The dashed white lines danced before him, undulated, then snapped back to their original linear shape. The pain, though initially localized in his lower right abdomen, was now radiating throughout his entire torso, overloading his nervous system and affecting his sight and motor skills. He was glad that he had taken the few minutes at Bev’s to staunch the flow of blood with some rolled up gauze stuffed in both the entrance and exit wounds. The holes were smaller than he expected, good thing the wayward bullet was fired from a small caliber pistol. As he drove he periodically looked down to the spot of the injury, a slowly expanding red circle appeared on the bandage that he had wrapped around his waist, covering the gauze filled holes both front and back. The painkillers he’d taken should start to have some beneficial effect at any minute but he was struggling to stay focused on the task before him.
Arriving at the library he parked at the rear, near the end of the open chute that originated on the second floor. By the time he crawled into the back of the van, put on the hat, camouflaged jacket and slipped his father’s spectacle case into his pocket, the pills had started to numb the throbbing in his side. Into the other pocket of the military issue jacket he put the bottle of ether and wool cloth. Lester inspected himself in the passenger side mirror, taking note to walk a bit hunched over, using the cane in his right hand and limping with the left leg. Each step sent a bolt of pain shooting through his central nervous system. He gritted his teeth and moved on, no time to waste, had to get to Blanche and then home. Before he walked around to the front entrance of the library he stopped in the shadows at the corner of the building, pulled his father’s old prescription glasses from their case and put them on. The Stalker allowed his eyes to adjust for a moment, returned the case to the jacket pocket and proceeded toward the front steps. It annoyed him that he had to look over the lenses to see very well far away but knew that Blanche would recognize him for sure without them on.
The first time around with the Gulf War Vet disguise he had trouble negotiating the steps, so he took his time, looked over the glasses as he needed and managed the steps, with cane in hand, without the same acrobatics as before. Alone on the concrete outside the main doors Lester took a few deep breaths, checked the wound again to see how much blood had soaked into the bandages and touched the Beretta tucked in at the small of his back. It was time and he was ready, willing, but was unsure of just how able he was. A patron stepped from the main entrance and down the steps next to him without giving him a second look. He put his weight on the cane, bent over slightly and moved through the same door the gentleman had just used to exit the library.
The foyer was brightly lit, a number of people gathered around the main desk speaking with Blanche. He was pleased that she was distracted and would not pay much attention to him as he moved to the stairs. With the injury to his side it was much easier to use the cane, almost came natural this time around as he hobbled and ambled up the stairs, concentrating not to look at the librarian for fear she might recognize him. Half way up the stairs the sight of Seymour coming down startled him. He momentarily lost his balance and almost tumbled to the floor below, but the agile Seymour caught the crippled vet, helped him regain his balance and made sure he got to the second floor. Lester hoped his nemesis had not felt the gun hugging his spine.
“Looks like your friend is back,” Seymour said, as he passed Blanche at the front desk.
“Rob!” she said, looking up, a bit of panic on her face.
“No, the vet with the cane that you told me about a couple of weeks ago.”
“Oh, him, thought you meant the guy I told Deputy Guest about this morning,” a relieved Blanche commented.
Seymour continued looking after the books and magazines left scattered on the tables and chairs throughout the library and didn’t give the gentleman on the second floor much more thought.
From the upper floor balcony Lester watched the exchange between the two at the front desk. He had not factored Seymour into his plans for the evening but it may work out to his advantage to have Seymour help him lure Blanche to the second floor when ready. He knew the library would close at 10:00 and they would start ushering people out prior to that, 9:25 as he looked at his watch. A lone reader, her hair in a tightly wound bun and sunglasses on her head, sat in a comfortable chair near the new magazine section thumbing through a copy of People. Lester tried to think of how he might hurry the woman on her way but didn’t want to chance drawing attention to himself. He decided to take a seat close to her and strike up a conversation, maybe he could persuade her to vacate the second floor all together.
“Evenin’, do you mind if I join you?” he asked, taking a chair and sliding it close to hers, before she was able to answer.
She looked at the obviously unusual character and nodded but did not speak, but right away he noted that she shifted her behind in the chair, moving away from him.
“Good,” he thought, “it’s working already.”
He picked up another gossip magazine from the table in front of them, flipped to a page of starlets dressed in slinky gowns.
“What do you think about that big busted blonde that married that old man for his money? You think she really loved him or was she just banging the old guy for the cash? Personally, I think the old guy couldn’t even get it up. I mean he was 85 when they married, can’t tell me he’s scoring any points with his virility at that age. You got an opinion on it?”
The woman was annoyed but not dislodged. “I’ve really not given it any thought so I couldn’t say.” She continued to be polite and tried to ignore the rude stranger.
“Well, if it came down to it, I’d sure as hell take up with some shriveled up old granny for a few million dollars. My old lady would probably give me permission, long as I cut her in, if you know what I mean,” he pushed, trying to think what it would take to make her leave.
