Dodging her flailing arms and legs, ignoring the tiny fists that pounded and beat with a steady staccato rhythm at their shoulders, arms, and chest, the three young boys carried the screaming policeman's wife to the one-room cabin. Jim took command of "Operation Wife Bait", as he called it.
"All right, you guys," he commanded with a jerk of his blonde head, "Clear off that mattress and put down a blanket. We're gonna keep our little pigeon here as comfortable as possible." He stood with his hands on his lithe hips, his delicate features angling severely as he spat out the orders.
Kathy stared at him, a bewildered expression clouding her otherwise sharp features. "What are you doing?" she asked softly, trying to appeal to his sense of better judgment. Her arms ached from the handcuffs and her wrist burned in the vise-like grip of the steel bands. Confusedly, she stared down at the handcuffs, raising her wrists to eye level. "What do you want of me? I-I don't understand! You're all so young! You should be out playing football or chasing girls, not kidnapping a twenty-eight year old married woman."
Suddenly the fear she'd felt riding the motorcycle rushed back to clutch at her, sending a shiver and chill through her whole body. She shuddered her shoulders trembling. It was so ridiculous, funny almost. It seemed like an eternity since she'd gotten up that morning drank her coffee, retrieved the newspaper from its brambled burial ground – all her routine, day-to-day activities that kept her alive, identified her as Kathy McGuire wife of Art McGuire.
Now, somehow, that had all been swept away from her, like driftwood carried away from the shoreline by an ebbing tide. She stared down at the prim pink sundress she wore; it was as if she had never seen it before. The sandals, too, the pink toe nails – they all belonged to another person someone foreign but certainly not Kathy McGuire.
She stared again at Jim, her own blue eyes penetrating his cold, steely ones. A cry of pure terror welled up in her throat, only to be strangled there. He was about fifteen years old she guessed, but a glint in his eyes told her that his experience was more than that. This boy, this delicate featured boy, with his aristocratic hands and aquiline nose looked like a young czar, a prince… a militant boy in command. With his erect posture and thrown-back shoulders, he carried a presence about him not to be denied, Kathy could tell by the way the other boys were waiting, staring mesmerically at their blonde haired friend, that he was the leader, indisputably. But he was so young! He hadn't even started shaving yet!
"Okay, take off her handcuffs!" boomed Jim, turning to point to Mark, who started fumbling in his pockets, pulling out the lining so the key could rattle free. Jim grimaced, but bent to pick it up. "Be more careful next time," he warned, handing the key to Mark then indicating with a jerk of his head in Kathy's direction.
Her hands free, Kathy shook her wrists, trying to get the circulation back in her favor. Like lead, her wrists felt heavy and weak; she rubbed them with her fingertips.
"Jim, how we gonna keep her from runnin' away?" Robert wanted to know, watching the cop's beautiful wife massaging her own flesh.
"Running away?" Kathy wrinkled up her nose, eyeing the door. Maybe she should try to run, but in her heeled sandals she'd be no match for this fifteen year-old sprinter. "What do you want of me?" she asked for the hundredth time. "Please, if it's money you want, I'd be happy to pay you. That's all I can offer you."
"That's what you think!" countered Jim, with a salacious grin, running his tongue over his lips. "Yeah," he said with a careless ease, "I think she's gonna serve our purposes just right. Your ol' man is gonna be pretty busy keepin' his eye on all the bare-breasted chicks chasin' after the dopers," he guffawed. "You think he cares enough about you to come looking for you?"
"Of course he does!" spat Kathy with a defiant jerk of her head, to spring her thick hair loose of her forehead. "He'll find you kids all right. And don't go making any slurring remarks about Art. He's a darned good husband," she pouted, her lips in a tight line as she glared back at her young captor.
"Listen, by the time he finds you, the marijuana is gonna be hidden away, tighter'n a drum. He'll never find it."
The room was silent, except for a mouse scratching its way free of a rumple of newspaper, yellow and water smeared. Mark and Robert stared at each other, waiting, wondering who would be the victor in this test of mental stamina.
"Okay, boys, ready for step number two of 'Operation Wife Bait'?" On signal, Robert opened a suitcase and drew out the rope.
"What… are you boys going to do to me?" chanted Kathy, watching with saucered eyes as the young freckle-faced boy approached her, all the while testing the strength of the rope, jerking it hard. Satisfied, he handed it to Jim, then stepped back and waited for the next command.
"Now why don't you just have a seat down here on the bed," said the fifteen year old leader sweetly, with innocence.
"No!"
"I said get on the bed!" screamed Jim, pointing with his delicate index finger. "You get this straight now, you bitch! I am the leader here, and you follow my orders. Is that clear?" He might have been a Sergeant in the Army, or a Captain in the Navy judging from the way he ordered and commanded, with no protests.
Staring him in the eye, wondering what kind of child monster he was, Kathy obeyed, sitting down on the bed, her eyes never leaving the steely gray orbs that belonged to her captor.
"Okay, boys, now get the whiskey."
