Texas Woman - the Kidnapper

Chapter 1 - The Kidnapping

On February 14^th, 1992, John Charles Wilson kidnapped a sixteen-year-old girl.  He planned to frighten her, torment her, rape her until he was tired of her, threaten her with death, and release her in the countryside, all while she wore a blindfold or he wore a mask.  Unfortunately for John Charles this was his first kidnapping and he made several mistakes.

His biggest mistake was picking Addie Sue Brown as his victim.

.

A saccharine voice spoke to Addie Sue Brown.  “Hey, nerdette.  Get any Valentines?”

That was Geraldine Hammett three lockers down.  Flowing raven hair, skin clear and pale, and eyes a startling pale blue.  She was beautiful and had a cheerleader’s figure, so of course she was one.

Seething, Addie Sue carefully closed her school locker and spun the combination dial. Turning toward Geraldine she looked her directly in her eyes.  Addie Sue kept her face perfectly still and stared.  Geraldine looked satisfied for a few moments.  Then uncertainty touched her face.  She glanced down, hastily closed her locker, and walked rapidly away.

Addie nodded to herself in satisfaction and followed Geraldine at a leisurely pace.  It was time for Phys Ed.

The Texas sun smote her as she left the building, the heavy door at the end of the hall slamming solidly behind her.  Here in southeast Texas it was unseasonably warm and clear for February.  Addie followed the rest of the crowd into the gym.  Inside she was grateful for the cooler air.  She descended into the locker room and the odor of chlorinated water and sweat enveloped her.

In the locker room, she removed her gym clothes from her locker and went to a bathroom stall to change.  It was not because she was modest, though all her classmates assumed that; her father -- a truck driver by trade -- was a Strict Gospel Baptist minister on weekends.  She changed in the stall because her mother would not let her use tampons.  Mama felt that tampons would ruin her virginity and were obscene beside.  When it was her time of the month Addie Sue was forced to wear a bulky pad that would have been modern two centuries ago.

As she left the stall Addie heard Geraldine’s voice again, though it was (ostensibly) not addressed to her.  “Here’s little Miss Modest.”  Addie glanced around, an eyebrow raised slightly.  Geraldine was talking to one of her sycophants, Barbara, a thin girl with straggly blond hair who would have been very pretty without an unfortunate overbite.

“Cool it, Geraldine.”  This voice was a slightly husky contralto.  Its owner, behind Geraldine, was Joanne Carpenter, blond, blue-eyed, tall, and with a figure that was the envy of every woman who saw her.  She was also a senior, head of the girl’s basketball team, and the head cheerleader -- not someone a junior like Geraldine would dare defy.

Geraldine gave Addie a dirty look but looked down to finish tying the shoelace of her tennis shoes.

“Don’t mind her, Addie.”  This was Addie’s friend Gaylloyd, a girl with the midnight-black hair and very white skin Addie had seen on some Italian women.  Gaylloyd was a bit short and had a voluptuous figure that rivaled Joanne’s.  “She’s just jealous.”  Gaylloyd slipped a gym tee shirt over her impressive bosom, gave the glowering Geraldine a superior look, and said, “Come on.”

The air on the basketball court was not cool but it was cool by comparison with the locker room, and Addie Sue breathed in deeply.  She liked the astringent smell of the air here, with its compound of dust, floor wax, and other less identifiable ingredients.  She got a basketball and began shooting baskets.

A whistle tweeted.  It was Joanne.  “OK, line up for calisthenics.”  Normally the gym teacher, Miz Johnson,  would do this but periodically she assigned the task to Joanne.  She knew Joanne would not let anyone slough off.  Indeed, if anything, Joanne was a harder taskmaster than the gym teacher.

She was greeted with moans and groans and obedience.  Soon everyone was doing stretches and then jumping jacks.

Warmed up, the girls next lined up in four rows for shooting practice.  They took turns on the basket at one end of the basketball floor, each girl expected to capture her own rebounds, pass it to the next person in line, and run to the end of the row to try again.  Meanwhile Miz Johnson and Joanne criticized each girl’s technique.  Addie got only very subtle suggestions; her technique only needed sharpening, not major work.

After a half-hour of various practice, Miz Johnson divided the girls into four teams and assorted benchwarmers.  Two teams were sent to one end of the court under Miz Johnson, the other two to the other end under Joanne. Half-court games were inconvenient but a necessity.  Brewster, Texas, was a small town forty-some miles north of Houston in the Piney Woods forests of East Texas.  All the girls in the three levels of senior high were taught Phys Ed together.

Early on Addie Sue was passed the ball.  Seeing a fleetingly open corridor to the basket she broke for it.  Geraldine and another of her teammates closed the corridor and Addie bounced the ball between Geraldine’s legs to Gaylloyd, her own teammate.  Gaylloyd snagged the ball, leaped, and shot.  Addie made a fast break around Geraldine in case Gaylloyd did not make the shot.  The ball rebounded from the rim and Addie leaped for the rebound and tipped it into the basket.

Coming down she saw Geraldine rushing to -- she was sure -- sweep Addie’s feet from under her and cause a bad fall.  Twisting like a cat in the air, Addie avoided Geraldine just enough to keep her own balance, but was still struck a glancing blow by Geraldine’s shoulder.  Addie stumbled and skipped but kept her feet under her.  Geraldine was not so lucky.  She fell sprawling.  Furious, she jumped up and ran toward Addie, fists bunched.  Addie squared off to defend herself but there was no need.

