Short Story: Child's Prey

Posted by Ric delCampo on January 27, 2003 at 18:40:16:

Child’s Prey

By Ric delCampo

It was a brisk, wet November day, with a cold rain falling and Sherrill Jones, icy chills shivering up her spine, had a sudden premonition. She would not survive the coming winter. A sudden, irrepressible depression devastated her spirit and cracked her haughty façade with sobs. She wept openly on the street, vulnerable in front of all the human refuse surrounding her.
"Damn you, Mama!" She silently whimpered, icy tears streaking down the dusky umber face, “it’s all your fault!"
Two years ago Sherrill had fled her dreary rural Tennessee to escape her mother and Mama, fled to the land and dreams and sunshine.
A chicken hawk calling himself Uncle Bobbie had picked her up in a San Francisco bus station. Robert Harmon was as slick as fresh pork. He patrolled the bus stations and airports of the Bay area always on the watch for gullible young girls or 'fresh meat' as he called them. Uncle Bobbie lavishly dressed her, lavishly fed her, and lavishly pampered her. "Nothing is too fine for my favorite niece, the audacious scoundrel constantly reminded her.
He first arranged for a portfolio shoot for her. That the last set of which were all nudes no longer bothered her once Uncle Bobbie gave his kindly assurances. "All professional models have nudes in their portfolio." The nude photos led to her first modeling photo shoot: for a cheap porno magazine. As she became more comfortable with her work, succeeding photos contained other nude models, males and females.
It was her successful modeling career which led to her movie roles -- or so Uncle Bobbie told her. She was so naive. It wasn't until the fourth or fifth movie that she realized that the movies were no more than low-budget, amateurish porno movies. The roles were amazingly similar, she played women who were abused, raped, and murdered. Uncle Bobbie assured her better roles were just beyond the horizon.
The famous producers, directors, and stars never materialized. Rather, Uncle Bobbie approached her with his most bizarre proposal -- to star in a snuff film. "They'll pay you $100, 000," he said.
"Are you nuts?" Sherrill asked. By now she realized he was only interested in his 10 percent commission. "What good are $90,000 if I am dead."
Two days later Uncle Bobbie sold her to a skanky bitch pimp called Madam Irene. "Darling, you've lost that fresh meat look," he shrugged in reply to her bewildered look. He took away all her clothes, all her jewels, all her savings and her apartment keys. She was left with nothing more than a ramshackle room in Madame Irene's low-budget brothel in the bowels of San Francisco.
There was a secret to Madame Irene's low overhead: she neglected to license her brothel or pay income tax for herself for her girls. She also forgot to pay for girls union dues. When The United Sisterhood of Professional Working Women discovered her oversight, the union notified the federal prosecutor. Madame Irene got 14 years.
Four months now Sherrill had walked the streets. With no tax returns she couldn't obtain federal food stamps, medical care, or housing vouchers. Nobody would hire her because the union had blackballed her. She was perpetually starved, down to her last change of clothes, and living out of a cardboard box. Today it was raining great gray drops of acid rain. There were few cars on the street because American-made electric cars had the terrible habit of shorting out in the rain and few Americans could afford Japanese or Korean electric cars.
Sherrill rarely watched TV and never read a newspaper. But she was peripherally aware that 17 million Americans had died from STDs last year alone, and therefore Congress had recently passed the Hartcher- Bourdon act of 2022, reducing the murdered of an unlicensed streetwalker to a misdemeanor, with a maximum fine of $50. With the Hartcher-Trebor act of 2015, legalizing all narcotics had come violent gangs of fixed-starved junkies, who roamed the streets slaughtering their victims for pocket change. Then there were the vicious street gangs who marked the boundaries of their turf with the blood of trespassers.
. Wet, cold, ragged, starved, and hopeless, Sherrill knew she would never see her 21st birthday.
So none of the motley collection of street people was more surprised than Sherrill when a limousine glided in for a landing next to her. It was a gas burner -- just oozing the bluish aroma of filthy riches. Two armored cars with gun turrets gave escort. The chauffeur, an Afro-Asian woman, who looked very sensual in her black uniform, leapt out and opened the door for Sherrill.
"The gentlemen would wish a word with you, Miss."
She slid in onto real leather seats. Illegal leather. Facing her was a pink-faced, freshly scrubbed, cherubic, 13-year-old boy dressed in a blue Little Lord Fauntleroy suit -- complete with ruffled white shirt, a cravat and ribboned hat. Sitting next to him was a 10-year-old replica. Their mother must have found them awfully cute, mothers were stupid like that, but Sherrill found them ludicrous.
"Oh, fuck off!" She snarled, and reached for the door.
"Wait!" The older boy commanded. He reached into suit, took out 5 crisp $100 bills, took five more from his brother, and handed them to Sherrill.
