Cooked Goose (12 page)

She could tell he was taking her to the edge of town. To the orange groves. Not far from where her dad had been investigating the rapist’s last scene, when she had dropped by to ask for money.

For just a moment, she thought of how her dad was going to feel when he saw her body, lying there on the ground, beaten, cut up, dead. Margie was a cop’s kid, and she had sneaked plenty of peeks at crime scene photos over the years. Eight by ten, full color pictures.

Now she wished she hadn’t.

She and her dad might not get along; they might never have been close, like a father and daughter should be. But he was still going to feel really, really bad when he saw her.

Suddenly, she hated the man sitting next to her. And the hate made her feel stronger, not quite so weak and vulnerable, so she nursed the feeling, allowing it to grow inside her.

“So, baby. Do you know who you’re riding around with?” he asked her.

She despised the snide tone in his voice. He was actually proud of himself, the bastard.

“Yeah, I know all about you,” she replied, equally sarcastic. “You get your kicks by raping and beating women. You’re a real fuckin’ celebrity.”

He hit her on the side of the head so hard that she nearly lost control of the car. It was all she could do not to smack him back, start crying hysterically, or both.

“Watch your language,” he said. “I don’t approve of women cussing. Especially kids. You’re a smart-mouth punk who needs to be taught a few lessons.”

Margie swallowed the retort that rushed to her lips. She had to be smart. This guy was looking for any excuse to hurt her. The realization that he actually enjoyed causing her pain was like a blast of ice water through her body, alerting every nerve and cell to the mortal threat she was facing.

This felt like a bad dream, but it wasn’t. This was real. And she had to keep her wits about her if she was going to find a way out of the nightmare alive.

Summoning every particle of courage and experience she had gathered in her brief life, Margie shifted into “cop’s daughter” mode. Her dad hadn’t really talked to her that much about crime, or the potential of being victimized, but she had absorbed some secondhand knowledge by watching and listening when her father thought she was tuning out.

She studied her kidnapper in her peripheral vision, trying to gather all the information she could in spite of his disguise.

He sat several inches higher than her in the seat, and when they had been standing face-to-face in the garage, she had come up to about chin level on him. Under his bulky black sweatshirt, he looked to be in good shape, neither fat nor skinny, just medium.

His hands were large. So was the knife he was holding. It looked like something you would take hunting—if you were expecting to do hand-to-hand combat with a grizzly bear.

As they passed beneath a streetlamp, she caught the glint of a ring on his finger. It was big, like some sort of class ring, and had a gold star in the middle of the setting.

That rang a bell, somewhere in her distant memory. She had seen a ring like that before, but she couldn’t recall where or when. And there wasn’t time to think about it now, because they were getting farther and farther out of town. Closer to the place he had chosen.

Very soon her nightmare was going to get much worse.

“Turn left up there,” he told her, pointing to a dark road that veered off the main one about a quarter of a mile ahead.

There were no other cars in sight. Any dim hope she had been entertaining that they might cross paths with a cruising police unit evaporated.

Margie realized that no one was going to help her get out of this one. If she was going to live, or die horribly, it was all up to her and this maniac sitting next to her.

And she wasn’t about to leave her life in his hands if she could possibly avoid it.

“Tell me something, kid,” he said, again, using that mocking tone that she hated. “Are you a virgin, or are you an experienced woman?”

For half a second, her memory returned to the backseat of Tommy Morrison’s Camaro and to Jerry Whitley’s basement family room the night of her sixteenth birthday party. Then she shoved any honest answers to the question aside and tried to figure out what he wanted to hear.

Any guy who didn’t approve of women saying the infamous “F” word, probably wouldn’t approve of them doing it, either.

“Well?” he said, poking her on the upper arm with the point of his knife blade.

She felt it nick her skin, and a small, warm, trickle of liquid flowed down the back of her arm. He had cut her. And he had done it so casually, as though it were nothing at all to him. Her shaking got worse.

“Yes,” she told him. “I’m a virgin.”

He laughed. “Yeah, sure. And I’m Santa Claus.”

The road they were on became more and more narrow. On either side was nothing but orange trees. Row after row, leaves and round fruit, shining silver in the moonlight.

“All right,” he said. “See that driveway up there, on the other side of that big water tank? I want you to pull the car into the drive. Nice and slow.”

Margie’s heart had been pounding before, but now it felt like it was about to jump out through her throat. She could hardly hear what he was saying for the pulse throbbing in her ears.

Time slowed to a surreal crawl as a hundred thoughts streaked through her brain. But the thought that stuck was something Savannah had said in their defense class: “Even if you take all these precautions,” she had told them, “you may still find yourself in a potentially life-threatening situation. And you may have to do something bold, something dangerous and extraordinary to get out. You may have to risk your life to save it. Only you will be able to make that decision. Go with your instincts.”

And Margie’s instincts told her that if she and this guy got out of the car together and walked into that orange grove, she would never walk out again.

For half a second, she thought of her pretty new car and how careful she had been not to even get a scratch on it.

Then she thought,
To hell with that! This asshole’s not going to rape and murder this punk kid if I can keep him from it!

Margie rammed the gas pedal to the floor and steered straight for the water tank.

* * *

7:50 p.m.

No sooner had Savannah settled her weary body into the Victorian, claw foot tub full of fragrant bubbles, than the phone rang.

“Someday I’ll learn not to bring you in here with me,” she told her cell phone as she lifted it from the top of the hamper and answered the unidentified caller.

“Whoever this is, I’m not very happy with you,” she said into the receiver.

The rich, throaty chuckle on the other end made Savannah smile from ear to ear and forget all about the intrusion.

