Honorable Assassin

by Jason Lord Case

  “To each his own.”

  “Ok, Cooter, I’ll be in touch if there is anything that requires your special talents.”

  “Have a safe trip, Brad-lee.”

  Cooter waited on the porch as his associate drove off. “Wankah. Thinks he can come around here in his fancy suit and tell me what to do with my property? Day may come I’ll have to do him. I might like tossing him off the back of that fancy boat.” He turned and went into the house to cook some mutton and mash.

  Terry had never felt so isolated. Orange was not a large town but it was large enough that he had some friends and enemies. He knew every girl and boy in town; there was enough diversity he could learn new things about them all the time. On Ginger’s farm there was nobody but Ginger.

  It took Rough and Ready, the two sheepdogs a little while to get used to his presence. They were all business and could take care of the sheep for days at a time, without direction. They couldn’t open the gates and draw the water, but when it came to protecting the flock and herding them back from the pastures they were the best. They were no company, however.

  After a week of being on the farm, Ginger contacted Jerry Cuthbert, a neighbor who agreed to take his new charge to school for a fee. The price was reasonable and Terry got to ride with other children, though they were older than he.

  Three other boys rode in the Land Rover and either Ruth Cuthbert or Jerry drove them. Terry had little to say to them since they had come from different backgrounds and were different ages.

  In school, the boys thought Terry was stupid because he didn’t know the things they knew. He got in a lot of fights but was alone against the others so he rarely won the altercations. He did learn how to take advantage of getting an opponent alone.

  When he spoke to Ginger about the fights he got very little sympathy. Ginger told him he would need to get stronger and faster and meaner. Then he took Terry out to the pasture and he taught him about the sheep and the dogs. He took pains to impress on his nephew that there were many sheep and only two dogs, but the dogs made the sheep do what the dogs wanted them to do. Then he asked Terry why and would not let him leave the pasture until he had arrived at an answer that satisfied him. This was only the beginning of Ginger’s educational process.

  Ginger was not an educated man but he was intelligent. He recognized the problems with relocating a child to the country and taught his charge many things. As time went by, he warmed to the task of educating the child he had never fathered and became quite a mentor. The relationship was by no means one-sided. Terry had learned a lot from his parents and reciprocated when he could. The child acted as a great motivator to the man and served to keep him off the sauce and focus his attentions. The farm began to prosper again. The sagging barns were shored up and painted. Some of the old tractors were repaired and some were sold. The interior and exterior of the house were painted and repaired. Terry Kingston learned more that summer than he had in all his previous years. There was much he did not enjoy, but he was never made to do extraneous work and was always served with an explanation for his tasks. He did not dig holes merely to fill them in again but he did dig a lot of holes, and he moved rocks until he grew calluses on his hands.

  Terry learned how to split wood for the fire. At eight years old he did not have the necessary size and strength needed for the task but he attacked it with gusto. It seemed his body always ached in the mornings and he went to bed exhausted every night, but he was growing like a weed and being well fed.

  The neighbors were impressed by the civilizing effect that having a boy about produced in Ginger Kingston. It was not that there was anyone close enough to really call a neighbor, but the population of Molong was in the hundreds in 1987 so anyone within 20 kilometers was considered a neighbor.

  It was on Christmas recess, lasting the entire month of January, that Ginger began to teach Terry about guns and hunting. He started with safety lectures and made his student recite his rules. He taught him how to disassemble and clean pistols, rifles and shotguns. Then came the target practice.

  A .22 pistol was easy enough to handle. Terry’s sharp blue eyes focused well on the target and he was soon a fine shot with it. The first time he used a 12-gauge shotgun it knocked him down. He could barely carry it as it was, and the recoil was too much for him, so they switched to a .38 pistol. Terry had found his favorite weapon in the Smith and Wesson revolver.

  Marcia Kingston had no way to mark the passage of time except her monthly cycle, and as far as she could tell, she had been a prisoner for three months. Her captor had no name she knew except Master. It was the only name he allowed her to use.

  She had been chained in his basement for about a month before she allowed herself to act at being “broken.” Her hate for him never subsided, but she knew her only chance was to play at submission. She was given no choice but to be subservient, however she did not acquiesce willingly until a sufficient amount of time had gone by. When she felt the time was right, she began to pretend that she was his willing slave instead of a captive. She began to fake orgasms and tell Cooter she loved him. She began to beg to perform oral sex on him and pretended she loved to have him come in her mouth. It took about two months of this before he began to believe her act.

  She could not have gotten out of the shackles by herself, even if she had succeeded in pulling the chain from the wall; they were locked around her wrists and ankles with padlocks.

  It was in the third month when he finally allowed her to take a shower. She came out of the shower pretending it had made her amorous but Cooter would have no part of it. He took her back to the basement and locked her back up before he abused her. She thanked him for it.

  Two days later she asked if she could cook for him. He refused the offer but the seed had been planted. It was a week before he let her shower again but this time he allowed her to go into the kitchen and prepare some food but not before chaining her to the handle of the gas oven.