“Geraldine!”  The shout came from Joanne.

“Did you see what she did!” said Geraldine.  “She tripped me!”

“Yes, I saw what she did.  And I saw what you did.  Go to the bench.”

Geraldine let out a loud dramatic sigh but complied, shooting Addie one last hateful glance.

Shortly thereafter Addie was benched also, but not because of the clash with Geraldine.  It was just time for her to swap with a bench warmer.  The object of these games was not to win, but for exercise.  The official girl’s basketball team had their own practice time where the games were more competitive.

As the Phys Ed class broke up to go down to the showers Miz Johnson intercepted Addie and told her to come to her office after she had changed clothes.

.

John Charles Wilson sat in his rented white van as he had done at this time five times for the last three weeks.  He had two clipboards that he ostentatiously pretended to work on.  This part of the street was shaded, which was the ostensible reason for parking here for twenty or thirty minutes to “catch up on his paperwork.”

The real reason was that the road curved here and the three nearby residences all had walls or hedges high enough so that no one in the houses could see him.  And a few blocks away was the little country grocery store where his target and several other students were dropped off by the school bus after students were let out of school.  His target walked by here three days of the five days of each week.

He had changed the license plates to those of an abandoned vehicle he had found, just in case someone copied the license number down.  He was dressed in a painter’s white coveralls and cap, had on sunglasses and a fake mustache that was ordinary enough and good enough not to seem fake close up.  He had his own driver’s license in case police stopped him.  This was a bit of a gamble, but he did not know how to get a fake license and a police stop would be for something routine.   He would just pay the fine and the incident would be lost amid millions of other paid tickets.

He even had authentic painting supplies in the van, brushes, buckets of paint, cleaning rags of several random kinds.  The little can of chloroform was hidden among several other cans of paint thinner and such.

.

All the while Addie showered and changed clothes she kept thinking about the coming meeting with Miz Johnson, only spending a little time keeping a lookout for anything Geraldine might do.  That was not very likely, with Joanne around keeping an eye on things.  Was Addie in trouble?  Had Miz Johnson seen the incident with Geraldine?

Soon Addie knocked on the frame of the open door of Miz Johnson’s tiny part-time office in the gym -- she had a bigger one in the school itself where she also taught history -- and entered.

Miz Johnson smiled at her.  “Let me finish this before I forget what I was going to say.”  She turned her attention to a document she was scribbling on.

Addie relaxed.  Miz Johnson did not seem as if she was going to scold anyone.  Addie looked around the office.  There was the usual stuff on the walls -- a calendar, some team photos, and some photos that Addie did not recall seeing before.  Looking a little closer she saw that these photos contained a younger Miz Johnson.  She was doing some kind of gymnastics.  Addie was not sure, but she thought a couple of them had been at the Olympics.

Addie did not have to wait long.  Miz Johnson placed some papers in a manila envelope and stood up to file them in the filing cabinet to one side of the desk.  She was a small woman with a strong, slightly chunky body, but nicely shaped too.  Her face was a bit mannish and pleasant, and some girls claimed she was a Lesbian.  Addie did not think so.  She knew Miz Johnson was married to Robert Johnson, who owned and managed one of the major local logging companies.  Could you be married and have two small children and still be Lesbian?

“Addie, I’ve watched you play basketball.  You seem to like it.  Do you?”

Addie blinked.  “Why -- yes.  I like it a lot.”  This was true.  On the court she could be herself, go all out physically, and beat other people at games.  She hated anyone to win over her, and it gave her deep satisfaction to win over them.

“Then I’d like you to join the girl’s team.  We’re already down two people, which leaves us just enough to play with the minimum number of backups.”

Addie was surprised.  She knew she was good, but she was also a bit short for basketball.  Most of the team members were taller.

“I’m too short.”

“You make up for it.  You jump well; you can even cram the ball down into the basket.  You are a very quick thinker.  And I’ve rarely seen anyone as aggressive at guarding or taking the ball down the court.”

“My father will never go for it.  He says it’s not right for a girl to act like a boy.”

Miz Johnson nodded slightly.  “I’m sure you’re right.  But, just suppose he would allow it.  Would you like to join the team?”

“Sure.”  But he would never let her.  Addie knew that without a doubt.  And her mother would be opposed too.

“Well, what about trying out for cheerleader?  Would you like that?”

What a stupid idea.  And she would hate it.  “I’m not pretty enough.”

“Why, that’s not true.  You’re very pretty.  And you are very athletic; that’s what they need more than anything.”

Miz Johnson was totally out to lunch if she believed any of that.  Addie’s hair was a bright red and uncontrollably curly, which is why she kept it in a ponytail so often.  She would cut it short if she could, but her mama kept it -- ”a woman’s glory” -- waist length.  Addie had an explosion of freckles on her face and all over her body; they were especially noticeable wherever the sun touched her skin.  Ugh.  Her nose was too big, her lips -- well, they were OK.  Her eyes were grey like a wolf’s -- or something.  Her eyelashes and eyebrows were practically invisible.  And her body! She was too thin.  Her boobs and hips had barely started to develop.

