With Cruel Intent (67 page)

"Do I have a choice?"

"No, I'm afraid you don't."

"That's what I thought, I'll get my

keys."

Minutes later the doctor returned,

the robe gone and his pants on, Seymour

slid the rifle behind the seat and started

the old pickup.

"Hang on Blanche, I'm coming, just

hang on a little longer," he thought, as they

raced through the streets of Valdosta

headed to Dr. Camp's Optometric office.

* * *

A

constant,

droning

hum,

originating somewhere underneath her,

was all that Blanche could make out

through the fog that was her welcome back

to reality. Her shoulders and knees ached;

laying on her side the realization that her

wrists and ankles were bound brought her

cognition to full alert. Waves of nausea

swept over her. She closed her eyes and

tried to focus on what had happened.

Seymour...Seymour lying on the floor, his

head bleeding; a man, 'Rob', no, the War

Vet wrapping her in his arms was her last

memory. What had happened? Where was

she! The taste of duct tape did nothing to

reduce her need to vomit. Sheer will alone

prevented bile and her dinner from

spewing from her nostrils.

The sound of the tires spinning and

the rocking of the van provided a false

sense of security to the wounded Stalker.

His perforated side continued to ooze

blood from the smaller entrance wound as

well as the wider exit hole. The gauze,

that had previously helped to staunch the

trickle of blood, was saturated, the

metallic smell of blood mixed with

adrenalin driven sweat filled the van.

Although light headed, Lester was

euphoric. He'd done it! There had been

obstacles but he'd managed to overcome

them all, with a wonderful package

wrapped up in the back, just waiting for

him to unwrap it.

"Mmph, mmph!" Blanche grunted

through the tape that pressed her lips

firmly against her perfectly straight teeth.

She could see the dark interior of the van,

no upholstery, just the metal sidewalls and

cold floor. A pair of doors blocked her

escape as she contemplated her options.

Her mind raced through the extensive

volume of romance thrillers that made up

her cerebral library. Surely, somewhere

she'd seen a heroin escape from a similar

predicament. The thought of Seymour

lying in a pool of blood swirled in her

mind causing her to retch, a small acidic

trail of yellow liquid ran from her nose

and over the silver duct tape.

"You awake back there?" The

Stalker asked.

Blanche suddenly heard the voice

of her assailant coming from the front seat.

She held her breath and prayed that it

would just go away. The stinging in her

nose caused her eyes to water as she

fought

back

the

tears

and

the

overwhelming need to breakdown.

"Play dead! Be quiet and pretend

to be asleep," she told herself. "Seymour

will come. Seymour will come! He has to!

"I know you're awake, Blanche."

There was silence as he waited for a reply

from the frightened librarian. "Don't be

afraid. This is going to be great, believe

me. This is just the beginning of something

meaningful for both of us. I know you feel

it the same way I do. I've seen it in your

eyes. You need me as much as I need

you." Again he waited for some

recognition from the cargo space of the

van.

The foreboding reality of her

situation finally hit home and she sobbed

through the gag, tears spilling down her

face and liquid running from her nose.

"Believe me Blanche, this is going

to go much better for you if you just give

yourself to me, completely and without

hesitation. I don't see this playing out well

for you if you don't."

"What is he talking about? What

does he mean?" she thought, between the

sobs and restricted intakes of air.

"I can tell you one thing, and you

better listen up, I will not be dealt the

same hand Virginia May dished out. You

hear me? Do you hear me!" he hissed

through clenched teeth, as the pain in his

side shot up and into his brain.

"Virginia May? What the hell was

he talking about? I've got to get away and

now!"

She looked around, everything

appearing distorted, as the tears deflected

the light entering her crystal blue eyes.

The door handle was not beyond her reach

as she lay on her back. Quietly she raised

both feet and attempted to pull the handle

downward, opening the way to her

escape. Her lack of coordination, a

combination of the ether and fear,

prevented her from accomplishing the

task. However, the band that held her

ankles together looped around the door

handle, tying her up like a prized halibut

in a fishing souvenir photo. Panic set in!

She thrashed about, just like the catch

would, prior to getting pulled into the boat

and its' death.

The van suddenly slowed and

made a deliberate left turn onto what must

have been a dirt road. The sound was

much different now. The vehicle jostled

and pitched, moving down the uneven

surface, slamming her shoulder blades

against the metallic floor of what she

thought would be her coffin. She continued

desperately to free herself from the handle

that held her captive but to no avail.

Momentarily the rocking and bumping of

the trip came to a crawl and she sensed

the van making a right and coming to a

stop. The librarian froze, overcome with

anxiety and horror. The driver exited the

cab, slamming the door behind him, an

audible grunt escaping his lips.