"$1000 is yours, Miss Jones, if you'll just listen to us."
Sherrill snatched the money and stuffed it into her purse. "I'm listening," she impatiently said. She never wondered how the new her name.
"My name is Ansell," the older boy said. "This is my brother, Cavell."
"My brother and I play a game which requires three players: he, myself, and a beautiful young woman, such as yourself, who'll do anything for money. My brother and I wager our weekly allowances on the outcome -- winner take all."
"What kind of game is this?"
"The rules of the game must never be spoken outside of our house. However, I can tell you that, if judging by Judeo-Christian standards, you'll never be asked you to perform any illegal, unethical, or immoral act."
"If you agree to play the game, my brother and I will pay you an additional $1000, which is yours to keep regardless of who wins the game. If you decline, you may leave now and keep the first thousand. However, if you agree, then change your mind before reaching our home; you will be required to return all our money. Once inside our house there is no turning back."
"What is your answer, Miss Jones?" Ansell completed his spiel.
"What do I have to lose?" she shrugged.
He unexpectedly answered, "Your life," quite matter-ot-factly.
"What?"
"The most one can possibly lose in any endeavor, is one's life," Ansell said a bit snidely. “But you are willing to take the gamble, aren't you, Miss Jones?"
This kid was a weird one. But Sherrill had encountered worse. "Sure! I'll do whatever you say - for a thousand bucks."
Each of the boys handed her a $500 bill. “It will be two hours ride to our home, Ansell informed her. “There are cold cuts and finger foods in the refrigerator if you wish to eat.”
Sherrill ate heartily. The boys evaded all her attempts at further conversation. Instead they chatted amongst themselves in some foreign language. It was an effective code: as Sherrill didn't understand a word.
Occasionally one of the boys would leer at her. It was a hungry, wolfish leer. Cavell was especially malevolent looking. She shuddered involuntarily. If they had not been but mere boys, she would have feared for her life.
They drove out of the city, into the suburbs; Sherrill never imagined such homes could exist. She thought the federal government had outlawed such extravagant mansions when it nationalized all private housing. Of course, the wealthy could buy any thing: mansions, estates, summer homes in the Hampton, politicians, anything. She couldn't wait until this silly game was over. With $2000 she could bribe her way back into the union. And earn easy money, money to buy money to buy dreams with astonishing point dreams come only by hard with.
Her mother had said dream come only by hard work. Damn you, Momma! She thought and dreamed of all the things she would buy.
They stopped in front of a 30 foot high white brick fence topped by the electrified barb-wire fence. There was a bulletproof guard house next to the fence, a huge iron barred gate, and over the gate was an iron wrought arching sign which read “Huntington Manor.” An attractive female guard waved them through. Armed guards pulled by German shepherds patrolled the grounds and the woods. A score of female Japanese gardeners attended the expensive, lush green lawns and multilayer flower beds. They drove another mile to reach the Manor House.
The entrance was 18 foot high, hand carved, walnut doors. A willowy blonde with pale white skin and dressed in a black tux and tails greeted them as they entered.
“Cavell and I will be playing the game with Miss Jones, Sydney,” Ansell informed her. “Please alert the staff. “
“As you wish, Master Ansell,” the Butler said. She even had an authentic English accent. Sydney turned to a computer console and entered a code. Massive pistons pulled the doors closed with the reverberating thud of a tomb. The boys led her through the enormous vestibule, up a winding marble staircase, to a guest bedroom.
“The game requires a costume change,” Ansell instructed. “You’ll find yours inside, in the top drawer. Please shower, do your hair, put on your makeup, we shall return in one hour.”
“Make yourself very sexy for us!” Cavell added impishly.
Sherrill went in and shut the door. She showered and cleaned up. In the drawer she found a white silk blouse, lacy under-panties, a pair of high heel shoes, and a wrist watch. Nothing more.
“Is this all?” She asked, perplexed
There was a typed note on the bottom of the drawer. “No. There is no mistake. This is all. Please remove all personal belongings. Please put on the four items in this drawer.”
“Fucking Bizarre!” But the blouse fit her perfectly, snugly, leaving her long, silky legs au natural. She put on the watch. “3:00:00,” it blinked.
There was a buzz at the door and the two boys strolled in. They wore tiger-striped uniforms, camouflage face paint, and carried hand guns.
“What's the blouse for, kid?” She asked, wondering whether something really weird was coming down.
“So your blood will show better,” Ansell answered frankly. “And partial feminine nudity, besides being sensual, instills a sense of helplessness and conveys vulnerability.”
“My blood?” Sherrill stammered.