“I’m just trying to get through this article. Do you mind?” she said, showing the open magazine to him.
“Oh no, no problem, what you reading there?” he said, sliding even closer and looking over her shoulder.
She turned the magazine away so he couldn’t see the text and slumped as far from him as she could without actually getting up and moving the chair.
“So would you marry some old dude with a limp dick for a couple million dollars, or what?” he asked, grabbing his crotch to emphasize his point.
She had had enough, she tossed the magazine back on the table, stood and gave him a look of absolute disdain and turned for the stairs.
He called after her, “I was just asking.”
“Finally, didn’t think the bag was every going to leave,” he said to himself.
Now clear, he thought of what he might do to distract Seymour and get a jump on him. With no one to see him he removed the glasses, put them back in the case and into the jacket pocket and laid the cane on a large table that was visible from the area immediately at the top of the stairs. He then randomly removed two-dozen books from the nearby shelving units and scattered them on the table for Seymour to see and have to put away. That would give him all the advantage that he would need. He took up the cane, pulled a chair within striking distance of the table and waited.
At 9:45 p.m. Seymour stopped at the front desk and told Blanche that he was making the rounds and would inform people that the library would be closing in fifteen minutes. They were both surprised at the number of people still utilizing the library's facilities. He would start on the upper floor, check the bathrooms and make sure that everyone was notified and things straightened up, before he did the same on the main level. Blanche watched Seymour move up the stairs, so thankful that she had helped with the money and he was here with her tonight and not still in the county jail.
Lester saw him coming and pretended to be looking at a book but all the time paying attention to where Seymour went and waited patiently for him to move around to the table covered with books. The young assistant moved in and out of both bathrooms, put a few magazines back in their place and straightened the chairs Lester had previously moved, before he approached the table near the assailant.
“How you doing tonight?” Seymour asked, in a cheerful tone.
“Good thanks, looks like you’re getting ready to close up shop.”
“Yeah, but you still got another ten or fifteen minutes if you need it.”
Seymour surveyed the array of books on the table and frowned. “You looked at all these books? I would have sworn I cleaned this table just a short time ago.”
“Nah, some woman up here was pulling them off the shelf and tossing ‘em on the table. Don’t know what she was looking for but she sure left a mess for you.”
“Yes, she did,” Seymour said, starting to pick up the books and return them to the shelves.
The Stalker watched and waited; gripping the cane tightly in his right hand, ready to pounce. The young man continued to move between the table and the shelves working his way down the table toward Lester. With only a few books left, Seymour walked between the seated Gulf War Vet and the table, leaned over to reach the last three books and stood with them in his right hand when the disguised Lester struck.
He quietly moved to a standing position behind the unaware Seymour, lifted the cane with both hands well above his head and brought the object down with incredible force, striking Seymour fully on the crown of his head. Seymour did not go down but rather spun around, dazed and confused, his hand now pressed to the back of his head, blood spilling over his fingers.
“Ouch, what the ….,” he said, unable to finish his sentence before Lester brought the cane down again, cracking Seymour a second time across his head, sending him to the floor in a state of unconsciousness.
The sound of him bouncing off the chair on his way down made more noise than Lester would have liked but he was prepared if the commotion brought Blanche up the stairs. It did not. With Seymour on the ground but not in the location he wanted him, the wounded villain dragged his prize across the room leaving him in a heap near the emergency door. He noted that the alarm was still removed from the exit as he’d seen Marcus do earlier but he pushed the door open with his foot just to make sure it was disabled. Lester then doused the cloth with the ether he’d brought with him and returned the bottle to his left front pocket and the cloth to his right, along with the spectacle case.
Before summoning Blanche he checked for any sign that Seymour was about to come to. He was snoring lightly and bleeding minimally from the two wounds on his head, but breathing in a slow and steady fashion. Lester continued the veteran ruse long enough to call Blanche up from the lower level. He moved to the top of the stairs, cane in hand and called down to Blanche at the desk.
“Excuse me young lady, your assistant up here has fallen and could use some help. I think you better come and take a look!” he said excitedly.
Lester quickly moved back to Seymour dispensing with the limp and stood looking over him, the cane in his left hand now. A second or two later Blanche could be heard running up the steps. When she saw the two on the upper floor her first impulse was for Seymour's well-being and she neglected her own safety.
“What happened?” she said, in a panicked tone.
Kneeling down next to Seymour and inspecting his scalp for the source of the blood, there was no answer to her question. She repeated herself and as she turned to look at the vet for an answer, he grabbed her from behind with his left hand, reaching around her waist pulling her close to him, almost lifting her off the ground. In his right, he held the cloth saturated with chemical and covered her mouth and nose with it. She tried to scream but the muffled sounds could not carry to the landing below. Blanche kicked and fought but the drug took its affect quickly and her limbs soon hung limp.