"No!" she screamed again, kicking her heels into the dusty rotting floor, making a hole in the weathered wood. She leaned back on her hands and screamed as a hand flew over her mouth, and she yelled, "Nooooo!" And then the neck of a foul-smelling bottle was forced into her mouth, bruising her lips; she gagged on some of the burning liquid and felt it searing its way all the way down her throat and stomach. The bottle was pulled from her mouth, and Kathy fought for her breath almost gagging and vomiting as the raw whiskey hit her empty stomach and sensitive nervous system all at once. She opened her mouth to speak again and the neck of the bottle was brutally rammed into her mouth. Again the fiery liquid gurgled down the back of her throat and tears came to her eyes as she choked.
"Get the grass!" Jim commanded, and everyone laughed. For the first time, Kathy smelled an odor in the air, an odor she had never smelled before. So that's what it was that made these boys, these innocent little boys act like they were grown up criminals with heats of steel! She'd read Art's manuals on the detection and behavior of drug influence, and words like "paranoia", "fantasy", and "schizophrenia" had never been real, until now. It explained their behavior.
Choking, gagging, her breasts heaving for breath, they continued to force feed her, the whiskey spilling over her chin and neck and soaking the flimsy material of her cotton sundress so that it clung to her flesh and revealed her deliciously full breasts. She struggled feebly, unable to focus her fear, forgetting to cry out as she felt every nerve in her body tingling and a wildly soothing feeling coming over her brain. She even managed a wry smile, figuring she would soon be able to talk the children out of this stupid prank.
Her reasoning was further confused as Jim knelt over her with a lighted cigarette in his hand. He forced it between Kathy's lips. "Suck!" he ordered.
"Yeah, suck!" said one of the boys. Jim stared hard at Robert who had caused the outburst and frowned, letting the blushing boy know there was one and only one leader of this gang.
Kathy obediently took a drag on the cigarette, feeling the smoke to be heavily pungent and sickly sweet. She blew the smoke out.
"Hold your breath!" someone said. Was that brutal voice really a fifteen year old's?
She turned and tried to see who was speaking but couldn't focus her eyes. The rough, brown papered cigarette was forced on her again. This time it was Mark, crouching near her. "Take a drag and hold in your breath."
She obeyed as if she were a little child, dutifully inhaling the smoke of the strange cigarette and holding her breath until she started to choke. Time seemed to stand still, or had it disappeared entirely? She couldn't tell; nor could she remember how many times she'd taken a drag off the funny looking cigarette. Actually, it was a second joint! She had smoked the first one completely and forgotten about it, just as she had forgotten that these young boys hovering around her, were her enemies, her captors. There was a lot she had forgotten… Art, and how she had gotten to this God forsaken beaten up old building out in the middle of nowhere. She stared up at the ceiling, lying voluntarily supine, watching a spider swing and play on its freshly woven web. Pointing, she burst out laughing. The strangest, most ordinary things seemed terribly funny.
It was humorous the way these three young boys crowded around her on the dirty, tattered mattress, staring at her like she was something from outer space, not part of their world, but something foreign and enticing. There rapt attention made her feel invincible, as if she had powers no one else possessed.
The world was transformed for Kathy. Robert held out the whiskey bottle and she took it, happily gurgling on the acid taste. A warm glow surged through her body as if her very flesh were melting into a pool of butter; Kathy closed her eyes, a kaleidoscopic show of fireworks flashing in back of her eyelids. The muscles in her legs relaxed and without her knowledge her propped up legs fell limply, her skirt inching up to mind-thigh with the fall.
Bathed in the afternoon sun with the mice scratching at the mattress, teething out chunks of cotton to line their nests in the floor boards of the old cabin, and the spiders silently weaving their webs of destruction, Kathy slumbered.
Art flicked his wrist, checking his Acutron watch for the tenth time. He smiled: four-thirty. The gardener certainly would have been there by now, probably was out in the back yard, his forehead beaded with sweat, his shirt tied around his naked waist as he ran the tiller up an; down the sandy rows, chomping up earth worms and lurching on rocks. And Kathy… she would be sitting on the back steps, her apron demurely pulled over her knees, watching, dreaming of her rose garden. Would she plant American Beauties? Golden Yellow? She'd be thinking of him now, praising the good Lord for giving her such a fine husband as he, waiting for him to come home. Maybe she'd make pot roast, his favorite, with just enough celery for flavoring… not too much… he hated celery it was always stringy and stuck in his teeth. After dinner he'd have a shot of cognac in a snifter and they'd sit in the darkened living room listening to some soft music… Guy Lombardo or Andre Previn… she'd sit on his knee, wearing that sexy black nightie he'd given her for Christmas last year – the one she never wore, was too embarrassed to try on in front of him until last night…
OH, God, last night. He hoped it wouldn't be too late to make up for last night!
Buddy, his partner, jolted him out of his reverie.
"Hey, come on Art. This is no time for day dreaming. We've got a hell of a lot of scouting to do. Latest word is that they're bringin' it in in a U-Haul truck trailer." He tugged at Art's sleeve.
"Hold it!" Art held up his hand. "Just let me give the little woman a call… let her know she oughta keep the bed warm tonight."
"I'll be out in the car," called Buddy, pulling the bill of his baseball hat down over his eyes, letting the door of the phone booth slide shut.
Impatiently, Art played with the change in his pocket, counting the rings, finally hanging up on the tenth one. Oh hell, she was probably out telling Helen, Bill's wife, about what a fine job her husband had done on her garden. Yeah, that's where she was; he couldn't expect her to stay home all the time.