Maybe she was right for the athletic part of cheerleading.  Before Joanne had taken over the cheerleaders it had just been a beauty contest, something to bring all the dirty old men to the games.  Joanne worked everyone hard, the cheerleaders studied choreography, and Addie knew Joanne went to those cheerleading competitions to get ideas.

But in the end Addie knew it was impossible.  “No.  My papa would hate it even more than basketball.”

“Well, if you change your mind, let me know.  I might be able to persuade your parents.”  She stood up.  “Thank you Addie.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

.

John Charles Wilson checked his watch.  He had been here about as long as he dared to park, but it was almost time…

There was his target!

John Charles got out and rummaged in the van interior revealed by the sliding side door.  He had done the same thing last week and she had passed just a couple of yards by him without paying him any attention.  His heart had pounded so hard he almost fainted from the pressure in his head and chest.  That had been the dry run.  This was the real thing.  His heart pounded still but not so badly.  The thought of action steadied him.

Here she came.

.

Addie Sue Brown walked leisurely around the bend in the road.  A car passed by, going in the opposite direction, then the street was quiet again.  In the near distance a lawn mower was running, kids shrieked.  She could feel a bit of sweat under her arms, defeating her deodorant, but there was a slight breeze that brought the smell of leaves and a false summer feel to the air.

There was the same white van parked where she had seen it last week.  She glanced at the painter rummaging in the van.  Maybe thirty, thinning blond hair combed straight back, looked just a little like a rat with his long, slightly crooked nose and slightly protruding teeth.  Slim, a bit pot-bellied, totally uninteresting.

She turned her thoughts back to Miz Johnson’s offers.  Impossible, of course, but the basketball offer was tempting.  And would it be so bad to be a cheerleader?  She imagined wearing a short skirt, her legs bare for all to see.  Her legs weren’t that bad, and they were beginning to fill out a bit.  She’d have to wear that tight halter-top.  She had a little bit to fill it now, and she could always put something in it.  And just last week she had heard some boy making a comment about her bottom, so it didn’t look that bad.

She imagined men watching her, wanting her.  Her parents and all her father’s little rag-tag backcountry church condemned the power a woman had to arouse.  Addie thought it only right.  Men made all the money in the world, made up all the governments.  It was only fair that women should have some power of their own, something men did not have.

Well, a few of them did.  Some of the boys in the football team didn’t look all that bad, though they were stupid.

Actually she supposed they weren’t really that dumb.  She was comparing them to herself, a straight-A student who had so impressed her teachers that the principal had advanced her a grade ahead of her age group.  And Johnny the quarterback had some brains.  He was determined to go to business school  --

.

Now!  Now! The thought thundered through John Charles’ head.  For a fraction of a second he totally froze.  But he had to move now or he would forever know he was a pathetic wimp.  The coast was clear, no sound of an approaching car, no one in either direction on the street, the girl a yard past him, her back to him.

He made his move.  Whirling he brought up the rag doused with chloroform just a minute before and ran as quietly as he could in his tennis shoes.  At the last moment she spun around.  Astonishment flickered over her face and she dodged away.  Fast!  She was fast!  But he was close to her already and moving faster.  He dodged behind her and brought the rag up to cover her nose and mouth, clasping her to him with his other arm.  She struggled but he was stronger.  He was Hercules!  She was a weak kitten, and the chloroform acted quickly.  She sagged against him.

Boy!  She was heavier than she seemed.  He dropped the rag to catch her with both arms.  He looked quickly along the street.  He heard a car coming.  Quickly he dragged her to the van.  Slid her inside it.  Followed her.  Slammed the sliding door.  Froze as he listened to the car whoosh past.

Heartbeats later, satisfied no-one had paid attention to the van, he plucked a plastic wrap tie from the opened box of them and looped it around her ankles, threaded the pointed tip into the lock-slot at the other end, fumbling as his rapid heartbeat rushed him, and pulled it secure.  Better than a rope, it was.  Then he did the same to her wrists.  There!  She was helpless!  He’d done it!

But she could still scream.  He wiped his hands carefully on an alcohol-dampened towel to clean them, then grabbed the prepared gag from its paper sack.  It included a sterile gauze strip, folded lengthwise several times, frail seeming but strong, and threaded through a two-inch thick red rubber ball.  Carefully he opened her mouth, made sure her tongue was in its proper location -- he didn’t want his darling to suffocate -- and worked the ball inside her teeth.  A little bit of drool slid down one hand and he distastefully wiped it on his pants leg.  He lifted her hair out of the way and tied the gag tightly with two knots to make sure it stayed tied.

John Charles craned his neck to peer out the back window, deliberately smudged to make it hard to see in but not enough so that he could not see out.  He looked out the front of the van.  No one around.  Quickly he opened the sliding side door, exited, closed it back.  Making himself walk casually, he picked up the rag he had dropped and her school book back pack and re-entered the side of the van.

John Charles looked at the girl fondly.  She was such a little beauty!  She gave him an erection just looking at her, so helpless.  It pressed against his pants, so full of blood it that the knob at the end was actually painful.

Gently he straightened her body, pulled her skirt straight, lifted her a bit and straightened the cloth beneath her.  No wrinkles to mar her dear body.  He moved a cushion under her head, smoothed her hair from her face.  It was so soft and, even in the dimness, the glorious red of her hair seemed to illuminate the darkness.  Her breath was slow now, she was fully under the anesthetic.  Her legs were loose, her knees were apart.  He imagined her crotch, hidden by her dress.  The pubic hair would be red too.