Lester left the cane; he would have no further use for it. He had both arms wrapped around Blanche, under her arms and over the top of her breasts, dragging her backwards toward the emergency door. The door opened with the applied pressure from his back and he hefted the woman out of the door, leaving Seymour dripping blood from his head and unaware of what had happened to the beautiful librarian. A cane and a spectacle case lay on the ground nearby, the only remnant of the attacker and the harm he had caused.
Once on the landing outside the library, Lester pushed the knocked out woman into the chute and started her on the journey to the ground below, he followed quickly behind, landing on his feet, just barely missing Blanche directly under him. He looked around for possible witnesses but saw none. It was dark and the streets were quiet. The Stalker opened the rear doors of the van and lifted his conquest into the back, looping a quick tie around her wrists, securing her hands behind her back. He had no idea how long the ether would be in effect but didn’t want her attacking him from the back of the van on the way home. He did the same with her feet, immobilizing the librarian for the time being.
The rush of adrenaline that had propelled him through the last few minutes began to subside and the pain in his abdomen returned with a vengeance. Before he climbed behind the wheel he pulled his shirt aside and looked at the blood soaked bandage again. Fresh blood now ran down his skin and into the top of his pants. The Stalker had not noticed the trail of blood leading from the bottom of the chute to the van. Events were happening too quickly to stop and deal with it now, by the time they were able to identify him they would be out of the state and on their way.
Seymour lay unconscious for nearly two hours and when he finally came to the lights of the library were almost blinding. He squinted to make out gross objects and could feel his eyes working to bring things back into perspective. His head ached and he could see dried blood on his hands and the area where his head had lain. He tried to recreate what had happened but could not remember the events, just the sudden incredible pain not once, but twice, and then nothing. He tried to stand up but wobbled, crashed into a bookshelf that gave way and almost tipped over before it supported his weight. He brought his hand to his head, he could feel his scalp matted with blood but his eyes were coming around and the fuzziness in his brain was clearing.
“Blanche. Where is Blanche?” he said, looking at his watch, almost midnight.
He looked around and realized he was alone. The library lights were still on but no patrons. He went to the lower floor and found the same thing. Seymour looked for Blanche’s things and found her purse behind the counter on the shelf where she always left it. It became readily apparent to Seymour, even in his confused state, that whoever had busted his skull had taken his love.
“9-1-1, what is the nature of your emergency?” the operator at the Valdosta Police Station asked.
“My girlfriend’s gone, somebody’s taken her!”
“Where are you and who has taken her?”
“I’m at the library but they’re gone! He’s taken her!” he said, still having trouble filtering information through his aching head.
“Sir, it’s midnight, I suspect the library has been closed for hours. You’re not making much sense. Who is missing? Can you give me a name?”
“Yeah, Blanche, her name is Blanche. I don’t know where he’s taken her.”
“Last name, can you give me a last name?”
He was having a difficult time staying focused and the pain was ebbing and returning making it hard to think clearly. Seymour searched but could not pull Blanche’s last name from his memory. He could see it plainly but could not speak it.
“Excuse me sir, is this a joke or something? This is an emergency service and you can be arrested for misusing it,” she warned.
“No, I know. She is missing I just can’t think of her name. It’s Blanche D. D…. or something like that, I got hit on the head and I can’t remember. You’ve got to believe me!”
“Okay, so your girlfriend is Blanche DD and you can’t remember it cause you got hit on the head, is that right?”
“Yes exactly.”
“K, I’ll play along, and your name?” she asked.
“Seymour, ah ah Wood,” he finally got out.
“What did I tell you?” she said authoritatively. “This is not a service for pranksters. My heavens, Seymour Wood and your girlfriend is Blanche Double D? Couldn’t you be a little more creative than that?”
“I’m telling the truth, my head is killing me, I’m just not thinking clearly. Call the Sheriff; he’ll vouch for me. You’ve got to send help, there’s no one else I can call!” he said, emphasizing his need for help.
The operator knew that Seymour Wood had been arrested earlier in the week and, was indeed, sitting in the county lockup as they spoke. She would confirm that with the Sheriff’s Office when she had time and she wrote a quick reminder on a sticky note and sat it aside.
“Oh, I’ll confirm it alright but I’ll caution you again, this is not a line for fun and games.”
The line suddenly went dead when the dispatcher got tired of the caller’s antics and hung up.
“Crap, now what do I do?” he questioned himself. “Look for clues.”
The things he’d learned in his hours in classes were pulled involuntarily from his memory. His strength somewhat rejuvenated he returned to the second floor and the blood spot where he had lain. He opened the nearby emergency door, noted that the alarm did not sound, and looked to the ground. Nothing there but his old truck parked in the lot and no Blanche to be seen. He turned his attention back to the library and the items on the floor. A cane with blood and hair on it, as well as a spectacle case, rested on the ground near where he woke up. He followed a trail of blood from the spot near the exit, across the floor that led him to the table where he had been shelving books. His memory was coming back, he remembered conversing with the vet, put some books away, then ‘crack’, the first blow to his head. He had turned to see his attacker, the veteran directly in front of him before ‘crack’, the second blow to his head and lights out. The Gulf War Vet, who was he and how could he find him? The authorities would obviously be no help tonight. He would find her on his own. If it was the last thing he did, he would find Blanche and rescue her from the cane wielding maniac!