“Gran!” she said, “I take it back. You’re the only person on the planet who’s welcome to call me anytime. Day or night.”

“Let me guess,” her grandmother replied in an eloquent Southern drawl as soft as Georgia peach fuzz. “You’re taking a bubble bath, roses or gardenia. And you probably have a few votive candles lit.”

Savannah laughed. “You know me too well.”

“I taught you everything you know about being a woman.”

“That’s true,” Savannah replied, “but I’m still waiting for you to teach me everything that
you
know.”

“Now, darlin’, you can’t handle that much knowledge. Not just yet. It’s too much power for one so young.”

“I’m over forty.”

“You’re half my age. You’re a baby.”

Savannah sank lower into the bubbles and felt the past week’s tension melt away, thanks to the silky warmth of the water and her grandmother’s soothing presence that could reach three thousand miles and rejuvenate her spirit.

“You know, Gran,” she said, “I’d like to think that when I’m your age I’d have half your vinegar.”

She heard a ladylike sniff on the other end. “Why, honey-child, you’d have been lucky to have half my vinegar last week. Are you ready for Christmas?”

“Ready for Christmas?” Some of Savannah’s stress returned with a rush. “A lot’s been going on around here. I haven’t even started yet. And you?”

“All done, except for you. What would you like Santa to bring you?”

“A big, handsome hunk, wearing a sprig of mistletoe for a mustache.”

“Mmmm.” Gran considered the request thoughtfully for a moment. “I think that could be arranged. I’ll hot-foot it over to the old folks’ home and see if I can scare up somethin’ for you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Hey, some of those fellas are pretty spunky. They’re always chasing me around.”

Savannah grinned. “You’d better run fast. You know what they want.”

Another sniff. “I know what they want, all right. They’re after my pension check, but I’m gonna spend it all by myself. I already raised one man—your grandpa, may he rest in peace—and that’s enough toil and trouble for any woman.”

Savannah lifted a handful of suds and watched them glisten, iridescent in the candlelight. “Have you heard, I’m going to be having company in a few days?”

“Of course I’ve heard. In a town this size, we know what everybody had for supper last night, and we’ve got an opinion on the subject.”

“So, what’s your opinion on
this
subject?”

“Butch is a donkey’s hind quarters, and your sister doesn’t have the sense the good Lord gave a goose, God love ’em both. And now they’re gonna afflict you with their malarkey. You’re just lucky, I reckon.”

“And are the twins still as adorable as always?”

“Even more so. Do you have a freshly recharged fire extinguisher?”

“Ah, I think I do—”

"And something you can use for a tourniquet?”

“Do you really think I’ll need—”

“And do you have enough money stashed away for some major home repairs? Cause by the time they leave, you’re gonna need a new roof and carpeting.”

Beep.

“Excuse me, Gran, but I’ve got another call coming through.” Savannah sighed, surrendering all hope of that relaxing bath. “Can you hold for a second?”

“I suppose, but remember, I’m eighty-six; I could kick off any minute now.”

Savannah punched the Flash button. “Hello."

The instant she heard the sobbing on the other end, she knew someone was in terrible trouble.

“Savannah, it’s me, Margie, Margie Bloss.”

“Yes, of course, Margie. What’s wrong?"

“I got away from him. He was going to kill me, but I wrecked my car and ran away.”

Savannah sat, bolt upright, in the tub, splashing water all over the floor. “Who? The rapist?”

“Yeah. The Santa guy.”

“He attacked you?”

“No, I mean, he got into my car with me…made me drive out to the orange grove, But I got away and—”

“Margie, calm down, sweetheart, and tell me where you are.”

Savannah vaulted out of the tub, yanked a towel off the rack, and began to frantically dry off.

“I’m at a phone booth,” the girl said between gasps. “I ran all the way here, and I…I can hardly breathe.”

Savannah raced across the hall to her bedroom. She tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder and pulled a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt from her dresser drawer. “That’s because you’re scared. Honey, try to take a couple of slow, deep breaths. Come on, do it with me. In...really slow. Now out. That’s it. Again. And again. Now tell me where you are.”

“I told you. I’m in a phone booth. I didn’t have time to get my purse or my phone. I just ran and—”

“Okay, okay. Sugar, where is the phone booth?” Savannah struggled into the clothes and pulled on a pair of sneakers. “Are you near a store or—”

“A service station. A Mobil. But it’s closed. There’s no one around.”

“A Mobil station. Orange groves. Okay. Is it the one on Turner Canyon Road?”

“I think so.”

“Where was the rapist, the last time you saw him?”

Margie laughed, but it was the sound of hysteria. “He was flying around the inside of my car. I ran it into a water tank as hard as I could. I had my seat belt on, but he didn’t.
 
I think it knocked him out. I didn’t hang around to find out. I got out of the car and ran like crazy.”

“Good girl! You did great, Margie. I’m very proud of you. Is the phone booth where you are well lit?”

“Yes. When I opened the door, the light came on.”

“Okay. I want you to hang up and get out of the booth. Look around you. Is there any place you can hide? Beside the building? In some bushes?”

“There’s a pile of old tires next to a truck.”

“Get between those tires and the truck and don’t move until I get there. It’ll take me about five or six minutes.” Savannah raced down the stairs and snatched her purse, gun and keys from the hall table. “As soon as we hang up, I’m going to call the police for you,” she told the girl. “Maybe they can get there first and—”

“No! Don’t call the cops! That’s why I called you. I don’t want to talk to my stupid dad yet.” She began to cry again. “I just want to see you first, not him.”