“The game we shall play today is called ‘The President's Mistress.’ You shall play the role of the president's mistress, who has been selling secrets to the enemy. The Soviet Russians. Cavell and I shall play the assassins assigned to liquidate you. I shall explain the rules of the game now,” Ansell solemnly intoned.
“Rule 1: for the next three hours, while you have the run of the house, we shall hunt you. If I kill you, I win. If Cavell kills you, he wins. If you survive, you win.
“Rule 2: you may not leave the house; it has been locked and sealed.
“Rule 3: you may not request assistance from any of the staff. Any of the staff, helping you will be penalized. The penalty is death.
“Rule 4: you may not injure any of the staff. Any infraction of this rule will bring you instant death.”
“You're kidding, aren’t you?” Sherrill said with a nervous laugh.
“But I am deadly serious, Miss Jones,” Ansell said. “And I shall prove it to you now.” He walked to the intercom. “Lizette, please come to the game guest room.”
A minute later a beautiful, blonde chambermaid sashayed into the room. She wore a uniform straight out of Fredericks of Hollywood classic catalog: Jet Black, with miniskirt, mesh net nylons, and a lacy, white bibbed- apron. The low cut blouse revealed plenty of her ample bosoms and she flirtingly swayed her hips as she walked. Each step revealed a bit of the lacy garter belts. She had long, finely toned legs like those of a ballet dancer. The lusty maid smiled coquettishly, effervescently with bright wide red lips.
“Yes, Master Ansell?” her accent was as heavy as French bread.
“Miss Jones,” Ansell said. Lizette assisted our last guest. He unholstered his pistol.
The sexy French maid’s coquettishness evaporated. She covered her delicate white throat with one hand and retreated into the wall. “Non. Pleese, Master Ansell, you promeese’ me!”
“My dear Lizette,” Ansell said, “please show some dignity.” he deliberately thumbed down the hammer on his gun and leveled it at her breast.
“Non, Non!” she pleaded, tears streaming down for her face. “Je ne veux pas mourir!”
Ansell mercilessly fired a single round into Lizette’s heart. She stared in horror at the bloody stain spreading beneath her left breast. She slumped against the wall. Blood bubbled between her fingers. The maid sank slowly, trembling, to her knees. One hand reaching fleetingly towards Ansell. Her slender body was quivering in pain, her face a mass of sorrow. Her slender body was convulsing in pain, Lizette took a long final, tortured gasp of breath, exhaled, and collapsed into the plush rug. A pool of blood spread beneath her.
“She's dead!” Sherrill cried; her own heart pounding.
“Yes, quite so.” Ansell confirmed.
“Now please press the button on your watch and the start the countdown. We will give you a five-minute head start.”
The two boys began a vociferous wagering on who would kill her first. Their bets reached thousands of dollars. A minute passed before Ansell turned to the still stunned Sherrill.
“Hurry, run, you only have four minutes left.”
A scream tore from her throat and she raced from the room, plunged head long down the stairs, and pounded frantically on the ponderous doors. They were locked. She seized a Louis XIV chair and hurled it against a picture window. The antique chair shattered.
“Please, Miss, don't damage the furniture.”
It was Sydney, the butler.
“They killed her!” Sherrill shrieked.
“Whom, miss? Whom did they kill?” She asked quite routinely.
“A maid. Named Lizette,” she said. “I guess.”
“A Pity.”
Sherrill stared at her with growing horror.
“What?”
“Yes. It is truly a pity,” Sydney repeated, expressing only minor regret. “I shall have a difficult time replacing her.”
“You're fuckin’ insane!” she wanted to scream. Instead, she desperately grasped her lapels. “You've got to help me!”
“I cahn't, luv’, tain’t cricket,” she brushed her off.
“Please.” Sherrill pleaded
A pistol cracked.
“Oh, bloody rot!” grunted Sydney as if irritated at being dead. And she toppled over like a weeping willow tree. Slowly. A pool of blood spread beneath her still body.
“No cheating!” Cavell shouted from the top of the stairs. He steadied his gun on the rail for a second shot. Sherrill fled away from the entrance, and into the house. She raced into a great hall, its high walls lined with the heads of exotic dead animals, their vacant glass eyes staring down on her.
Sherrill raced through a large dining room, passed a large dinning table with seating for fifty, underneath huge crystal chandeliers, through swinging doors into a foodservice anteroom. Slamming through the doors, she momentarily closed her eyes, and collided with a young woman, dressed in a chef's uniform, coming from the opposite direction.
“Vere are you goink in such a hurry?” The blonde chef asked as the two women picked themselves up off the floor. She reached out to steady and to comfort Sherrill with her touch.
“They are trying to kill me!” Sherrill cried in desperation. She stooped, her hands resting on her knees. She tried to catch her breath. She was so close to panic, she was in danger of hyperventilating.