Seymour picked up the wooden cane and inspected it closely. It appeared to have been hand carved from a piece of natural wood, the grain ran the length of the medical device, alternating dark and light bands of wood fibers. There were no plaques or identifying marks, it would be no help. His own blood and head had marred the workmanship, along with a crack in the material near the impact point.
"Hit me pretty damn hard, jerk!" Seymour said.
He laid the cane aside being careful not to handle it too much in case some fingerprints could be raised from it later, if needed. He next picked up the spectacle case, opened it and inspected the contents. The glasses were single vision, of the convex variety, meaning the lenses were thicker in the middle and thinner towards the edge. The frame itself appeared to be older with some wear marks on the metal and the lenses slightly scratched. He remembered seeing the frame on the disguised veteran earlier in the night. Seymour put the glasses back in the clamshell style case and slipped it into his pocket but just as he did something caught his eye.
He opened the case again and in very faint gold lettering on the blue lining of the case there was some text. He strained to see the print but could not make it out completely, only a letter here and there but nothing that made any sense. Seymour moved to where the lighting was brighter and tipped the case back and forth but could still not read the emblem. It occurred to him that the glasses inside the case would possibly help, convex lenses should magnify the image, he remembered from his high school science course. The glasses, once on his nose, caused everything across the library to blur and distort, but when he looked back to the case the smallest details were brought into view. The very fibers of the backing were visible and the gold that clung to them. Straining to make it out he managed to identify the words Dr. D Camp, and under that, Optometrist. An address was listed below, in much smaller print, that was completely faded away and he could not read it.
His mind raced. What could he do with the information he'd gleaned from the only items available? The phone book was down under the counter next to Blanche's purse. He flipped to the yellow pages and found a listing for a Dr. D. Camp located just a few blocks from the library but the home address was not shown, however, he was able to find a local listing in the white pages. Seymour ripped the page from the book, galloped up the stairs and exited the library the same way Blanche and Lester had a few hours before, sliding down the escape chute to the parking lot below.
The college student was familiar with the area where Dr. Camp lived, as it bordered the university and he'd passed the street often on the way to school. The old truck roared to life and he slammed through the gears, ignoring the lights and signs, hoping that a cop would show up to give him a hand, but as was usually the case, never one around when you really needed one. He pulled up to the immaculate home, not quite sure what he would do but knew he had to try something. With the case in his hand he approached the door of the two-story home. A new Lexus was parked in the driveway and the yard was well maintained with mature trees and beautiful rose bushes lining the walk from the curb to the front door.
Seymour stood at the front door, case in hand, and knocked. He waited, but his patience was non-existent so he rapped and kept knocking until a disheveled man swung the door open and grabbed the young man by the collar, shaking him violently.
"What do you think you're doing, you dipstick? Are you insane?" the agitated doctor said.
Seymour stared into the eyes of a man pulled from his bed in the middle of the night, bloodshot, and full of anger. Dr. Camp stood a few inches taller than Seymour even in his bare feet. His blonde hair was graying at the temples but retained its youthful color even though he was well into his fifties. He wore a housecoat, which he had failed to do up, his undershirt and boxers visible, the undershirt pulled tight from too many dinners out and nights snacking on peanuts and M amp;M's in front of the television. The mature man shook the younger and once convinced he'd shaken some sense into him allowed Seymour to answer his question.
"I'm Seymour Wood and I need your help."
"Are you a moron? Do you know what time it is?"
"I'm sorry, but my girlfriend has been taken by a madman and all I could find that might lead me to her is this case of yours."
Somewhat calmed from his original disposition the doctor told Seymour to show up at the office first thing in the morning and he'd be happy to help him with his problem, but for now he better be on his way before he called the police. He released the younger man and slammed the door in his face before Seymour could say anything more.
Undeterred and with blood crusted to his face and hands, Seymour returned to the truck, pulled the Sharps rifle from behind the seat, leaned through the passenger window and took a cartridge from the glove box and loaded the weapon. The long, powerful shell slid into the chamber with a solid sheathing of the brass and a finality that came when the chamber was locked closed. Seymour made the walk back to the door and rapped loudly again. The doctor answered more quickly this time but was startled to see the young man standing with a large bored rifle pointed at his chest.
"Hate to do this to you but you've really left me no choice. You're coming with me, now!"
"But I'm not even dressed."
"There's no time, I need you to look up a prescription on these glasses and tell me whom they belong to. Is that possible?" Seymour asked.
"You sure you want to do this son, you're going to be in a world of trouble come tomorrow morning."
"I'm sure."