  She cooked him rice with gravy and sausages and while he was eating, she made a show of touching herself. He told her to stop but she claimed that the combination of the shower and standing there, naked and chained while her master ate, had made her sex drip.

  After he was done eating he told her to get on her knees and he stood in front of her and dropped his pants. It was the best chance she had been afforded to date. She reached down to the end of the chain and actually opened the oven door to allow her to take his pants off. She was cooing and telling him how much she loved to do this for him when she brought both hands up with the shackles on her wrists and smashed him in the scrotum.

  Cooter buckled forward as his captive slammed her steel restraints into his testicles. It might have been enough to temporarily incapacitate him, but Marcia was in no mood to go with half measures. She stood and grabbed the circular grate from one of the stovetop burners and proceeded to smash his head in. She did not hit him once, nor a dozen times, she continued screaming and pounding him until she had no more breath to scream. When she finished she was on her knees, covered in his blood, gasping for breath. She had pounded his head into a pulpy jelly, punctured both his eyeballs and smashed out all his teeth. The calm she had displayed while acting the part of Cooter’s slave had disappeared; now she was frantic and shaking like a leaf.

  The keys to her restraints were in the pocket of his pants as were the keys to his automobile. She was unchained, but still stark naked, and covered in her former master’s death fluids but she could not bring herself to wear any of his clothes. The game was over and the last strands of her tortured nerves snapped. She did not know where she was but that was the least of her concerns. Tearing out of the house she jumped into the driver’s seat. The automobile started without a problem and she tore away from the farmhouse in a cloud of dust and spray of gravel.

  The state of her mind was such that she did not trust any of the neighbors; she had not met them and did not know who they were. As far as she knew they were in collaboration with the man she h
ad just beaten to death. Once she saw the sign for Hume Highway she knew more closely where she was. Hume Highway passes Goulburn on the south, but the exit to Sloan Street takes you right into town. Quite a few truck drivers noted that there was a mad bloody woman, driving into town at top speed, and stark naked. The first petrol station she saw was a Kangaroo Fuel and she screamed to a stop in the parking lot.

  The teenage boy who was running the Kangaroo Fuel station would remember that January 16 for the rest of his life. The reporters and the police were all there, asking questions and taking pictures. They all wanted to know about the naked crazy woman who had charged into station screaming that she needed help and then collapsing on the floor. He told them all he knew, concentrating on her obvious distress and her physical condition. She was emaciated and covered with bruises, most of them old. She had a black eye but most of the visible damage was eclipsed by the fact that she was covered with drying blood.

  The ambulance arrived simultaneously with the police. By the time they got there, the mysterious woman was wrapped in a blanket that had been in the back room. The medical technicians had tried to find the source of the blood but it was quickly obvious that it was not hers. They hustled her into the ambulance and headed for the Goulburn Community Medical Center.

  The constables had nothing to say to the news reporters, so the reporters went back to the station and interviewed the young man who had reported the incident. He reveled in his 15 minutes, knowing it would be over before he could capitalize on it.

  Though she was not comatose, it was obvious that she was at the end of her faculties so the police did not take a statement that day.

  The following day, Marcia woke screaming, “I’ll kill you, you bastard,” and thrashing about. She had been dreaming about having Cooter chained to the same wall he had enjoyed having her chained to. The orderlies calmed her down and the doctor administered a sedative. It was several hours into the evening before she was in any condition to give a statement. When she did it was a real eye-opener. She told them her name and address and the fact that her husband had been killed. She told them her son had been killed, since the last she had seen of him was when he went over the side while they were being chased by the two men in the speedboat. The Goulburn Police did not know he was still alive. She told them where her husband had been shot, and how the two men had boarded the Agamemnon and taken her prisoner. Then she detailed the story of the dungeon and the man she had killed.

  There was little doubt that she had been shackled, the abrasions on her wrists and ankles confirmed that. There was more than enough evidence of abuse, both physical and sexual. She could not have led them to the house, even if she were allowed to leave the hospital. The escape had been in a blind panic. She knew she was on Route 31, Hume Highway, but she did not know what direction she had been traveling in. The police had already run the plates from the car and gotten an address. Marcia’s testimony merely filled in some of the blank spots they had encountered when they found the owner dead on his own kitchen floor.

  The Police in Orange were alerted and shortly after that, the Sydney office got the news. The reporters in Goulburn did a little research and found the story of the missing couple and their son but the rescue of Terry had never been printed. The Sydney office had kept it as quiet as possible. The news agencies were not excluded from the new story however and ran it everywhere. The tale of a woman, who beat her captor to death and escaped her dungeon, was international news. It did not take Bradley two seconds to ascertain that his fears had come to fruition and a very dangerous witness was at large. He was in Goulburn before the end of the day. The only thing that kept Marcia alive that night was the constables assigned to her protection.

  Inspector Barlow called the Molong Police Station personally, and asked that a constable be sent to the Kingston Farm to inform Ginger and Terry that Marcia had been located, alive. The news did not reach them until 8:30 at night and Ginger would not chance driving that far after dark. He promised Terry that they would visit his mother the following day, Monday. Terry quite naturally threw a fit and demanded to be taken immediately. The sun was still up and he wanted to see his mother, but Ginger was adamant. They would leave first thing in the morning.