“Calm down, calm yourself,” the chef said. There was sympathy in her bright blue eyes. She seemed very slender for a chef. The starched white, double-breasted chef’s uniform was tight fitting, accentuating her voluptuous body. “I vill help you.”
She strode to a shelf and extracted a twelve inch butcher knife. “Kom’ mit mir.” The girl said, touching the razor-sharp knife with steely determination.
Suddenly Cavell burst into the room.
But the chef thrust herself between him and terrified Sherrill.
“Get outta the way, Greta,” Cavell snarled.
His pistol was drawn
“Nein! I am a KGB agent and I will protect this voman with my life!” Greta stated very over melodramatically.
If this had been a movie Sherrill would have accused her of over acting.
She waved the knife threateningly at Cavell.
“Get outta my way, Greta.” Cavell hissed. “Or I‘ll kill you.”
Sherrill glanced at the exit, she tried to move, but the movement was measured in inches. She was too terrified to flee to the kitchen. The chef’s behavior confused and puzzled her. Greta did not appear to fear Cavell.
“You're dead meat, Greta.”
Cavell thrust his gun at her.
“You von't kill me.” Greta chortled. She laughed like a mad woman. Taking the knife firmly in both hands, she reversed it to point it at her own chest. With a powerful thrust, she rammed the blade deep into her own breast. Greta screamed like a banshee and stumbled back into Sherrill's arms. The wooden knife handle protruded from her chest. Blood streamed down her convulsing abdomen.
Sherrill tried to catch her. But catching sight of all of that blood, her strength and courage failed her and she dropped Greta.
The dying girl smiled insanely at Cavell, eyes wild with pain and said, “You didn't kill me.”
She gasped for air, her breath whistling from her throat. Her body convulsing. One sleek leg shot out and kicked over a trash bucket.
Cavell rapidly fired one shot into Greta’s left breast. The voluptuous girl’s body jerked and then was still. “Gotcha!” he shouted. Then he raised his gun at Sherrill. “You’re next.”
Sherrill found her feet and fled through saloon doors into the kitchen, with Cavell right on her heels.
Backed into a corner, trapped, her trembling knees failed her; Sherrill sank to the floor and curled up in a fetal position. Sobbing in fear. Standing firm, erect, Cavell drew down on her.
“Prepare to die, traitor!” he grimly grinned. His eyes burned with glee. He licked his lower lip.
Sherrill’s mouth was dry. There was a deafening roar of blood in her ears. Her lungs couldn't quite seem to hold the air. She gasped for breath which wouldn’t come.
“Please don't kill me,” she whimpered.
Ansell burst into the kitchen. “Stop!” he shouted. “Don't shoot her yet.”
“I win!” Cavell shouted back. “I win. I getta kill her. I wanna kill her.”
“Wait,” Ansell insisted. “Let's let her go. This was too easy. She didn't try hard enough. We haven’t had enough fun yet.”
“Noooooo!” Cavell whined.
“I’ll pay you a thousand dollars to let her go,” Ansell said. “You can still win all of my money.”
“No. No!” Cavell stamped his foot. “You always get to kill the pretty girls. She's the prettiest one yet and I want her. I wanna kill the pretty girl.”
This gave Ansell an idea. He began diplomatically. “Wait.” He offered. “I'll tell you what. Let's make a deal. I’ll fix it so you can kill a pretty girl right now. I will call down Miss Chung; I’ll give her some excuse to come down here. You shoot Miss Chung. If there's a problem, I'll take the blame with dad.
Then we let Miss Jones go, OK?”
Cavell brightened. “You will. Really?”
Ansell stepped to the intercom. “Miss Chung.
Master Ansell here. Could you please come to the central kitchen? Okay. Thank you.”
Ansell nodded to Cavell. “That enough?”
“I getta kill the teacher. I getta kill the teacher!” Cavell chanted. He licked his lips in anticipation.
A lovely 30-year-old woman stepped into the kitchen. This lithe girl moved with the grace of a ballet dancer on sleek legs. Miss Chung had creamy olive skin and shimmering waves of waist-length, jet-black hair parted in the middle of her forehead. Her bright almond eyes revealing a woman of vibrant intelligence, her finely toned body, one who took pride in her sensual, carnal beauty. She looked delightsomely ravishing in her fashionable ensemble: a creamy white silk Victorian blouse with lace and pearl buttons, a peach colored sports blazer -- white silk handkerchief in left breast pocket, matching peach miniskirt, the three bottom buttons seductively unbuttoned and white, shear silk, lace hose. High heels.
With no malice in her voice Miss Chung inquired,” who killed Greta?”
“She killed herself,” Cavell said impishly. He didn’t seem to care if she believed him.
Miss Chung gave him a reproachable look. “How many times has your father asked you not to kill members of the staff?” She mildly scolded him. “That's what he lets you bring the guests for.”