A second later the rear doors of

the van were yanked open, pulling

Blanche across the last few feet of the van

floor and onto her neck and head, still

suspended by her feet from the door

handle.

"Now ain't that a pretty picture,"

Lester said. "If we weren't in such a hurry,

I'd snap off a couple just as a little

reminder for ya."

Lester reached into the back of the

van, retrieved the rag and bottle of ether.

He liberally soaked the rag again before

kneeling down to the side of the thrashing

woman, cradled her head against his shin

and forced the rag over her nose. She

drifted off to slumber-land but not before

a torrent of vomit rushed from her nostrils,

covering her captor's shoe.

* * *

Seymour

talked

and

the

optometrist listened as they steered their

way through the quiet streets, again

ignoring all traffic laws. By the time they

got to the office Dr. Camp was much more

sympathetic to the young man’s cause and

was anxious to see what could be done.

The office was configured into a small

strip mall between a women’s high-end

clothing boutique and an expensive

children’s store. A large sign illuminated

the area in front where the work truck

squealed to a stop, Valdosta Eye Care in

large letters and Optometrist underneath.

The two entered the establishment after

Dr. Camp fumbled with the keys for a

moment, having a difficult time finding the

proper key. A dim light illuminated the

foyer and reception area, a bank of

switches was mounted on the wall behind

the desk. The doctor moved to the wall

and flicked two of the switches, bringing

the entire front half of the office into the

light.

“Give me the glasses, Seymour,”

he said.

A visibly anxious Seymour handed

over the case and followed the older man

into an area surrounded on all walls with

spectacle display cases. Hundreds of

bright, shiny new frames with blank lenses

graced the walls. A small table with a

chair on either side sat in the center of the

room, a black device rested on the table

that looked like a microscope. Dr. Camp

sat at the desk and placed the glasses in

the middle of the device and locked them

in place with a spring-hinged clamp.

“What are you doing?” Seymour

asked.

“This thing is a lensometer, I’ll be

able to get a reading off the glasses and

determine the prescription with it, then we

can input that into the computer system and

see if we get a match.”

With each hand on a dial he

ratcheted them back and forth until he was

satisfied that he had the correct reading.

He pulled his head away, adjusted his

own glasses so he could read the hash

marks on the dials, and then wrote down a

series of numbers on a pad next to the

lensometer, +4.25-1.25x170. The glasses

were shifted over and the focusing conical

was brought down on the other lens and

the procedure was repeated, +3.75-

0.75x010. He ripped the paper free and

moved to the front desk with Seymour in

tow.

Sitting at the desk in front of the

main computer, Dr. Camp pressed the

spacebar and waited for it to come to life.

A password was required, which he

quickly entered, again waited a moment

before finding the search field in the

database

program

and

entered

the

prescription generated from the device

and pressed enter.

“This is a long shot, son,” he

explained. “We haven’t used these old

cases, like what you’ve got here, for quite

a few years. When we got the computers

back in 2000 after Y2K, we entered most

of the old patient files but didn’t get them

all. If we’re lucky the guy you’re looking

for was one of the old files that got

inputted.”

The two listened as the whir of the

hard drive searched through thousands of

patient files looking for an exact match to

the numbers entered. In a matter of minutes

the sound subsided and the monitor

presented a pair of names up on the

screen. Seymour stepped around the desk

to get a better look, along with the doctor.

“Well, let’s see what we’ve got.

The frame is a mans and I’m pretty sure

it’s a ‘reading only’ Rx but I could be

wrong.” He looked back at the bloodied

student and shook his head. “Isn’t going to

be either one of these, both women. Let’s

try expanding the search parameters and

see what that gives us.”

Seymour paced, wringing his

hands, running scenarios through his head

of what the fiend was doing with Blanche.

They were not encouraging. The doctor

entered the numbers again but expanded

the parameters slightly to bring more

suspects into the queue. Again the hard

drive spun and they waited for the list to

be generated. This time a longer list and

some men’s names appeared on the screen

before them. Dr. Camp pressed the print

key on the keyboard as the printer hummed

to life and a single sheet, with ten names

on it, dropped in the tray beside them. The

two men perused the list, pointing at

names to be scratched and lined through.

The result of the exercise left three names:

Archibald Alexander

Spencer Cummings

Ronald Philips

Seymour was disappointed that he

did not see the name ‘Rob’ in the list;

apparently he was a thief, a kidnapper and

a liar. The optometrist typed the first name

into the database program that streamlined

their office and looked at the results. They

were indeed reading glasses. Archibald

was 54 years of age and lived in Valdosta.

“Can’t be him, the guy that took

Blanche looks to be in his thirties. This

guy is too old.”

“Okay, let’s look at the next one.”

He pulled up Spencer and a note flashed

in the header next to his name -