The Hunters Series: Volumes 1-3 Page 3

  Reaching down into a barrel filled with icy water, George pulled out a can of Coke. He pulled some coins from his pocket and placed them neatly on the counter beside the stacks of bills.

  “Thanks, ‘Mizz’ Cutchins. See you tomorrow,” he said pushing open the creaky screen door and walking out into the night.

  “You too, George,” she said as the screen banged shut, then brushing back the strand of white hair around her forehead, she reached down for the stack of bills and continued her nightly count.

  Standing in the ring of gravel illuminated by the light from the store’s window, George popped back the tab on the drink can and took a long pull. The night air was warm in this part of Georgia, even in the fall. The single light on a pole over the gas pump cast a cool fluorescent glow. A bat circled the swarm of moths and beetles that in turn circled the light. Flitting in what seemed an erratic way, it would dart here and there into the swarm. George knew that the bat’s movements were not erratic at all.

  Each swerve by the bat was the stalk of some unsuspecting insect selected by the bat from the hundreds in the swarming mass of insects. Selection seemed random, or it might be based on some rudimentary judgment by the bat. Size, type of insect, or taste perhaps played a part in the selection of the bat’s victims. Or, maybe it was just proximity to the bat. The closest bug lost.

  There was no way of knowing. One thing was certain though. Each darting attack into the swarm was a kill.

  The light blinked off as Mrs. Cutchins threw the breaker and closed the store. In an instant, the bat and insects scattered into the night, but the hunt continued.

  8. She Didn’t Go Home

  She didn’t go home. She never would now. The Japanese car traveled several miles. The four-lane highway turned into a two-lane road. The area was more suburban now, on the verge of rural. After another mile or two, she stopped at a discount supermarket. It was at the intersection of another larger highway. There were clusters of houses in small developments scattered around. Urban sprawl from the big city, but the area was far more country than city. The clusters of lit homes and buildings surrounded by the dark countryside just made them seem more isolated.

  It was an older store and had a fairly deserted parking lot. He drove by on the main road as the brunette cruised in and found a space midway down the parking row directly in front of the store’s entrance. Turning at the next corner, he pulled into the parking lot from the side entrance and saw her walking across the lot and into the store.

  “Yes.” The word came out slowly and softly with a hiss. Guttural and low, it was the expression of a yearning soon to be fulfilled. Like the deep-throated sound, not quite a growl, that the great cat makes before springing. He wanted her. He would have her.

  Scanning the lot and exterior of the building with practiced eyes, he quickly saw that there were no cameras. This far out in the country, security was considered a minor concern. The only predators people were familiar with were gators along the banks of canals and ponds, and the occasional panther deep in the swamps. That would change.

  Waiting until she had entered the store, he moved the old Chevy beside her parked car, with the passenger door next to her driver’s door. Then, exiting his vehicle and leaving the keys in the ignition, he adjusted the passenger door so that it was slightly ajar. The interior light of the car did not come on. He had removed the bulb. One of the many details he was so careful about.

  He had just started this ‘runaround’. That’s what he called it. When people at work asked where he was going, it was a runaround. They thought it meant a vacation road trip, but it meant something very different.

  It was early in the runaround to be seeking prey. He had stopped, thinking he would just gather some supplies, but the feeling had hit him as he pulled into the mall parking lot. The instinct took over. Within an instant, he had become the predator, and now he was outside the grocery store waiting for the girl.

  Crossing half the country on I-10 in a day and a half, he had only arrived in northern Florida that afternoon. It was early in the trip, but it felt right, safe. Sometimes it worked that way. With a successful hunt here, he might have a chance for another project before the time ran out and he had to return to work. Who knows, maybe even two more. That would be a record, three on one runaround.

  He walked across the parking lot and stood behind a van parked thirty feet away from the two cars. Twenty minutes passed before he saw her walking across the parking lot pushing a grocery cart. She didn’t have much, just a few plastic bags. He readied himself as she pushed the cart to the passenger side of her vehicle and placed the bags on the front seat. For a moment, he thought he had made a tactical error. She looked as if she was going to push the cart to the return stand, which was off to his right and closer to the store. If she had, she might have seen him moving around the van to stay out of sight. Not likely, but still, he was careful, and this was one of those details that might cause him to call it off. If his senses felt that the moment was lost, he would let her go and immediately leave in a different direction.

  But that hadn’t happened. She hesitated as if she sensed there could be some danger in crossing the parking lot in the dark. She was smart and careful. But he was ready, prepared, willing, and very experienced. She left the cart by her car and walked around the rear to the driver’s door.

  People usually did that. Even though going around to the front was normally closer, they almost always went around the rear of the vehicle to get to the driver’s side. It was a small idiosyncrasy that he found curious in the way a house cat might curiously regard a mouse trapped in a corner trying to find a direction to run in order to avoid the cat. Of course, the girl had no idea that the cat was so near or that she was trapped. But she was.

  He sensed which direction she would take. It was part of his subliminal, animal cunning, like a leopard sensing which direction the gazelle would leap.