Miss Chung approached Sherrill. “And who is this?”
“This is Miss Sherrill Jones,” Ansell said.
Miss Chung reached down and helped the deathly silent Sherrill to her feet. “I am Chung Jin-Su, the boys’ private tutor; you may call me Julia.”
Julia Chung stepped in closer. Her supple body was vibrant with excitement. She squeezed Sherrill’s arm. ” Isn't this exciting?” she asked in all sincerity. “Isn't this the most exhilarating moment of your life? Don't you feel more alive that this moment than you've ever felt before? Feel your blood surging through your veins. Feel the power of adrenaline pumping energy into your body. Savor each breath of air as it was the very last one.”
Julia smiled showing perfect white teeth. She gestured subtly with her delicate hands to emphasize each point. Horrified beyond words, Sherrill was unable to respond. She wanted to warn Julia, but the words would not come. She cried in frustration.
“To tell you the truth,” Julia told her on the sly, “I sometimes wish the boys would play the game with me.” Julia's slender body quivered at the thought.
Sherrill groaned weakly.
“Be careful what you wish,” Ansell said mockingly, “it may come true.”
Julia turned to Ansell, brushed her long ebony hair out of her eyes, and assumed a haughty pose. “Meaning what?” she demanded.
Cavell could no longer contain himself. “Ansell says I can shoot you,” Cavell blurted out.
Julia remained in total control of her emotions. “How flattering, dear Cavell,” Julia smiled seductively.
“When were you planning to shoot me?”.
“Right now,” Cavell said impatiently.
“Do I get a five minute head start like other girls get?” Julia asked. Her mood was playful.
“No,” Cavell said bluntly. “Where d’ya want it?”
“You mean to shoot me down like a mad dog where I stand?” Julia asked. She was playfully scolding Cavell, though her voice betrayed a hint of disappointment. “That is not very sporting. There is no game in cold-blooded murder. Have I not told you that such behavior is nothing more than a simple demonstration of your primeval, animal blood lust?
Now, the true thrill of the hunt,” Julia continued, “is in exercising of the stalking skills. Man vs. woman. Wits vs. wiles. Only when you have defeated me intellectually, shall killing me bring you any true satisfaction.”
“I will tell you what. You boys finish your game with Miss Jones. I shall go to my office and put my things in order. Next week you boys may play your game with me. Sound good, dear Cavell?”
“That sounds really good, Miss Julia,” Cavell agreed, all smiles. “Could ya do me a favor?”
“Certainly, my dear,” Julia smiled.
“Kiss me.”
Julia bent down to kiss the dear lad on his forehead. Cavell whipped out his pistol and determinedly thrust the muzzle deep into Julia's flat belly. He pulled the trigger. Smoke and flames spat forth. Julia gasped as if all the breath were knocked from her lungs. She stumbled back drunkenly; there was a small perfectly round hole in her elegant blouse. Right at her bellybutton. Blood gurgled from the scorched hole, staining her blouse, then her skirt. Julia's slender hands clutched desperately at her bleeding stomach, blood ran between her slender fingers. Julia stepped back, hunched over, moaning soulfully, her firm breasts heaving with each desperate gasp of breath. The breathing became shallow and labored. She lost her footing and sat down hard on the tile floor.
Her beautiful exotic eyes were wide with awful astonishment. A salty tear ran down her cheek.
She mouthed painfully, “why?”
“That’s for the F you gave me in history,” Cavell chortled. Suddenly he went into character.
“I had to shoot you, Miss Julia,” he said dramatically. “You betrayed your country. I must kill you.”
With deliberate ruthlessness Cavell aimed his pistol at her trembling body. Julia’s eyes were wide with fear. With great relish Cavell squeezed the trigger. With a sharp crack his pistols spat flame. The Chinese girl’s slender body jerked. There was a fine misty spray of blood from another perfect hole in her blouse directly over her left breast. Blood trickled from the wound. Julia moaned and her body shuttered. A great red stain spread across her white blouse, radiating from the hole near her heart.
Julia’s eyes fluttered. She moaned as her last breath rattled out of her lungs, her slender body quivered, then, as her eyes closed, was deathly still.
Great red drops of blood dripped onto the tiles, the gleaming white tiles, seeping into the grout where it would be hard to clean.
“Awesome!” Ansell declared. “Simply awesome, Miss Julia makes an awesome beautiful corpse.” He took a small camera from a pouch on his gun belt and began photographing the beautiful corpse. “I simply must have some photographs for our album.”
“I killed the teacher. I killed the teacher,” Cavell chanted and danced a Hitlerian jig. Cavell radiated joy.
