to the back, quivering from fear at his entrance. He had made a pit stop earlier to gag her, and he bound her hands and feet. Since waking in the dark, groggy from the chloroform, she tried to scream for help, but all that came out were muted sobs. The only sensation she could remember was road vibration. Tears ran down both flushed cheeks as she looked at the man before her.
He let the innocent, frightened image of Bailey burn into his eyes as he pulled her toward him. She tried to fight, but fear and an aching head robbed her muscles of strength. He secured a length of rope to the coils on her wrists. The opposite end was fed through a floor ring. He pulled it snug with Bailey’s hands now above her head and tied it off. Her feet were separated and bound to floor rings below each bottom corner of the bed. Several loops were snaked around each ankle and stretched tightly. He didn’t want her to have any wiggle room. The placement of the rings was not coincidence. He installed them himself, the exact arrangement allowing him to hold his company in ideal positions.
From above, her body was in the shape of an upside down Y. Her legs were spread with both arms pulled straight back. For what he wanted, the position was most accommodating. There was no regard for discomfort. The rough fibers cruelly bit her skin.
Pain and terror combined, Bailey’s sobs grew stronger, and her body shook. But little to no sound emanated from the desperate screams. The large diameter rope used for the gag was too thick and cut into the corners of her mouth. She had to breathe through her stuffy nose.
“Take it easy, honey,” he said. “It’s no use.” He smiled wickedly and kept working.
This was when things were hardest. Alone in the presence of his lover, he was ready for action. He had lost control of himself once before and regretted it. He hadn’t taken the proper time to set things up. When it was over, there was no video to watch, pictures to review, or words to read on lonely days.
He went to too much effort in kidnapping Bailey and wasn’t about to make the same mistake again. He had to do things right the first time. The camcorder needed to be set up, the angle checked, and the tape rolling. A digital camera was put in place. He adjusted the timer to snap a photo every few seconds. Documentation was most precious. It enabled him to relive each event whenever and however many times he wanted. It was so much better than memory.
He set up the electronics at the foot of the bed and along the side. Each had its purpose. It was imperative that Bailey experience the moment as acutely as he was. The more animated her reactions, the better the thrill.
He jotted down a few words in his journal. The page was titled “Bailey Davis” and scrawled with numerous notes from the reconnaissance phase. He finished scribbling, checked the camera equipment once more, and shifted gears. Finally, after more than a month of failed plans, letdown, searching, and making new plans, he was going to have his pound of flesh.
Chapter Fourteen
Bailey’s eyes were closed. She tried to block everything out, but nothing traumatic enough had happened yet to receive any disassociation from her brain. She was completely in the present.
The sound of a zipper caught her attention, and she opened her eyes. The man was hunched over with his pants undone. She kept a close watch. Something bad was about to happen, but she didn’t know what. To want someone else’s body for pleasure was foreign, impossible to comprehend.
“Ah, now you decide to look?” Ricky gazed down, his piercing eyes unblinking. “Just lay still, and I’ll do all the work.” He said each word with a creepy smile.
His shirt fell to the ground. Someone might have called him scrawny, but there was too much muscle definition for that. His physique resembled a person on the edge of anorexia with a protein shake addiction.
“What do you think? Hmmm? You like it, don’t you?”
She looked away. It was her last defense. There was no way to run and hide, but she could deprive him the pleasure of flattery. Too scared to shut her eyes, the ceiling became the object of her focus. It was covered in the kind of foam her mom put under the sheets to make the bed soft. It felt like being inside an egg carton.
He didn’t like that she looked away. Someone watching was someone interested. Interest was approval, attention, and validation. Look at me, his heart cried. Look at me.
He was completely naked. Every inch of him was slick. A cleanly cut, if not slightly longer than normal, head of sandy brown hair was the only place not shaved or waxed. He climbed on the bed and stuffed a pillow under her head, propping it as high as possible. It was to keep her faced forward. She cringed at the contact, an invasion of her personal space.
“There now.”
He raised himself up to where his pelvis was only a foot from her watery eyes. The dream that things would ever be consensual was given up long ago. People who managed to pull that amount of trust from their victims had to work at it over a period of time. A next-door neighbor, a teacher, or a friend’s brother were good examples. They were also the same people who got caught. Sooner or later, someone found out. That lifestyle did not appeal to him. He didn’t care for lasting relationships, and he didn’t care to go easy. He wanted to do what he wanted when he wanted and not worry about some little shit tattling.
The van was warm inside. He had the air on, but anticipation heated his body. It was glossy, slick to the touch. The moment was huge, built in his mind for days. He could not rush it. A fine wine is supposed to be savored, relished, and consumed in small, conscientious sips.