  Terry had another dream that night. This time he could see the faces of the men in the boat that was chasing them. They got closer and closer and then started shooting. Terry dreamed of his mother screaming and the Agamemnon veering sharply to the right. That was when he went overboard. He was about to hit the water when he woke up. The sun was peeking over the horizon; as far as he was concerned it was time to leave.

  It was fortuitous that the pair had not left the night before. The old farm truck that Ginger drove was 20 years old and had not seen repairs in some time. The first problem was a flat tire. It was not much of a problem since there was a spare but it cost them a little time. The second problem was when the exhaust fell off at the muffler. This cost them a bit more time but Ginger repaired it with an old fruit juice can and a coat hanger from the bed of the truck. It was noisy but it was no longer dragging. The real problem happened when they stopped for fuel in Blaney. The truck would not even turn over, the battery was dead. A jump got the truck started, but it died again as it went into gear. The alternator was shot and the gas station did not do repairs so Ginger and Terry walked to the nearest parts store and bought an alternator and a couple of wrenches. Terry was worried about his uncle who was complaining all the way back to the truck about not bringing any tools with him. Once the alternator was replaced it was necessary to get another jump to start the engine. They finally hit the road again. The entire trip was about 350 kilometers and should have taken them three-and-a-half hours; it took them most of the day.

  It was almost seven o’clock in the evening when they got to the medical center on Goldsmith Street. Visiting hours were definitely over by then but the staff was very understanding about the situation. They let Terry visit with his mother for an hour, then Ginger spoke with her privately for a few minutes. He looked particularly grim when he left the room. Terry complained when they could not take Marcia with them right then and there.

  The sun was getting low in the sky and the sheep and chickens needed to be secured. The engine in the old truck fired up and they started putting out of the parking lot when Terry saw the man from his dream. He was walking in the side entrance. The side entrance should have been locked but was not. Terry started yelling, pointing and grabbing his uncle’s arm. He was so insistent that Ginger pulled to the side and parked the truck on Faithful Street. Terry was frantic and could barely make himself understood. He kept pounding on Ginger’s arm as he told him that the man who had piloted the boat that had chased them just went into the hospital.

  Ginger Kingston was skeptical but had noticed the boy did not lean toward flights of fancy, so he got out of the truck and headed toward the door the youngster had indicated. The door should have locked automatically when it closed but it pulled right open. Somebody had stuffed a matchbook into the lock, blocking the mechanism. Ginger charged into the hallway bristling like a guard dog. None of the elevators were sitting open so he ran to the other end of the hall and up the stairs. On the second floor he turned back down toward Marcia’s room. He slowed when he saw the constable sitting on the bench outside the door, and Terry rushed past him. Terry was flinging himself through the door when Ginger realized the constable had a huge wash of blood behind him on the wall. He had been shot through the chest as he sat there. Then there was the sound of the muffled .40 caliber pistol, coincident with Terry’s scream. Another shot rang out and a hole exploded in the door. Ginger slid under the hole in the door and pulled the constable’s .40 caliber, model 22, Glock from his holster. First he chambered a round, then he grabbed his nephew’s ankle where it was lying, just outside the doorway but he could not pull him out of the room. The door was jammed up against him. Standing to his full height, he kicked the door open and tried to get a bead on the intruder.


  Bradley was in the room, expecting just what he got. The door flew open and he shot Ginger Kingston in the chest. The constable’s sidearm went off almost simultaneously but the shot went wide. Bradley had not seen Terry lying on the floor. When the door had opened the first time, he was facing the other way, shooting Marcia in the head. When he had turned and blew a hole in the door, Terry was already lying flat and covering his head with his hands. The killer finally saw the boy lying on the floor and took aim at him, just to remove any live witnesses, but the boy was too fast. He was already rising and was behind the wall before Bradley could peg him. Once Bradley was in the hall, he took another shot but missed as the boy flung open the door to the stairs and tore down them in a panic. People were beginning to stir and doors were beginning to open. A nurse came out of the nurse’s station behind him and demanded to know what was going on. He could dally no longer and sped for the stairs at top speed. He never saw the boy hiding under the stairs on the ground floor as he made his exit as quickly as he could. He left the Medical Center by the same door he had entered, and disappeared.

  Upstairs, the nurse let out a protracted scream and then ran back to the nurse’s station to call the doctors and the police. It is said that there is no place like a hospital to get sick, but there is also no place like a hospital to get shot. There was no hope for Marcia but Ginger was still alive. He had twisted at the last millisecond so the bullet did not catch him straight on. That is not to say he was not in critical condition; he had been shot at relatively close range with a .40 caliber pistol. Not many men can say they had survived such an encounter.

  The nurses and doctors worked feverishly on the injured redhead, getting him into surgery within half an hour and shaving his incredibly hairy chest. The bullet had passed through him so there was nothing to remove, but there was quite a lot of damage nonetheless. If Bradley had been using hollow points, Ginger would be dead.