John Charles took control of himself.  He wasn’t safe yet.  He had to get her home, and with the usual run of luck he would have no trouble.

He covered her body with a light sheet he had selected for that purpose.  Not a tarpaulin for his angel, which might dehydrate her from sweating, but enough to shield the sight of her from a cop at a possible traffic stop.  Then he crawled between the two seats and eased himself into the driver’s seat.  Starting the van, he drove away.

He did not know it, but he had already made two big mistakes.  He had kidnapped Addie Sue Brown.  And he had decided she was helpless.

.

 --  what was that?  Addie whirled around.  The painter was running at her.  Her mind froze in astonishment but her body was already whirling away from him.  But he was too fast, too close.  He grabbed her from behind and pushed a rag toward her face.  With adrenalin-heightened senses she could tell it was damp, something to put her to sleep.  He was too strong for her.  She forced a huge breath from her body and drew an equally huge breath, then stopped her breathing.  Almost too late.  The sickening sweet smell of chloroform invaded her nose.

She struggled a second or two then let herself seem to weaken.  Her weakness was not a total falsity; already she was faint.  She let herself grow completely limp, sagged her total body weight against him, let her breath slowly push out to keep the chloroform out of her lungs.  The need to breath grew desperate.  She forced it down.  Forced it down --

The rag left her face and she drew in a breath, trying desperately to keep it from being big enough to let him know she was awake.  She opened her eyes a slit; he was behind her and could not see.  Slanting her eyes from side to side she saw no help.  She would have to continue pretending to be unconscious.

Now he was dragging her to the van.  She let herself stay completely limp, even though her heels were scraped a bit from twigs or something in the grass beside the road.  The limpness was easier for her to fake because she was not totally faking.  The slight whiff of chloroform that she had not been able to avoid was affecting her.  Without it, even now, she might have tried to break away and run.

He slung her into the van, rolled her all the way in.  Ouch!  Her head banged against the floor and she saw a bright flash.  Stay limp.  Stay limp.  You’re out like a light.

She heard the van side door slam.  Heard a car rush by.  He was putting something around her ankles.  She let her knees sag open, let her ankles separate, but he tightened the thin strap around her ankles.  Oh, god, it hurt!  Stay limp.  Stay limp.  Now he tied her wrists.  She was a little more successful keeping her wrists apart, but not enough.  At least the pain was small when she relaxed the angle of her wrists as he moved her.

Nothing happened for a moment.  She desperately wanted to open her eyes to see, but dared open them just the tiniest slit, just enough to see he was bringing something toward her mouth.  That was enough warning to let her jaws stay open as he put a golf ball or an apple or something in her mouth, then pushed her ponytail aside and tied something behind her neck.  She was gagged.

For a moment she felt despair.  Then she let her anger loose and the despair was washed away.  But she kept saying to herself Stay limp.  Stay limp.  Give him time to make a mistake.  Give herself time to get control of her heart rate, her breathing.

She heard the side door open and slam closed and felt the van rock on its springs from his exit.  She lifted her head, gave the interior of the van a quick but comprehensive look that memorized it, lay back with her eyes closed.  She started repeating a nonsense word over and over to herself, a trick she had heard about for making oneself relax.  Her body relaxed some, relaxed some more, she shifted it minutely to a better position, her breathing slowed just a bit, her heart rate went down a bit.

The side door opened and closed again and the body of the van rocked with his weight.  He dropped something beside her and her heart jumped.  But her body did not.  It sounded like her book pack clunking down, a sound she had heard hundreds of times.  He had cleaned up the kidnap site.

For an eternity of seconds she felt his gaze upon her.  Calm.  Calm.  You’re out like a light.

His hands straightened her limbs.  Limp.  Stay limp.  Let your knees sag open like you’re asleep.  Don’t flinch if he puts his hand between your legs.

He brushed her hair off her forehead, straightened her dress.  Maybe he wasn’t going to do anything now.  She almost lost it as he lifted her body and straightened the wrinkles of her dress under her.  When he put a cushion under her head she let herself have a sliver of hope.  He wanted her undamaged at least a little while.  Then she felt a sheet fall over her, a light bed sheet smelling ever so faintly of laundry detergent, which almost made her sick.  No.  Don’t vomit.  You could drown yourself.  She clamped down on her nausea with steely self-control.

The van rocked as he moved around inside it.  The van started up and pulled onto the street.  She was safe for a little while.  She could move around a little bit if she was careful.  He would probably not look back at her, and the van interior was dim.  It was a bright day outside.  Even with his shades his eyes would adapt to that brightness, make it harder to see in the interior.

She let herself relax some more, let the nonsense word repeat itself endlessly.

.

The twelve-mile trip to his home was uneventful.  At last the big house came into view and he triggered the garage door opener.  Inside the van barely had room to share with the shelves, the Jaguar sedan, and the Mercedes sports car.  He had moved that last so that the van side door was next to the interior door.

Squeezing between the driver side of the van and the Jaguar he went around to the other side.  His darling was still just as he had left her.  He went into the house, opening all the doors to the basement where he had prepared his love nest.  He had earlier left on the air conditioning and everything was cool and comfy.