  As she crossed the rear of her car and turned towards the driver’s door, he moved. He was quick and silent. The thirty feet to the car were covered in seconds, long before she had a chance to unlock the car door.

  The hunting knife in his pocket was out in a smooth, practiced motion. He pressed against her, pushing her against his car, the knife at her throat. He was positioned so that anyone in the store looking out would only see his back and not the hand holding the knife. She had only time to give a short, startled gasp before his hand was on her throat. He was not an overly large man, but the grasp was powerful. There was terror in her eyes. He smiled.

  Her mouth opened as if to scream. Shaking his head, he pressed the knife more firmly against her throat, until the blade drew the smallest trickle of blood. Her mouth closed, and her head nodded understanding. No sound.

  With a fluid motion, he opened the passenger door of the car, pushing her in with his body. He forced her down on the seat, holding her there with his weight. Pulling a plastic tie wrap from his pocket, the kind electricians use to bundle wires and cables, he looped it around her wrists and pulled hard. He knew that police officers used similar tie wraps to secure prisoners when they ran out of hand cuffs. Smart boys, those cops were.

  The girl gasped in pain as the narrow, hard plastic strip cut into her wrists. Taking another plastic tie wrap from his pocket, he looped it through the one on her wrists and then through the seat frame by the door. This had all taken only a few seconds. The small gasp she had made could not have been heard inside the store and probably would not have been audible more than a few feet away.

  His actions were swift, decisive, and powerful, throwing the young girl into a state of complete traumatic confusion fed by fear. It hadn’t always been that way. His hunting skills had been acquired through trial and error, much the way young lion cubs learn. He had been lucky more than once, but that was also part of the thrill of the game.

  Now, years of planning and practice made his movements reflexive. There was no thought about what he was doing. He just did it. When to make his move
, how fast to move, how hard to grip the throat, where to press the knife. He just knew.

  It was almost a little disappointing to him. He was too good. The thrill of chance was missing.

  But it couldn’t be helped. Better safe than sorry, he reminded himself when he felt the urge to take an unnecessary chance. He would have to make up for the lost thrill in some other way. This thought must have flashed across his face in some way because the girl’s eyes widened, and she opened her mouth as if to scream.

  That was only for an instant though. He pushed the knife hard against her throat, and this time blood trickled down onto her shirt.

  “No sound,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “Do you understand? Do what I say, and you will be okay. If you don’t…” The knife’s point pressed harder against her throat again making a new, small cut.

  She nodded. Through eyes dimmed by tears, she saw him smile.

  He closed the door softly, but firmly, not bothering with duct tape over her mouth. That was dangerous in public, even at night. Duct tape was fine to prevent screams from attracting attention in a hotel room or somewhere where no one could see. In public, the sight of duct tape over the girl’s mouth would attract immediate attention. Even at night, a roaming police car might get close enough for the officer to see a taped girl in the seat.

  No. It wasn’t necessary. He knew how to control her. The girl’s trembling silence was testament to his ability in this respect.

  It took him only a second to scan the lot for anyone who might have seen as he moved to the driver’s side of the car. No one had.

  Sliding behind the wheel, he turned the key. The old car started quietly. It was in excellent running condition, despite the fading paint job. The car glided through the parking lot, not too fast and not slow; just the right speed for a person who had picked up a few groceries and was casually heading home for the evening.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw her turn her head towards the store. Two cashiers and a couple of customers could be seen through the brightly lit window. A teenage boy was bagging groceries for one of the customers. She could see them, but he knew that they could not see her trembling, tear stained face or hear the soft sobbing sounds she made, as she struggled to follow his command to remain silent.

  Huddled against the door, the girl was just a silhouette in the dark car. Her sobbing continued, softly.

  Regarding her with curiosity, her captor wondered what she was feeling. How deep was her fear? What thoughts crashed through her mind? Sympathy, nor guilt, did not exist for him; just an intense, hungry curiosity that had to be satisfied. He would know. She would reveal it all to him. The fear. The terror. The hope for survival. And then her terrible realization that there was no hope. He would know it all before the night ended. He had plans for her that would ensure that it all came spilling, tumbling onto the floor. He would wash himself in it.

  “Are you ready for our night on the town?” he asked, almost softly.

  Her sobbing grew louder. Perfect he thought, and a small shudder of excitement coursed through his body.

  “What do you want?” she whispered between sobs. “What did I do?”

  “Do? Why, you didn’t do anything. You were just there.”

  His words were intended to show her the random and hopeless nature of her circumstances. They succeeded. Her sobbing grew louder again, “Please, please don’t hurt me.”

  “Hurt you? Why, I’m not going to hurt you. Have I hurt you yet?” He let the question linger in the air, letting her consider it. Maybe there was hope. He wanted her to believe that for now. It would make her later realization of the truth even sweeter.

  It worked. She calmed some and her sobbing became softer again.

  “Then why are you doing this? Please let me go. I won’t tell…just please let me go.”

  “Calm down, honey. I could have hurt you, but I didn’t…I won’t.” He let the lie linger there in the quiet of the car knowing that it would deepen her hope. Squeezing every ounce of pleasure and satisfaction out of this game was a practiced ability.

