CHAPTER 3
Click!
Casanova popped the trunk latch of his car and peered into the wide, shiny-wet
eyes staring out at him. What a pity. What a waste, he thought as he looked
down at her.
"Peekaboo,"
he said. "I see you." He had fallen out of love with the
twenty-two-year-old college student tied up in the trunk. He was also angry at
her. She had disobeyed the rules.
She'd
ruined the fantasy du jour.
"You
look like absolute hell," he said. "Relatively speaking, of
course." The young woman was gagged with wet cloths and couldn't answer
back, but she glared at him.
Her
dark-brown eyes showed fear and pain, but he could still see the stubbornness
and spunk there.
He took out
his black carrying bag first, then he roughly lifted her one hundred twelve
pounds out of the car. He made no effort to be gentle at this point.
"You're
welcome," he said as he put her down. "Forgotten our manners, have
we?" Her legs were shaky and she almost fell, but Casanova held her up
easily with one hand.
She had on
dark green Wake Forest University running shorts, a white tank top, and
brand-new Nike cross-training shoes. She was a typical spoiled college brat, he
knew, but achingly beautiful. Her slender ankles were bound with a leather
thong that stretched about two and a half feet. Her hands were tied behind her
back, also with a leather thong.
"You
can just walk ahead of me. Go straight unless I tell you otherwise. Now walk,"
he ordered. "Move those long, lovely gams. Hut, hut, hut." They
started through the dense woods that got even thicker as they moved slowly
along. Thicker and darker. Creepier and creepier. He swung his black bag as if
he were a child carrying a lunch box. He loved the dark woods. Always had.
Casanova
was tall and athletic, well built, and good-looking. He knew that he could have
many women, but not the way he wanted them. Not like this.
"I
asked you to listen, didn't I? You wouldn't listen." He spoke in a soft,
detached voice. "I told you the house rules. But you wanted to be a
wiseass. So be a wiseass. Reap the rewards."
As the
young woman struggled ahead she became increasingly afraid, close to panic. The
woods were even denser now, and the low-hanging branches clawed at her bare
arms, leaving long scratches. She knew her captor's name: Casanova. He fancied
himself a great lover, and in fact he could maintain an erection longer than
any man she had ever known.
He had
always seemed rational and in control of himself, but she knew he had to be
crazy. He certainly could act sane on occasion, though.
Once you
accepted a single premise of his, something he had said to her several times:
"Man was born to hunt ... women."
He had
given her the rules of his house. He had clearly warned her to behave. She just
hadn't listened. She'd been willful and stupid and had made a huge, tactical
mistake.
She tried
not to think of what he was going to do to her out here in these bewildering
Twilight Zone type woods. It would surely give her a heart attack. She wouldn't
give him the satisfaction of seeing her break down and cry.
If only he
would un gag her. Her mouth was dry, and she was thirsty beyond belief. Perhaps
she could actually talk her way out of this of whatever it was that he had
planned.
She stopped
walking and turned to face him. It was draw-a-line-in-the-sand time.
"You
want to stop here? That's fine with me. I'm not going to let you talk, though.
No last words, dear heart. No reprieve from the governor. You blew it big time.
If we stop here, you may not like it.
If you want
to walk some more, that's fine, too. I just love these woods, don't you?"
She had to
talk to him, get through to him somehow. Ask him why. Maybe appeal to his
intelligence. She tried to say his name, but only muffled sounds made it
through the damp gag.
He was
self-assured and even calmer than usual. He walked with a cocky swagger.
"I don't understand a word you're saying. Anyway, it wouldn't change a
thing even if I did." He had on one of the weird masks that he always
wore. This one was actually called a death mask, he'd told her, and it was used
to reconstruct faces, usually at hospitals and morgues.
The skin
color of the death mask was almost perfect and the detail was frighteningly
realistic. The face he'd chosen was young and handsome, an all-American type.
She wondered what he really looked like. Who in hell was he? Why did he wear
masks?
She would
escape somehow, she told herself. Then she would get him locked up for a
thousand years. No death penalty let him suffer.
"If
that's your choice, fine," he said, and he suddenly kicked her feet out
from under her.
She fell
down hard on her back. "You die right here." He slid a needle out of
the well-worn black medical bag he'd brought with him. He brandished it like a
tiny sword. Let her see it.
"This
needle is called a Tubex," he said. "It's preloaded with thiopental
sodium, which is a barbiturate. Does barbiturate-sounding things." He
squeezed out a thin squirt of the brown liquid. It looked like iced tea, and it
was not something she wanted injected into her veins.
"What
does it do? What are you doing to me?" she screamed into the tight gag.
"Please take this gag out of my mouth."
She was
covered with sweat, and her breathing was labored. Her whole body felt stiff,
anesthetized and numb. Why was he giving her a barbiturate?
"If I
do this wrong, you'll die right now," he told her. "So don't
move." She shook her head affirmatively. She was trying so hard to let him
know that she could be good; she could be so very good. Please don't Ml me, she
silently pleaded. Don't do this.
He pricked
a vein in the crook of her elbow, and she could feel the painful pinch there.
"I
don't want to leave any unsightly bruises," he whispered. "It won't
take long. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, you, are, so, beautiful, zero.
All finished."
She was
crying now. She couldn't help it. The tears were streaming down her cheeks. He
was crazy. She squeezed her eyes shut, couldn't look at him anymore. Please,
God, don't let me die like this, she prayed. Not all alone out here.
The drug
acted quickly, almost immediately. She felt warm all over, warm and sleepy. She
went limp.
He took off
her tank top and began to fondle her breasts, like a juggler with several
balls.
There was
nothing she could do to stop him.
He arranged
her legs as if she were his art, his human sculpture, stretching the leather
thong as far as it would go. He felt down between her legs. The sudden thrust
made her open her eyes, and she stared up at the horrible mask. His eyes stared
back at her. They were blank and emotionless, yet strangely penetrating.
He entered
her, and she felt a jolt like a very powerful electric shock running through
her body. He was very hard, fully aroused already. He was probing inside her as
she was dying from the barbiturate. He was watching her die. That's what this
was all about.
Her body
wriggled, bolted, shook. As weak as she was, she tried to scream. No, please,
please, please. Don't do this to me.
Mercifully,
blackness came over her.
She didn't
know how long she'd been unconscious. Didn't care. She woke up and she was still
alive.
She started
to cry, and the muffled sounds coming through the gag were agonizing. Tears ran
down her cheeks. She realized how much she wanted to live.
She noticed
that she'd been moved. Her arms were behind her and tied around a tree. Her legs
were crossed and bound, and she was still tightly gagged. He had taken off her
clothes. She didn't see her clothes anywhere.
He was
still there! "I don't really care if you scream," he said.
"There's absolutely nobody to hear you out here." His eyes gleamed
out of the lifelike mask. "I just don't want you to scare away the hungry
birds and animals." He glanced briefly at her truly beautiful body.
"Too bad you disobeyed me, broke the rules," he said.
He took off
the mask and let her see his face for the first time. He fixed the image of her
face in his mind. Then he bent down and kissed her on the lips.
Kiss the
girls.
Finally, he
walked away.
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