He dragged his love carefully out of the van.  Mustn’t damage her too early.  The trip to the love nest was exhausting.  He had to stop twice to rest, her body warm as it sagged against him.  Getting her down the stairs of the basement was the hardest.  Thank God for the banister that he had recently ordered put in.

At last he laid her body gently on the hospital bed and lifted up her feet up onto it, taking off her shoes and pitching them to lie near a wall.  Shit.  There was the phone.  Hurriedly he cut the plastic straps with waiting tin snips and replaced them with the leather fetters connected to the bed frame.

About to race for the phone, he turned and carefully removed the gag.  Must not risk her vomiting and drowning before he had made full use of her.  There was no risk of screams penetrating these walls, and anyway there was all that green lawn and forest surrounding his estate.

Shit.  The phone was ringing again.

.

The drive seemed to take forever to Addie, but was probably more like half an hour.  Her kidnaper had driven slowly and carefully, no doubt to keep from attracting a traffic cop.  She was almost comfortable by the time they arrived.  She worried a little about her ankles and wrists.  They were numb.  No way she could act swiftly after they were removed -- if they were removed.  At that she had to stop and let her anger wash away the despair again.

The van turned, slowed, turned sharply, slowed more, stopped.  They were there.  Her heart rate sped up.  She brought it down by repeating her nonsense word, its droning repetition drowning out her anxiety.  Now more than ever she must convincingly be in a drugged sleep.

There was a light rumbling noise.  The van moved forward, stopped.  The motor died and there was the rumbling noise again and a muted crash.  Were they inside a garage?

The side door slid open and he pulled the sheet off her and lifted her out of the van, making grunting noises as he did.  He did not seem so strong now.  Walking backward with his arms under each of her armpits, he dragged her through several rooms and a hallway, which she could dimly see when she let her eyes slit open.  He stopped twice to rest, dragged her down a flight of stairs.

God, she was so scared he would drop her on the stairs.  She closed her eyes completely while he wrestled her down them.  She had to be prepared to let herself fall totally limp if he did drop her and she could not do that if her eyes were open even the tiniest bit.

Finally he carefully put her in a bed and she risked opening her eyes a slit while he was occupied in lifting her legs onto the bed.  Nothing particularly dramatic.  It was almost like a hospital room.

Oh.  Not a good thought.  Looking down at her body she saw leather fetters resting on the bed, chains attached.  She closed her eyes again.  Be ready, she told herself.  Though she wasn’t sure what she could do or how.

He cut the ankle and wrist straps.  For a moment she was free but she knew she could do nothing yet.  Next came the fetters.  She twisted her ankles and wrists just a little from straightness and tensed them, not daring to be too obvious about it but hoping to win a bit of looseness.  The phone rang while he was securing her and he hurried.  He left her but turned back  (Thank God her eyes were still closed!) and removed her gag.  The phone still ringing, or ringing again, she was not sure as she focused on staying “unconscious.”  Finally his footsteps receded and she heard the door slam.

Her eyes slitted open.  She examined the room.  She looked for some kind of half-mirror or spy hole by which he could look at her without her noticing.  She saw nothing, but maybe she had missed something.  She remained still, began flexing her ankles and wrists, trying to get some feeling back.

There was indeed some looseness in the fetters.  Soon she was rewarded -- or punished -- by feeling returning to her abused wrists and ankles.  She had to stifle herself to keep from screaming at the prickles and then the agony of returning blood circulation.  To take her mind off the pain, she began tightening and relaxing her leg and arm muscles to wake them up.  Slowly she returned to normal.  Her attempt to fake a coma had partly created one.

At last she risked opening her eyes all the way.  At some point he had to expect her to wake up.  She could fake it no more.  She looked around the room, faking a slow return to awareness in case she was being watched.  Then she let herself take on a fearful look, though she was hard put not to let her anger put a different look entirely upon her face.  Next, she “discovered” the fetters and let her mouth drop open in horror.  She pulled at her hand fetters, twisted them, pulled at her ankle fetters, faked great strain and great weakness.  Then she “gave up” and turned her face into the pillow, trying to look as if she were crying.  No tears came, but maybe he could not see that.

If he was even looking at all.

After a short time that seemed forever she let herself seem to segue from tears to sleep, letting her arms slide down beside the bed.  She tried to unobtrusively find some projection to brace the edge of a fetter against.  She found something and braced the top edge of the fetter against it, forced her arm against the bed and pulled.  Her wrist made some progress through the fetter and then the fetter slipped off its brace.  Addie braced it again and pulled, then twice more as it slipped off the brace, making progress each time.  Fear filled her that her kidnaper would appear any moment.

It was off!  The fetter fell away and the chain made a rattling noise against the bed frame.  Addie’s heart seemed to stop.  Then she brought her free right hand up to work on the left-hand fetter.  The tongue was stiff in its buckle but in an eternity that lasted perhaps five seconds she had the fetter off.  Quickly she removed the ankle fetters also.

She slid off the bed.  The room seemed to sway.  Her abused ankles almost collapsed under her.  In a minute or so she was limping around the room.  She did some body twists and then squats.  Her body returned to almost normal function, helped by the fear- and anger-pumped adrenaline.