Ansell approached Sherrill. “Miss Jones,” he said reproach ably, “I am quite disappointed with your performance. I expected better. With this second chance, I expect you to play the part of the cunning, elusive spy. Try to reach deep inside you for that resourcefulness each woman processes. Use your intelligence to evade death. Make us work to murder you. Make this a true challenge, not a turkey shoot.
And if one of us should win, please, try to die with some courage and dignity. Not like a sniveling coward. Die with your head held high, with dignity.”
“Yeah!” Cavell added. And try to die sexily.”
“You have three minutes,” Ansell said. “Now run.”
Sherrill streaked from the kitchen. She ran so fast the high-heeled shoes flipped off her feet. She ran down a narrow hall. The hall dead-ended in a staircase. Up she ran. She entered another darkened hall which again ended in a staircase. Three floors later Sherrill concluded that while the manner house appeared like a castle from the outside, the inside more resembled a maze.
The architect must have fallen in love with the Winchester Mystery House, and decided to improve on the design, or lack thereof. The air was shivering cold, damp and sea breeze moist. The confining halls were dark and lifeless. Every where she ran she imagined she heard the heavy booted footfalls of the miniature hunters. She was grateful to be barefoot, she could move with greater silence. The floors were cold underfoot, sucking warmth from her body.
The few doors she had thus far encountered were locked, forcing her to continue down a seemingly endless maze of halls and corridors. She searched for a place to hide, always looking for a way out. No way would she find herself trapped in a room with no second exit. She avoided the occasional elevator for that very reason.
Then Sherrill came to a long cavern like hall, lined with huge oil portraits of long dead ancestors. Long, sallow faced men in bizarre, gaudy uniforms and carrying hunting rifles, shotguns, and muskets, posing by an endless variety of dead animals. Bronze plaques beneath each portrait announced names such as: Reginold Remus Huntington IV, or Lovell Troilus Huntington VII. Their hard eyes staring at her, as if stalking further prey.
There, at the end of the hall, was the first living human being she had seen in half an hour. It was a stunningly beautiful maid, wearing the identical, revealing uniform that Lizette wore; busily dusting the picture frames. She was a voluptuous, bronzed- skin, statuesque beauty within a high-fashion model’s high cheekbones. Luscious crimson lips, cascading waves of full, ebony hair.
Sherrill paused, wanting human companionship, but fearing the encounter. She was about to leave when the gorgeous maid exclaimed, “Sherry, is that you, sista’?”
“Vanessa,” Sherrill cried, running to her. Sherrill recognized her now. Vanessa was a former employee of Madame Irene. They had never been close friends, but had commiserated their misfortunes together. About two months ago Vanessa had disappeared off the streets. Sherrill had figured she had been murdered by a john.
The two girls hugged. Vanessa stood back, still holding Sherrill’s arms. “Oh, you nasty sista’, sleeping wit’ the president. And then selling his secrets to the Russians!” Vanessa scolded playfully, her sorrel eyes twinkling mischievously.
“What?” Sherrill said.
Vanessa moved in closer to whisper in Sherrill’s ear. “You're playing the game, ain't you, sista’?”
Sherrill remembered the game’s scenario.
“Take heart,” Vanessa continued. You can survive the game. I be livin’ proof. Afta’, the boys axed me to stay on and work as a maid. They pays me extra if’n I plays along wit’ their game. And sista’, they do pays good!”
“I have to go,” Sherrill said. “They’ll kill you if they see you with me.” She wondered since when Vanessa spoke with such a watermelon accent.
“Okay, Sherry,” Vanessa said, “but let me help you.” She strode to the full-length mirror near the end of the hall. She pushed on the frame, then swung it open like a door to reveal a dimly lit, secret passageway. “The house be riddled with them,” Vanessa said.
“Where does it go?” Sherrill asked, stepping inside, examining the interior. A cool musty breeze was blowing. She shuttered as a cobweb brush her cheek.
Vanessa didn't answer. Instead she screamed. She defensively covered her breasts with their hands and screamed in terror. “No, masta’. Please masta’. Don't shoot me. Please don't shoot me!”
Sherrill swung around to see Cavell standing at the other end of the hall. His gun was raised, aimed at Vanessa’s heart.
“Eat lead, songbird!” Cavell shrill voice echoed down the hallway. The pistol cracked three times, spitting blue flames.
Vanessa reeled, her blood splattering across wall tapestries. The once white cotton bib of her sexy costume was soaked with blood. Amazingly, Vanessa staggered towards Sherrill. Her sleek body was trembling, her beautiful bronze face frozen in contorted horror. Vanessa stumbled and fell against the mirror, slamming it shut in Sherrill’s face. It was a one-way mirror and Sherrill, and immobilized by stark terror, could see Vanessa outside less than two inches away. Her convulsing body was pressed close against the glass. Vanessa's delicate long fingers clawed at the icy-cold glass, vainly trying for a handhold, vainly trying to stay afoot, vainly trying to stay alive. Gravity and death grimly dragged her to floor. Her bleeding body slowly slid down the mirror, smearing the length of glass with her blood.