"Then yes, I can figure out whose glasses those are but it'll take some time. Let me get my pants and keys but I’d be a lot more inclined to help if you’d put the gun away."
"You promise you'll give me an hour before you call the cops?" he said, the gun still pointed at his chest.
"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 — DECEASED. “Can’t be him unless you’re battling a ghost. Must be the last one,” he said, as he entered the search field with Ronald Philip’s name.
Seymour was hopeful that they finally had their man, the thought of where he would go from here and how he would rescue Blanche still very fuzzy in his head. Would sort that out once he found where he had taken her. Information for Ronald filled the screen.
“How old is he?” Seymour anxiously asked.
“Looks to be 68, sorry Seymour. Looks like we’re striking out,” he said, slumping back in the chair and staring at the younger man with disappointment written on his face.
They sat together thinking of what they could do. The information had to be there they just weren’t finding it. Something was barely beyond their fingertips but they couldn’t see it.
“Bring up their addresses,” Seymour said. “The Sheriff’s Office thinks the guy was raised on a farm or still lives on a farm now.”
Dr. Camp did what he was asked, the printer hummed again and a page printed, this time with three names and addresses. The amateur sleuth looked the page over, only one had a rural address but he was deceased. A flash of inspiration hit Seymour like a bolt of lightning bringing a smile to his face.
“What if The Stalker is Spencer’s son? What if the glasses are his but his son was using them as part of his disguise? That’s the only thing that makes sense. Do you have a way to see if you’ve ever seen any of this dead guy’s family?”
“Sure, I’ll just input Spencer Cummings as ‘head of household’ and it’ll print out anybody linked to his account,” the excited doctor said, as he punched the keyboard one more time. “Lester and Maureen Cummings have both been patients here. This Lester must be the guy, let’s see what his chart shows.”
“Lester Cummings. I’ve got you now you piece of crap!” Seymour hissed, his jaw clenched in anger.
“Lester Cummings has not been here for about ten years but he’s now in his thirties and does not wear prescription glasses based on our last exam. This pair has to be his dad’s,” Dr. Camp declared with a sense of accomplishment, lifting the pair in question and returning them to Seymour.
“Do you know where this address is or can you bring a map up on the computer?” he asked the doctor.
He was typing before the young man finished the thought. A moment later the printer was brought back to life, printing a detailed map of the Valdosta area, with a purple line that ran from the doctor’s location to the address on the list of names. Seymour looked it over and moved quickly to the door with the doctor looking on.
“Thanks so much Dr. Camp, you may have saved a life tonight. Call the Sheriff’s Office and tell them what we’ve found and that I’m on my way to Cummings’ place. If I beat them there I’m going for Blanche, tell ‘em not to shoot me.”
“Will do, good luck son,” he replied.
Beverly Davis slowly struggled to clear the fog from her head, the events of the past few hours lost from her mind until she saw the body of Felix lying on the floor near her bed. The ball still firmly stuffed in her mouth prevented her from screaming, yet she tried, her eyes filling with tears and searching the room for signs of the other man. The clock next to the bed read 1:11 a.m., she’d been out for a few hours, and the area of her head where she had taken the blow, still throbbing and sore but her memory was bright. She struggled with the restraints on both her wrists and ankles but was unable to free herself. The phone sat in a charging cradle near the bed on a nightstand. She wormed her way to the table and tried to pick the phone up with her hands bound behind her, in the process the restrained woman knocked the table, sending the phone skidding across the floor, coming to rest against the dead body of her lover.
With the frustration and anger rising in her chest, she closed her eyes and tried to think of what she could do. The thought of crawling to the neighbors entered her mind but it was a long way, the phone was still her best option. She eased herself onto her feet, then her knees and finally onto her front, her head facing the phone and the deceased Felix. She scooted and shimmied until her face was directly over the phone, thankfully it had landed keys up. With her nose she tried to depress the ‘on’ symbol but missed and hit the ‘speaker’ button instead. Again she tried with her nose and could suddenly hear a dial tone coming through the small speaker of the portable phone.
“Good,” she thought, “halfway there.”
With her nose as a battering ram Bev tried to dial 911 with repeated failures. Each time having to start over again with the sequence of, on, three numbers, then off and over again. On the eighth try she finally managed to get 911 dialed correctly.
Living outside the Valdosta city limits her emergency call rang through to the Sheriff’s Dispatch where the young woman had been enjoying a quiet night chatting with Deputy Guest and watching Otis wrestle with a towel from the locker room, eventually tearing it to shreds.
“9-1-1, what is the nature of your emergency?” Bev heard clearly through the phone.
The gag made it impossible to utter any recognizable words so she simply grunted into the phone, her cheeks puffing in and out as she tried to be heard.
“I’m sorry I can’t make that out, do you have an emergency?”
Bev grunted once, and then stopped. It occurred to the woman manning the phone that it was possible that a mute was on the line so she reverted to an auxiliary training procedure she’d received some time ago.