She still was not a great match for her kidnaper.  He was not in great shape, but he was still bigger and stronger.  And he was kind of fast, though nowhere near her speed when she was in top form.  Which she definitely was not in now.  She needed a weapon.

She found several in the next few minutes.

In a drawer next to the bed was a surgical scalpel, a small bottle of alcohol (which she could slosh into his eyes), bandages (useless or maybe a strangle cord), wire pliers (of which she could imagine no use unless she crushed his testicles after she had him immobilized).

There was an easy chair in one corner of the room.  Upending it, she screwed off one of the legs, with much effort and suppressed grunting.  She hefted it; it made an awkward club.  Examining the bed -- it was a hospital bed, elevating a body for maximum easy access, a horrible thought -- she found that the fetters snapped onto the bed.  Unsnapped, one of the chains made a nice weapon.  She swished it through the air, pleased with the vicious sound it made.

But what if he had a gun of some kind?  Everything she had was close range, and his arms were longer than hers.  Well, she could attack his arms, whittle him down to size.  But she needed more of an advantage.

She looked around the room.  Returning to the bed might put him off guard, but she did not think she could get out of loosened manacles fast enough to make such a subterfuge work.  Looking up the stairs she noticed the light switch beside the door.  What if she turned the light off and lurked just inside the door?  He opened the door, she stabbed him or tripped him or hit him....

Addie selected a scalpel for her right hand, which was her dominant hand.  She took the chair leg club in her left and advanced up the stairs, alert in case he opened the door.  At the door, she flicked the light off and on a time or two, then left it off and waited.

In a minute or two her eyes had adapted to the dark and she noticed the light shining under the door.  Looking more closely she saw that the top and one side of the door also showed a crack.  Eyes narrowed in thought, she tentatively placed a hand on the doorknob.  She tried carefully to turn it -- and it turned.

Addie caught her breath.  Hope blossomed in her, and fear.  Had he actually failed to lock the door -- or was he on the other side, quietly laughing himself silly and waiting for her to open the door?

She crouched, reasoning that an attacker would expect her to be standing upright, and opened the door with her right hand, awkwardly holding the scalpel.  As the door popped open she quickly looked out into the hall, then jerked her head back inside to avoid a possible attack.

Nothing.  Cautiously Addie advanced into the hall.  No one still.  Was she really free?  Or was he playing hide-and-seek with her?

Addie closed the door quietly behind her and advanced further into the hall.  Carefully she opened side doors, finding nothing more than a couple of closets and a utility room, which she looked into well enough to know he was not hiding there.  Hey!  Here was a hammer!  She abandoned the clumsy club for it.

At the end of the hall she listened at the door, ready to jump back if it opened suddenly.  She could hear nothing.  She stood there undecided for several minutes.

While she was waiting she heard distant noise on the other side.  A voice.  There were pauses.  He seemed to be on the phone.  Or maybe he was just talking to himself.  She already knew he was crazy; the latter would be no surprise.  The voice quit.

Suddenly in a panic Addie raced back to the closet nearest the torture room and hid herself inside.

For minutes she waited.  Then she heard the door at the end of the hall open and footsteps coming.  Suddenly her fear was gone and she trembled with the strength of her hate.  She held herself still, almost trembling on the end of the invisible leash she held on herself.

The footsteps neared, and a strange sound.  In seconds she recognized it; he was humming.  The bastard was humming!

The footsteps passed the closet door and she heard the door of the torture room open.  That released her.

As quietly and quickly as she could she opened the closet door and rushed into the hall, quiet on her bare feet, running on the balls of her feet so that her heels would not thump the floor.  Her kidnaper was standing at the torture door, staring at the darkness inside.  Addie closed with him and he started to turn his head when she struck it a terrific blow with the hammer, but the blow was at angle.  It glanced off the side of his head.

Dropping the scalpel she used two hands on the hammer to strike a more solid blow to his head.  At the last instant she had an image of the hammer head crunching through his skull as if through an eggshell.  She twisted the hammer so that it struck side-on instead of head-on, but it still made a good, solid chunking sound, like a cushion being whacked.  His legs folded under him and Addie shrieked and body checked him into the darkened room and slammed the door.

Panting, she leaned her back against the door.  He must be tumbling down the stairs.  She felt fierce jubilation at that thought.

There was no sound from the room, though.  Of course; the room was soundproofed.  Or at least it had very thick walls.

Minutes passed and her breathing and heart rate returned to normal.  She calmed down.  Looking at the door she saw why he had not locked it.  There was no lock.

Maybe she should get out of here before he came back out and she had to fight him again.  But she had whacked him a good one.  Maybe he was dead.  And he had fallen down the stairs.  That might have killed him too.  Or he could be dying right now.

Serve him right.

Or maybe he was waiting to get his strength back and would come after her.  She was not so sure she wanted to fight him again.  She was weak and trembling now.  All the adrenaline of the past half hour and especially the last few minutes had used a lot of her formidable energy.  Also, it was past her dinnertime and she was hungry.

Addie went to the utility room and rummaged around inside, coming back to the hall every minute or so and listening.  Finally she found a short strip of wood about the right size and returned to the torture room door with it.  There she inserted the wood strip under the door.  It was a little too wide to fit, just as she had judged from its look, and she used the hammer to pound the strip into the crack good.  There.  It would not open easily now.