Cavell rushed up and tried to open the mirror. But Vanessa's body blocked his way. He stood back a pace and angrily fired another shot into the beautiful body. Her fists clenched, her fingernails digging into her flesh, Sherrill forced herself to wait until he gave up and hurried off. The passageway lead both to the right and the left and Sherrill hurried off in the opposite direction.
The passageway was a dark, unfinished wooden tunnel with every 50 feet or more lit by a naked, 25 watt light bulb. The tunnel turned several times giving Sherrill no view of her final destination. Every few feet she would step on a creaking floor board. Every time this would happen her pulse would shoot up and she would whirl around to see who had heard her.
The tunnel came to a dead-end. Sherrill was confused and terrified, being trapped with no way to escape. Then she saw the hatch in the floor. She lifted it up. There was a ladder below which creaked when she put her weight on each rung. Sherrill found herself in the very back of a walk-in closet, behind the back of the clothes. The rack contains several dresses, blouses, skirts, and light blue overalls like those of Japanese gardeners she had seen have more. The name ‘Miko’ was embroidered into the left breast pocket of each uniform.
Outside the closet she discovered a bedroom adorned with Japanese prints and assorted Oriental weapons, swords, throwing stars. She didn't have much time to sightsee. Hearing the lock beep, she dove under the canopy bed.
“Lights on,” came Ansell's voice, and the lights came up to full brilliance. Sherrill bit her lip—to suppress shrieking and watched his combat boots, all she could see of him, all the while fearing her pounding heart would give her away. Ansell went straight to the closet and checked it out.
She heard each rung loudly creak as he climbed up the ladder to check out the secret passageway. He descended again and left the bedroom. Immediately Cavell’s voice came from outside the hall. “Didcha check the closet?”
“Yes,” Ansell answered.
“Ya sure ya checked the closet?” Cavell asked. “She's gotta be in the closet.”
“I checked the closet,” Ansell said; “she wasn't there.”
“I bet she's under the bed.”
“I bet she isn't,” Ansell said.
“Yeah! I bet she's under the bed,” Cavell began.
While the two boys quarreled and argued, Sherrill slipped back into the closet. Cavell burst into the room. Immediately he looked under the bed. There was a full-length mirror on the closet door. Like the entrance to the secret passageway, this was a one-way mirror and Sherrill could watch Cavell’s every move.
Cavell stepped up to the mirror and practiced his quick draw. “Bang! Bang! I got you. You're dead!” he exclaimed. “You're right,” he called out, skipping out of the room, “she’s not here.”
Returning into the room, Sherrill sat down the bed, gasping for breath, sucking in hair like the price was going up tomorrow. The events of the past hour had overwhelmed her emotionally. She wanted to scream relentlessly for what she witnessed. Over and over she replayed in her mind the memory of Vanessa's bloody death. This time she imagined the bullets puncturing her flesh, ripping into her body, dragging out bloody agony. Over and over she died in her own mind.
Sherrill looked at herself in the mirror, “20, going on 30,” she thought, surprised how much she looked like her mother: same family hair, same oval face, same doe-like eyes. Lighter skin perhaps, her father had been white. Her mother was an exotic blend of Cherokee, African, and Vietnamese.
“You mother is a beautiful woman,” her father had told her in the hospital, shortly before his death. A band of roving neo-Nazis had beaten him for marrying the wrong color woman. “Don't hurt her.”
Sherrill had not believed or obeyed him. Suddenly she saw the issue clearly. Had part of her rebellion been because she blamed her mother for her father's death? “But, momma,” she silently cried, “it wasn't your fault.”
If only she could call her mother...
A telephone! Sherrill leapt up to search for a telephone. There was no telephone in the bedroom. Only a computer with a modem. She had no idea how to use that. What a fool she’d been: failing school to spite her mother.
The bedroom door lock beeped again. Sherrill fled to the closet. There was no time to shut the door completely and she feared the lock click would be audible. A short, svelte girl with a fashion model’s body and looks strode into the room. Directly behind her, his pistol drawn, marched Cavell.
“Ya helped her, didn’cha, Miko?” Cavell accused.
Miko, her back to him, ignored him. The beautiful Japanese girl wore a light blue gardener’s uniform. She went to her bed, sat down, and took off her shoes.
“What do you want?” Miko asked as she rubbed her slender foot.
“Ya helped that Russian spy, Miss Jones,” Cavell said, irritated that Miko showed no fear of his gun. “I gotta kill you.”