Both his hands settled on top of her clothes and slowly massaged. His skin constricted into goose bumps at the first touch. The euphoria was always greatest at commencement, slowly leaking endorphins into his system of sins.
Bailey couldn’t speak, so she pled with her eyes. The orbs beckoned for mercy. The softest most innocent eyes there ever were, pure virtue muddied by scum. She couldn’t understand why she deserved it.
He lifted the bottom of her shirt and rested his clammy hand on her warm tummy. It pal
pated rapidly, up and down with each breath. The skin-to-skin contact sent another rush of thrills through him. It was what he felt, loved, and craved enough to steal a child. One was too many, and a thousand was never enough. His thin fingers searched, seeking more. Ever since he was young, more was the answer.
Bailey tensed as he pulled a long, stainless steel hunting knife from a scabbard.
“Easy. I’m not going to hurt you. It’s just to help.”
He slid the knife under the hem of her jeans and cut upwards. The leg split from cuff to waistband. Stroke after razor-sharp stroke produced a little girl in nothing but cotton underwear.
“Be very, very still now.”
Her stricken look was priceless. The knife was for intimidation and practicality. He could strip a victim bare while they remained tied. And that was exactly what he did.
One corner of his mouth pulled into a grin, cheek twitching. “Do you like red?”
There was no answer. She was too scared, embarrassed.
“Do you like red?” he asked again softly.
She nodded, afraid not to. The next thing she felt was beyond pain. She arched her back in shock and sucked in.
“Daddy!” she called. “Daddy! Daddy!”
She tried to scream and scream and scream. But her words were prisoners. She sputtered, gagging in an effort to breathe through her nose.
Tied and stretched, torn and raped, the sacredness of her vessel was gone. But her soul remained untouched and clean, a place even Ricky could never tarnish.
Chapter Fifteen
On a stool, back against the dividing wall of the van, Ricky wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. A weak sneer played across his lips as he composed himself.
Bailey was still bound to the bed. Blood seeped from her wrists and ankles. The fibers had broken her skin during the struggle. Her hands and feet were swollen from the lack of circulation, and her whole body trembled in shock.
Ricky rolled his neck around. He just sat there, staring, reminiscing, and loving his power. “Was that an experience or what?”
Bailey didn’t respond.
“Speechless?” He used words to stroke his ego. “Well, most of you are after something that fantastic. Your little brains don’t know quite what to make of it.”
He turned to her page in the journal. The details needed to be written down while fresh in his mind, and with each stroke of the pen, his emotions changed. They always did. Lust and excitement turned into disgust and hate. His smile faded into a frown. That particular element was left out of the notes. It made him feel out of control and he did not care to dwell on it.
He climbed back onto the bed and straddled Bailey. Most of his weight was on his knees, but considerable pressure smashed her body. Cleanup was the worst. He had taken what he wanted, and now came the disposition. What a mess.
She was worthless at this point. He watched a lone tear roll from her eye and then spat in her face. The back of his hand flew across her right cheek.
She grimaced and let a barely audible whimper escape. The backhanded slap hurt, but her senses were dulled. Finally, her mind shut off certain switches to her body in an effort to protect itself.
He stayed on top of Bailey and turned her once beautiful face into a bloody mess. She was helpless to defend herself, mercy or torment at his sole discretion. Finally, a mouth full of blood restricting her airway, she coughed. Red flecks spattered him across the torso.
Ricky held his arms out to either side in disgust. Cleanup just got harder. “Oh, you little bitch!” he complained and knocked her cold with one final blow.
He peeled his sweaty body from the bed, wiped off, and took his time dressing. The last thing he needed was a picture, and he preferred his victims to be awake with their eyes wide open. He cracked a smelling salt beneath her nose. She woke to the powerful scent of ammonia and turned her head to get away from the acrid odor.
“Hey, hey. Look here. I said, look here!” He shouted to gain her attention.
She peeked toward the foot of the bed. Tears, blood, and swollen flesh blurred her vision. There was a flash and then another.
Chapter Sixteen
Fully dressed, hair neatly combed and a look of casual confidence, Ricky stepped into the retail store of the truck stop. He felt exhausted and needed fuel for the work ahead. He walked around the aisles until he found his poison, Planters Trail Mix. The kind with the M&M candies was his favorite. From there, he went to the coffee machine. Nothing like a sugar and caffeine high for a middle-of-the-night project.
People moved about the store, all road-weary minds looking without seeing. They could be just like me, and nobody would ever know.
The convenience store was typical. It was a little grimy around the edges with a couple of peculiar-looking clerks behind the counter. The night shift always had the funny ones. Country music played in the background.
At the counter, he put down the coffee and trail mix, removed his wallet, and awaited the total.