She walked down the hall, put the scalpel inside the utility room, hidden in a dresser with a lot of other junk.  At the doorway she turned back and used her dress to wipe the chair leg and the scalpel and the hammer of fingerprints.

That was silly.  Any police who really searched would find them, and the hammer might have blood and maybe a hair or two sticking to it.  But to Hell with it.  She was too tired to think right now.

What should she do next?  Call the police?  What then?  She could imagine her father’s reaction.  He’d blame it on her; she had heard his sermons in church on women-as-temptresses, Jezebels always leading men wrong.  He would rail at her, maybe have her on her knees for hours contemplating her sins.  And at school, they’d all think she had been raped, not just the two or three girls who didn’t like her, but by people who did like her.  She had always thought the opinions of other teens didn’t bother her, but she’d been wrong.

Her stomach growled, interrupting her thoughts.  She looked for and found the kitchen, large and expensive with a great view out the back into a large landscaped yard that merged into trees.  She could also see through windows in another wall part of the wide four-lane paved road that ran in front of the house.

In the refrigerator she found apple cider and quickly made herself a ham and cheese sandwich.  She wolfed it down as she wandered out of the kitchen and took a tour of the house.

The living room was luxurious, with chairs and couches on three sides of a square in the middle of the room.  A large and expensive stereo system was on one wall, a huge TV on another.  Her “boyfriend” was not poor.

Thinking of him she returned to the torture room.  The door was still closed, with no evidence of being forced open.

Addie returned to the kitchen, made herself another sandwich and refilled her glass.  Being kidnapped was hungry work.  Next she located a library/den on the first floor and the door to the garage.

Wow!  There was a new-looking dark green Jaguar sedan and a red Mercedes-Benz sports car.  They both gleamed, an incongruous sight next to the drab white van.  She sat in the Mercedes, finishing her sandwich and drink and then pretending for a minute or so to drive the car.  She could not, of course.  She had never learned.

She still did not know how she was to get home.  She returned to door of the torture room.  All was at peace.  Was he dead down there?

Suddenly, without any conscious thought, she decided what she was going to do.  She went to the garage.  Sure enough there was her book backpack.  She put it on.  In the den she looked for and found a checkbook, tore out and pocketed a check so she would know his address and name (John Charles Wilson, she noticed).  She quickly explored the second floor, which had three bedrooms and a large luxurious bathroom.

In the largest bedroom she found his wallet and keys on the dresser where he had left them when he had changed out of the white coveralls.  She extracted all three hundred and some dollars.  In the bedside dresser she found a snub-nosed revolver and a plastic sandwich bag full of bullets.  She broke open the revolver the way she had seen her uncle do.  It was fully loaded with five bullets.  Imagine that!  A five-shooter and not a six-shooter!  Kind of a wimpy gun for a big, bad kidnaper.

She closed it back and hefted it in her hand.  She had never fired a pistol but she had shot her uncle’s .22 rifle and she had been around guns all her life.  She was sure she could shoot this revolver.  It was double-action like the ones detectives used on TV, not like the old Western single-action guns some of the people around here still had.  All she had to do was point and pull the trigger.

She had better use two hands like the TV detectives did.  The gun would kick.

She put the money, wallet, keys, and bullets inside her book bag and kept the pistol in her hand.  Less quickly she walked back everywhere she had come, tidying up and wiping out her fingerprints.  She had to put the gun in her dress pocket.  She made sure it was positioned so she could get it out quickly.  This was made easier because the revolver’s hammer was flush with the curved back of the gun.  It would not snag on her dress.

Back at the torture room she hammered out the piece of wood that blocked the door and returned it to the utility room.  There she carefully wiped the hammer and the piece of wood of fingerprints while she stood in the utility room doorway.  She also cleaned the hammer head of blood and a few strands of hair with a piece of newspaper, which she crumpled and put into one of her pockets.

All that time she kept an eye on the torture room door.  The son-of-a-bitch wasn’t getting out without her being ready for him.

Finally, she returned to the torture room and opened the door, gun out and ready in case he was lying in wait, her finger tight on the trigger.

There was no one lying in wait. Quickly she swiped her hand inside and found and flipped the light switch, jumped back outside the room.  Nothing happened.  Lying down and gun ready she looked into the room, jerking her head back outside the door.  But that had been enough to see that John Charles Wilson was lying on the bed.  He was not dead and he had had presence of mind and energy enough to get onto the hospital bed.  There was vomit on his chest, however, and he looked in a bad way.

Addie advanced cautiously down the stairs.  John Charles tracked her with his eyes.  He looked shit scared, and Addie believed he really was.  Still, he had thought her helpless and he had been wrong.  She was not going to make the same mistake with him that he had made with her.

“Why, Uncle John,” Addie said in mock concern, “Whatever happened to you?”

He said nothing.  Maybe he could not.  Getting closer, Addie saw that one pupil seemed smaller than the other.  Maybe he was brain-damaged.  Well, he ought to be, the way she had chunked him.

“Here’s what I think happened, dear Uncle.  I came hiking from town; I like to hide.  I found you in the front yard.  I helped you inside the house and cleaned you up and now I’m about to call an ambulance.  I’m going to be really upset and insist on going to the hospital with you.  You won’t remember what happened to you, except maybe you were in your yard and someone stopped to ask for directions and that was the last you remember.