“If you can understand what I am saying I want you to grunt once. Go ahead,” she said.
Beverly did as she was instructed and grunted once. To confirm that they were actually communicating she asked Beverly to grunt twice when she heard the word dog. The operator then listed a number of random words, Bev was silent until she heard ‘dog’, and then she grunted twice as loudly as she could. By this time the operator had pulled up the details of the home where the call was coming from.
“Okay, I want you to use one grunt for yes and two for no, do you understand?”
Ms. Davis grunted once.
“Fine, am I speaking with Ms. Beverly Davis?”
One Grunt
“Are you hurt?”
One Grunt
“Do you need us to send an ambulance?”
One Grunt
“Do you need a Sheriff Unit dispatched to your location?”
One Grunt
“Are you safe?” the operator asked, her nerves on edge.
Two Grunts
“Deputy Guest, need your help over here!” she said, calling for Natalie to join her at the station.
“What’s up?” Guest asked.
“I’ve got a situation. A Beverly Davis is on the line and unable to communicate verbally other than grunts and I can hear her breathing heavily, not sure if she’s injured and can’t speak or is bound and gagged. I’m sending an ambulance right away but I’ll need you or the Sheriff to run out there as well. You two are all I’ve got tonight.”
“Shit, better not be due to us releasing Wood this afternoon. I’ll see what the Sheriff wants to do.”
“Ms. Davis, help is on the way. Are you unable to speak because of an injury?”
Two Grunts
“Are you gagged?”
One Grunt
“Natalie, she’s gagged, we need to respond asap. Apparent intruder!” the operator yelled across the office.
'The Wolf' had his service belt and Glock 9mm on in a matter of seconds and was running for his squad car.
He hollered back over his shoulder, “Natalie stay with her and keep me appraised, I’m on my way.”
The operator continued to ask ‘yes’ and ‘no’ questions to Beverly to let her know they were still there and would stay on the line until help arrived.
As the two women listened to the grunts coming through the sound system mounted on the desk the phone at the main reception rang. Deputy Guest hustled to the phone.
“Lowndes County Sheriff’s Office, Deputy Guest.”
“Deputy Guest, this is Dr. Camp, you don’t know me but I suspect you know a Seymour Wood,” the optometrist said.
“We do, what’s he done?” she said, expecting the worst.
“He dragged me out of bed tonight and brought me to my office saying that The Stalker had kidnapped his girlfriend, I think her name was Blanche but I can’t be sure. Anyway, he found some glasses and long story short, we think we identified The Stalker and Seymour’s on his way there to help Blanche.”
“Damn it! Okay doctor, give me the name and the location where Seymour is headed.”
“The guy is Lester Cummings …..”
“How in the hell…never mind, I know the location,” she said, cutting him off. “Where are you now doctor and are you safe?”
“I’m at my office and I’m fine. That boys going to need some help, send somebody as quickly as you can but Seymour said to be careful and not to shoot him.”
“Will do doctor, thanks for the call,” Natalie said trying to decide what to do next.
She called to the dispatcher, “I’ve got to get out to Lester Cummings’ place asap, can’t wait for anybody else to come in. Get on the horn and get some officers out of bed, send half to 'The Wolf’s location and half to mine. The name again is Lester Cummings — he’s The Stalker. Make it happen! I’m on my way! Come on Otis!” she said, running for the doors.
Seymour pulled the rusted-out pickup within twenty feet of the drive that led to the Cummings’ home. He could see where the dirt lane cut through the trees and weeds that would lead to the house. The gun behind the seat offered some comfort but the young man was scared to death, the thought of Blanche being harmed was the only thing that forced him from the truck. He filled a pocket with the shells from the glove box and slid the heavy rifle from the hiding place, the ten pounds now feeling like twenty. He opened the breach to confirm that a shell was still in place and slowly approached the drive. Seymour knelt next to the mailbox and looked down the lane. A single light was on in the house and a silver van was parked in the lane at the side of the structure. He listened but could hear nothing, just crickets and the nocturnal country sounds that he was so familiar with.
He crept slowly up the drive, moving his eyes right and left to prevent a flanking attack, his finger on the trigger. Reaching the rear of the van he opened it as quietly as he was able and examined the interior. No Blanche. A camouflaged hat and jacket thrown to one side, a bottle of ether resting on top of the coat along with a white rag but nothing that would assist in his rescue of the woman. Seymour slipped around the back of the van and stood between the house and the side of the vehicle, a window to his right allowed him a view into the home. Cautiously he peered through the lightly curtained window and into the house. He could make out the furniture and layout of the room with exit, but that was all, no Lester or Blanche. Backing up he moved around to the front door, felt the knob and confirmed that it was unlocked.
“Here goes nothing,” he thought, turning the knob he stepped inside the small living room.
His system on full alert, he scanned the room and slowly moved to the hallway, the barrel of the.50 caliber rifle leading the way. He looked before stepping into the hall and slowly searched the entire premises, not finding anyone at home and no sign that Blanche had ever been there.