A big woman stood behind the register, her frame burdened beneath a hundred pounds of excess weight and hair pulled into a tight bun. Her uniform was simple; a red and orange apron draped over jeans and a black T-shirt. The getup did not flatter her figure. She wore too much blue eye shadow, and her nails were painted bright red. She looks way scarier than I do, but she’s probably the salt of the earth. No reason for her to look innocent. Her nametag read “Verna.”
She gave him a gap-toothed grin. “How ya doin’, honey?”
“Just fine, thank you. And yourself?” He returned the smile.
Verna. Big Verna.
“Pretty good. Just waitin’ ‘til my shift’s up.”
“I see. What time do you get off?”
“Not ‘til seven. Still got a few more hours.” She took the trail mix and scanned it.
“Seven will be here before you know it.”
“Just like every other night, honey. Nothin’ to it but to do it. That’s what I always say.”
He’d heard it before, a good quote for perseverance. “So what do I owe you?”
“Five dollars and seventeen cents, honey.” It was a name she called most male customers. She studied him for a moment. “Coffee says you’re staying on the road for a while longer.” It was a statement, not an observation.
“Yeah.” He dug bills out of the wallet. “I have a few more miles to cover before daybreak. This should keep me going though.”
“Well, you just be careful out there. Too many of these truckers don’t rest and end up falling asleep at the wheel. Keep an eye out.”
He handed six dollars cash across the counter to Big Verna.
“Oh, honey!” Her eyes were wide. “You’ve got blood on your hand.” Her sausage finger and bright red nail pointed at a nearly dried blob on the base of his thumb.
No! How did I miss that? No time to think. He had to say something quick. As if it were the gospel truth, he said, “I sure do. I thought I washed it all off.” He made a puzzled look. “Dang nosebleed. Thing made a mess everywhere. Must have missed a spot.”
“Must have.” She put the bills in the drawer and extracted change, completely satisfied with his explanation.
“No thanks,” he said. “Keep it. It bothers me in my pocket anyway.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, keep it. It just gets in my way.”
Big Verna dropped the change in the “Need a Penny” tray by the register. “All right then. You have a good night, honey. Be safe. And get that blood cleaned up before somebody thinks you killed someone.” She winked at him.
“Thanks. You, too. I mean about having a good night.”
An elderly gentleman came in and held the door open without a word. Privacy in plain sight. Glad the blood was on my hand and not my fly. He made a toothy smirk, all pearly whites and piercing eyes.
In the van, he situated himself, drove away from the parking lot, and headed further into the Iowa countryside. A half hour down the main road, he turned onto a s
maller pavement. After several minutes, he took a farm-to-market blacktop. The remote, yellow-striped ribbon stretched for miles into rural farmland. Finally, a green sign marked his next turn.
He was now on a gravel-covered road that led into an ocean of cornfields. Every so often, a farmers’ private turn row wound into the fields. He found the one he wanted, bounced along the rutted double track, and disappeared inside walls of stalks. Headlights showed the way to the back of the plot where woods pressed against the tilled edge. He parked and killed the engine.
Darkness consumed the world. Anything could have hidden within its murk. Trees surrounded their position. No houses were within two miles. He used Google Earth in advance to scout the area. It worked impeccably. Even though he had never been to that particular place before, the program gave him a sense of familiarity. He knew he was safe.
His foot made a slight crunching sound when it met the earth. The sun had dried the top quarter inch of soil. The weight of his step cracked the surface.
He opened the rear doors and removed a shovel. Several rows into the corn was a good spot to dig. The moist, cultivated topsoil moved with ease, and the cool, night air made his work pleasant. He dug until a hole lay two feet wide by four feet deep.
By the time I cover this, another rain comes along, the crop is harvested, and it sits idle for winter, the soil will have compacted so tightly around her body … she’ll never be discovered. Way out here, no farmer will be suspicious. Why would he be?
At the van, he found Bailey awake. She tilted her head back and peered through her nearly swollen shut eyes and into the night. She could barely make out the shape of a man standing behind her.
“Hey there, little darling,” he said with fake sympathy. “Don’t worry. You’re not going to hurt anymore.”
He raised the shovel, swung it down like an axe, and smashed her over the head with the spade. Bailey Davis was no more. He was tired and ready to be through with her. He cut the ropes loose with the hunting knife and dropped everything into the hole. She was dumped on top of them, a bloody tangle of naked body and matted hair. He threw in her clothes, followed by the bed linens and cleanup towels. He soaked them with a liberal amount of lighter fluid and lit it all with a match. Ten minutes later, her skin was charred, covered in a layer of ash. The loose pile of dirt was scooped, tamped, and packed until firm. Any leftover was spread around evenly to leave as little sign as possible. Soon, her body would begin to decompose.
First Night of Summer Page 6