“Now don’t nod your poor head.  I’ll bet it really hurts.  Just answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Do you have all that?”

He just stared dumbly at her, fear on his face.

“Can you talk?  Say ‘yes’ if you can, or I will hurt you.”  The logic of that did not seem quite right, but he whispered “yes.”

“Do you understand the story I just gave you?”  Again he answered “yes.”  Maybe he was just saying that to please her.  Well, time would tell.

“Now we’ve got to get you upstairs to the living room.  You don’t want them to find you down here, do you?”

This time he answered “No!”  He winced at the pain that this whispered but vociferous answer gave him.  Addie felt a little more convinced he was -- pretty much -- lucid.

Addie had seen where her shoes were when she had escaped from here.  Now she backed up to them and put them on by feel with one hand, all the while watching him and keeping his – her -- gun ready in the other hand.

“Now get out of bed.”  He just looked at her.  She looked back.  Finally he slowly climbed out of the bed, as carefully as if he were made of glass.  Addie looked at him as he stood swaying.  The pupil of one eye was still smaller than the other.  She was worried that he might die on her.  But she was not going to get close enough to him to help him.

She backed up, gun still pointed, and slowly backed up the stairs till she was in the doorway.  “Now come on up,” she commanded.

John Charles tottered to the stairs and stood looking at them helplessly.  “You can crawl if that will help,” Addie said.  Slowly, slowly, he got down on his knees and crept up the stairs.  Once he swayed and Addie thought that was it, but he recovered and continued to the top and out into the hallway, Addie backing before him.

Once there he paused, breathing heavily, but then began to creep on all fours toward her, Addie continuing to walk backward toward the living room, gun pointed.  Several times he had to stop, but finally he made it.

Just inside the living room he stopped for the last time, however, sank to the floor, and rolled onto his side.  “Can’t ... go ... further,” he said.  Thinking about what she had seen of his condition, Addie decided he was not lying.  She gathered a bunch of pillows from the various couches and chairs, and made him a little nest where he lay.  She stayed out of easy reach of him.

He settled into it with a sigh, curled up.  He was shivering.  Addie hurried upstairs and got the first bed quilt she saw.  Back downstairs she almost expected him to have tried to escape but he was where she had left him.  She tucked the quilt around him, alert for an attack, but none came.  Going to the kitchen she got a towel and wetted it, returned to him and put the folded towel on his forehead.  Eyes closed, he smiled.

God, what was that about?

Now it was time for her play-acting.  She went to the phone, jerked the yellow-pages phone book off the stack of phone books as if in a panic, scattering the books onto the floor, and found the name of the hospital in the emergency page.  She recognized it, because it served the several small towns in this area, including her own, and the newly built bedroom communities between this area and Houston to the south.

She got the emergency room and described her “Uncle’s” condition in a trembling but heroically composed voice.  They assured her an ambulance was on its way to the address she gave them from the check of John Charles’ that she had torn out of his checkbook.

Twice in the next fifteen minutes Addie renewed the cool water compress.  John Charles still seemed as quietly contented as if she was his mama.

Addie worried.  Had she missed something?

Finally she heard the ambulance siren in the distance.  Addie got up, scrubbed the wallet against any chance of it holding her fingerprints, and walked out to the yard, dropping the wallet near the road.  She put the gun into the bottom of her backpack with the bullets, and watched down the road in the direction of the sirens.

Here came the ambulance.  She began to jump up and down and to wave her hands.  The ambulance zipped into the driveway and she ran toward the open door of the house, urgently pointing inside and yelling, “He’s in here!  He’s in here!”

The next few moments the medics examined John Charles and got him into the ambulance.  Addie locked the house with John Charles’s keys and rushed to the ambulance.  One of the attendants tried to stop her from getting in.

“I’m not staying here,” she said, letting her voice get louder and louder.  “They might come back!  I’m going with my uncle.”  She was ready to have hysterics and tears (if she could manage them), but the driver said, “For God’s sake, Al, let her in.”

Addie quickly clambered inside, not into the passenger’s seat when the driver flipped open the door to it, but beside John Charles.  She grasped one of his hands and with an exasperated sigh the attendants in the back let her be.  They busied themselves with John Charles, inserting an IV and placing some monitoring equipment on him and doing some other things, working around her.  It took ten minutes to get to the hospital.  John Charles smiled all the way.

There was some fuss at the emergency room about admitting him but a quick computer search and a phone call got the needed insurance info or whatever they needed.  All this time Addie played the concerned niece, but finally conceded to them that she had done all she could for her “uncle.”  Telling them she was going to meet her parents in the waiting room, she found a phone and called a taxi.

.

At a little past 9:00 PM Addie Sue Brown walked home after being dropped at the little grocery store near her home.  She got a scolding for being out so late.  Staying with a friend without calling home was unforgivable.  She took it meekly and retired to her room.  She took a long hot bath and treated some scratches and cuts she had gotten during and escaping the kidnapping.

Snug in her bed, Addie wondered how John Charles was.  She hoped he would live and be OK.  The police would try to locate her to ask questions if he died.  Once they found she had falsely claimed to be a relative they would know something was wrong.  So because she was afraid of a little embarrassment she might be subjected to a much greater one.

Besides, she hoped he was alive because she was not through with him.  You just did not kidnap a Texas woman and get away with it.

At least not this one.