At the end of the path that led from the house to the old fishing shed, an agitated Lester stood within the shelter, pointing the knife blade at Blanche. She was tied to an old rocker that his dad used when fishing from the banks of the river. A strip of duct tape covered her mouth; tears ran from her eyes, wild with fear. Lester laid out his plans for their future and the move to California. She listened in disbelief. The Stalker closed the distance between them, putting his left arm around her and as he’d done before, took in the smell of the beauty, his face very close to hers. She struggled to get away causing him to hold her all the tighter. With his cheek against hers he looked down to see the swelling of her breasts under the button-up cotton shirt she wore. He brought the knife to the first button and with a skilled flick of the blade sent the button bouncing across the wooden floor. He slowly moved the knife down the front of her, caressing her skin as it moved. The second button joined the first on the floor.
“Virginia May, dear, I’ve got some business to attend to then I’ll come back and we’ll finish this little game. What do you think of that?” he whispered into her ear, kissing it lightly.
Blanche did her best to head-butt the creep but he withdrew and left the shed, returning the seven-inch blade to the sheath attached to his belt. Lester walked back toward the house, a swagger in his step. He was quite pleased with himself that things had gone so well tonight. The money would not be forthcoming but he’d managed to get his woman and left everyone else suffering in his wake. Before leaving he would need to burn everything that pointed to him as The Stalker. On the back porch he had placed a cardboard box full of the pictures, maps, documents and anything else connected to the past months work. The lock box also rested on the porch, the money he’d accumulated and valuables taken from the homes would make for a nice little nest egg to begin their life on the west coast.
Seymour stood in the kitchen looking out toward the barn, the light was off and only a faint glow from the living room illuminated the items in the kitchen. From where he watched the open area an object suddenly caught his attention, slipping between some trees and shrubs, moving toward him. He slipped to the side so he could still observe the person walking through the brush but left himself unexposed. It was Lester, but where was Blanche. Lester walked past the back porch and the silver vehicle to open the rear dual doors on the van; he removed the few belongings there and walked around to the porch. Seymour crouched below the windows and behind the sink giving him an advantage should Lester enter the house through the back door. He angled the rifle at the ready, held his breath and listened as he heard Lester moving something from the back porch, but no action on the door.
He waited a few seconds, and then lifted his head high enough to see back into the area behind the house. The backside of the man could be seen moving away from the house carrying something in his hands. Seymour tried to imagine what would be at the end of the dirt lane but he was sure he would find Blanche there. Surprise and the darkness would be his only allies in his quest to free the librarian from the fiend who held her captive. When the image moving down the trail vanished from his view Seymour opened the back door, prepared to venture into the unknown.
The crackle of the radio brought Deputy Guest back from her deep thoughts as she turned down the rural road that lead to the Cummings’ home. Otis’ ears perked up when they heard the voice of the Sheriff over the system.
“Deputy Guest, Lupo here, where are you?”
“I’m a few blocks from the Cummings’ house. What’s your situation there?”
“We’ve got one dead, a Felix Unger, and the owner, Beverly Davis says the killer was named Lester, no last name given.”
“I’m rolling up on the house now, got a pickup parked on the main road, looks like Seymour’s. Doesn’t appear to be anybody in it.”
“Guest, do not proceed without backup. Do you hear me?”
“Yeah, I got you Sheriff but something is going to go down here pretty quick, I may be able to save a life if I get in there.”
“Damn it! Where’s your backup? Natalie, I’m leaving it up to you. It’s your call but use your head. I don’t want you playing the hero there and check your service weapon before you leave your unit. Keep us appraised,” Angelo cautioned his youngest officer.
Natalie stepped from her K-9 Unit just at the same time that Seymour started the treacherous walk to the shed. Standing at the back of the station wagon the Deputy pulled her service 9mm semi-automatic, slid back the action and put a high velocity round into the chamber, leaving sixteen shells in the magazine. She opened the door exposing, the cage where Otis stood, wagging his tail and whining quietly.
“That’s a good boy. Be quiet now, Otis,” she said, as she released him, holding his collar long enough to put a leash on him.
Canine and handler moved at the same pace as Seymour, the two separated by seventy-five yards but without any knowledge where the other was. At the mailbox, Otis sniffed and raised both front paws, coming to rest on the poorly maintained structure. He let out a low, deep howl; sounding like a wolf calling his mate.
At the shed, Lester ignited the incriminating items in the fifty-gallon drum and was returning to Blanche when he heard the dog. He spun and looked down the trail but could see no one coming. He exited away from the flaming barrel and into the trees, protecting him from view.
Seymour heard the dog as well, the opportunity for surprise gone, he pressed on, feeling that Blanche was in danger. He could see the flames through the trees and the smoke billowing up into the darkness. Pausing only briefly, he calculated his options, knowing that if he moved toward the fire he would surely find Blanche. She would be waiting there to pull him close and seal their reunion with a kiss. The rifle continued to weigh him down, the barrel forward and leading the way, he moved more swiftly now, afraid that Lester would do something foolish and harm Blanche.