  “You know why I won’t hurt you?” He looked over at her and saw the glimmer of hope brighten in her eye. “Because I have…needs. You can help me with those. Then I’ll let you go,” he said softly and honestly.

  It was honest because it was true. She would help him with his needs, feed him and satisfy the animal caged inside, and he would let her go. He would send her on her way; into the darkness that he imagined death to be. Of course, his honesty did not extend to telling her that or in what condition she would be when he did let her go. That would come later. She would know. Right now, he wanted her to hope, to believe, that she could survive. When the time came, her disappointment and terror at the realization of what he really meant would be exquisite.

  He could almost hear her thoughts. They were like electricity in the car. ‘Rape? Okay rape. I can get through this. I can deal with rape. Just survive. Don’t do anything to make him do more than rape me. Survive.’

  She was the rabbit surprised and caught in the talons of the owl, lying still in the cool night grass thinking that if it made no sudden movement, the owl might release. But eventually the owl would tear into the flesh, and the rabbit would scream its high-pitched, eerie scream, knowing that death was near.

  She wanted to believe in her survival, and so she did.

  Turning right onto the main road, they drove north. The state line was another twenty miles up the road. Georgia. Georgia was on his mind.

  9. Just Away

  Lyn jerked her bedroom door open and saw her mother lying on the floor in the middle of the room. Blood trickled from her head. The beer can that her father had thrown was on the floor beside her. He stood there with a wolfish grin on his face, proud of what he’d done.

  “You son of a bitch!” Lyn screamed at him as she ran to her mother’s side.

  Trying to stand, her mother held a hand to the side of her face where blood trickled down under her fingers from the gash the thrown can had caused above her left eye.

  “What the hell did you call me?” her father said with a tone of incredulity in his voice, and then recovering he shouted, “You ain’t gonna talk to me like that you little fucking bitch!”

  Lurching across the room, he made a drunken, unsteady grab for his daughter. Lyn dodged, but he followed up with a backhand that caught her across the face and sent her reeling against the wall. Beer soaked as he was, he was still a powerful man. He reached down and grabbed her arm pulling her up with his left hand and balling up his right fist to strike her.

  “No!” Mama screamed.

  A moment later, her father’s grip relaxed as he tumbled forward to the floor on top of Lyn. She dragged herself out from under his dead weight and stood up, a look of revulsion, mingled with dread, on her face.

  Mama stood there, shaking with anger. Tears, mixed with the blood from the gash, streaked her worn face. A heavy iron skillet was in her hand. It had been on the old stove on the other side of the room.

  Lyn had been wrong. This was not like every other night. Somehow, tonight had just gotten worse…much worse. Or maybe, she had just become aware of how fucked up they all were. All of them. Her father’s evil bullying, her mother’s acceptance, and her own silence in the face of it all. Everything that had been bottled up for so long had just come out at once. She looked down at her father.

  “Is he…”

  “Dead? I doubt it, but no loss if he is.” Mama replied and then knelt down to check him.

  Lyn saw a nasty lump forming over his right temple.

  “He ain’t dead,” Mama said standing. “Just drunker than usual. That thump in the head was what he needed to put him out.”

  Lyn started crying and then sobbing. Her mother took her by the shoulders and pulled her to the threadbare sofa. Sitting her down, she held her, rocking back and forth, keeping an eye on the unconscious man across the room and a washcloth over the gash on her own head from the thrown beer ca
n.

  After a while, Lyn’s sobbing eased. Her mother sat her up straight and held her wet face in her rough hands, looking her in the eye.

  “You have to leave now, baby girl.”

  “But…no, Mama…”

  “Quiet.” Her mother’s voice was calm and firm. She continued, “I know you been planning to go for a while...for a long time. Well, tonight’s the night. You are leaving.”

  “But, no... What about you?”

  Her mother cut her off again. “We ain’t arguing about this baby. I’ll be fine. At least he won’t do any worse to me than he has before. But you…you’re his conscience. You’re what makes him feel guilty. If you stay, he’ll hurt you, maybe hurt you really bad. I won’t let that happen. No, you’re leaving…tonight.”

  There was finality in Mama’s voice. And she knew Mama was right. Daddy would never tolerate her in the same house again. But where? Where would she go? How could she go?

  Mama’s eye softened and tears welled up and followed the others that had streaked her face.

  “I know baby. I know what you’re thinking. You go somewhere…anywhere. I can’t say, but it has to be to a better place than this. We ain’t got no family and there is no one around here that you can stay with. Daddy would find you. You have to go far away. I hate that it has to be this way, but it has to be. You go on now.”

  With that, Mama pulled her close and held her tight against her breast for a long time. She felt her mother’s soft sobs and hugged her back tightly. After a while, Mama pushed her back, turned her face and stood up quickly.

  “Come now,” her voice was firm again, “Let’s get you packed and out of here.”

  Mama walked towards the bedroom. Lyn sat there for a minute in a haze, hearing the heavy breathing from the man on the floor. Could he really be her father? This big, mean, drunk man? Was there a time when he could have been a real father?