Down the driveway Deputy Guest pulled her service weapon from the holster and in doing so removed one of her hands from the leash that was holding Otis back. The powerful dog sensed the possibility of escape, being so excited to get his man; he bolted away from Natalie and raced down the drive toward the shed. She pursued her friend, gun drawn and at a dead run, her heart beating out of her chest, not knowing what she would encounter once she caught up to her partner.
Seymour charged down the trail toward the fire and smoke, anticipating that a shelter of some sort must lie nearby. Just when the silhouette of the small shed came into view he saw the glint of a blade rushing toward him from his right. He turned to bring the muzzle of the antique weapon to bear on his target but Lester had been too quick. With the hunting knife in his right hand, he used his left to thrust the heavy barrel up, just as Seymour pulled the trigger and the rifle discharged, sending a flash of fire and smoke from the barrel but only into the night’s sky. The blast from the ancient gun was deafening and the recoil set Seymour back on his heels. Lester took the brief advantage and thrust the fine-edged blade under the defensive right arm of Seymour and began to impale the steel between his ribs; when the growl of a huge German Shepherd could be heard, fast approaching.
Otis left the ground six feet in front of the assailant and carried his 105 pounds through the air, jaws open, front paws extended. Before Lester could pull the blade from Seymour’s side Otis had his left arm in his jaws and was shaking the man, driving him to the ground.
Further down the trail Deputy Guest was covering the distance as quickly as she could. The gunshot had sent a shiver through her and she could not deny that she was, for the first time since this investigation began, scared beyond reason. The sound of Otis attacking someone could barely be made out through the crisp night air. She pushed on, anticipating the scene just a few yards ahead.
Seymour lay sprawled out on the ground, his blood mingling with the dirt from the trail. The shepherd battled The Stalker and had the upper hand but Seymour could see the blade again being raised high above the fighting duo, then pitch downward quickly, driving the blade deeply into the left front shoulder of the brave dog. Otis yelped but continued his fight, thrashing at the man’s arm, not done with the job he was trained to do. Seymour grasped for the rifle and ejected the spent shell, reached for a live round from his front pocket, the pain causing the simple act to be monumental. He managed to extract the lead tipped shell and slide it into the chamber. Before him he saw the moonlight reflect off the blade again, as Lester raised it above the pair. Seymour rolled onto his back, the heavy rifle between his legs, with all the energy that he had left, he brought the barrel up and level with Lester’s chest.
Natalie saw the blade bite into the body of Otis and she screamed, “No!” but no one heard her. She ran the last few feet to bring her within range of the assailant and her dog. The young officer struggled to get a line of sight on The Stalker and did not want to kill her best friend. The blade lifted into the air above them again and she knew that the next blow would be deadly.
In the very moment when Otis' life should have been taken, the Deputy and Seymour fired simultaneously. Guest’s aim was true, her slug arriving milliseconds before Seymour, striking Lester in the hand and flipping the hunting blade through the air, landing in the dirt. The large caliber Sharps bucked and rocked Seymour onto his back, the bullet finding its mark in the center of The Stalker’s chest, picking him up and propelling him backward six feet, collapsing in a pile of lifeless tissue. Otis attempted to get to his feet but being unable, crawled, using his three good legs and dragging the other, to make his way to Seymour, laying himself down next to the injured man, still trying to serve and protect. Seymour wrapped his arm around the animal and pulled him close, an instant bond created between the two.
Deputy Guest kept her gun trained on the assailant, moved to where he lay and holstered her weapon when she saw the size of the hole that the large slug had ripped through his heart. It was over. She quickly moved to the shed where Blanche sat tied up, with eyes as big as silver dollars, a look of gratitude and relief crossed her face when she saw the young officer. Guest quickly removed the bindings and tape, freeing the woman, who embraced her, kissing her on the cheek.
“Is Seymour okay?” Blanche asked.
“I don’t know, you better see for yourself. I think we have a couple of casualties out there in the dirt.”
“Seymour!” she called.
“I’m here Blanche.”
She ran to him, knelt by his side, taking his face in her hands and kissing his lips. “I knew you’d come! I knew you’d find a way to me!” She kissed him again and looked at the wound in his side.
Otis would not move from his spot next to the fallen man. “Blanche, this dog saved my life. He took down Lester when I had no hope of stopping him from finishing me off.”
“I see that he’s taken a liking to you,” Blanche said.
“K-9 and civilian down with serious injuries at the Cummings’ location. Send backup and ambulance units a-sap!” They could hear Deputy Guest speaking into the radio, her voice cracking under the stress and emotion of firing her Glock for the first time in the line of duty, her concern for Otis and Seymour evident in her tone.
“Already en route Natalie. Hold on, help is on the way!”