“I did not help anyone,” Miko said. “I am off-duty. I have a date tonight and I want a shower.” She unzipped her overalls and dropped them to the floor to reveal a lovely athletic body with perky breasts, restrained by a lacy black bra, and long silky legs.
“You’re a Russian spy ain’t you, Miko?” Cavell said, glaring at her.
“I am a Japanese gardener,” she said, dispassionately, heading toward the bathroom door.
Cavell followed her like a hungry puppy. “Can I watch?”
“What for?” Miko asked. Her apparent boredom visibly irritated the little assassin.
“Ansell seems to think there's something cool about naked girls,” Cavell said with no personal conviction.
“Oh, come on, then,” she said and she went into the bathroom. Sherrill heard her turn on the shower and hoped that Cavell would follow her. The sound of falling water would cover the sound of the creaking rungs as she made her escape. But Cavell stayed in the bedroom examining the Japanese swords and knives adorning the wall. Sherrill didn’t dare move for fear of giving herself away.
Five minutes later Miko came out of the bathroom. She was brushing and drying her long sleek hair with a dryer. She was wearing a white silk kimono robe. “You still here?”
“I hafta kill you, Miko,” Cavell threatened. You’re a traitor.”
“You can’t kill me,” Miko stated
“Why not?” Cavell challenged.
“I am a girl.”
“I love killing girls.”
“I am too young to die.”
“I love killing young girls.”
“I am too beautiful to kill.”
“I especially love killing beautiful young girls.”
“So, go kill Miss Jones,” she said, “that's your job.”
“I will,” Cavell assured her. “I will kill Miss Jones.” Sherrill shuddered at the certainty in his voice.
“What‘s this?” Cavell said. He was pointing at a set of swords on her wall.
“Those are a samurai’s swords,” Miko said. A Daisho.
The long one is a Katana. The short one is a Wakizashi.”
“So what is the difference?” Cavell asked. “Why does he have two?”
“The samurai uses the Katana in open combat, the Wakizashi’s for fighting in enclosed places. The short one is also used for sepuka or suicide.”
Cavell pointed to another short sword with three parallel blades.
“What is that one?”
“That is a sai,” Miko said. It is an inferior sword. Only good for stabbing. The Katana is good for stabbing and slashing.”
But Cavell was fascinated with the sai. He holstered his gun and took down the sai. “Wouldn’cha love me to stab this into your beautiful body?”
Sherrill stared in horror at the bright light glinting off the sharp metal blade and imagined it slicing into her heart. She felt faint.
Miko, on the other hand, was as calm as ice water. “I do have a beautiful body, don't I?” she said. She walked to the closet and admired herself in the mirror. She reached for the handle.
In a panic, Sherrill stumbled back and hid behind the dresses. Miko walked in and began selecting a party dress.
“Find a sexy one for me,” Cavell demanded.
At that moment Miko saw Sherrill. As their eyes met, Miko held a slender finger to her mouth. “Shush,” she whispered.
Miko selected a pink party dress with a low cut blouse and slipped into it while Cavell watched her contently. Miko buttoned up her dress. “You like it?” She flirted, dancing a little whirl to display her slender body and dancer-like legs.
“I love it, Miko,” Ansell said and licked his lips. “It’s very sexy.” He touched the needle sharp tip of sword to Miko's slender belly. “You are very sexy.”
“Dear Cavell,” Miko smiled again. “Will you please put that were it belongs.”
“Yes, my love,” Cavell grinned back. He licked his lips. “I’ll put it right were it belongs!”
He deftly thrust the glinting silver blade right into Miko’s bellybutton and angled it up toward her heart. It slid into her tender flesh with no resistance. Blood welled up around the blade.
“Ayeeee!!” Miko screamed her face a contorted grimace. Her bright almond eyes stared in horror at the blood pouring from her punctured belly, at the razor-sharp blade violating her perfect body. Miko backpedaled, trying to get off the impaling blade. She slammed into the wall, her blood splattered across the wall fabric. She reached up trying, to haul herself off the blade. But it was useless. There was nothing for her to grab onto.
Miko's arms dropped and she weakly clutched at the sai. She gasped for breath, her lungs filling with blood, her lovely legs trembled, her knees were failing her.
“Oh! Oh! You stabbed me!” Miko groaned.
Her slender body quivered. Salty tears dripped from her sad exotic eyes. Blood trickled from her pouty lips.
“Don’cha love it, Miko?” Cavell earnestly asked. “It feels so good, don't it?” He let her slide to her knees and kissed her tenderly on her cheek. He withdrew the bloody sword from her body and dropped it on the floor.
Miko's delicate breasts heaved with one last gasp of breath. She slid to a sitting position smearing blood on the floral wall fabric behind. Blood pooled around her legs. A tremor ran through her body. The breath rattled out of her lungs. Her head fell to one side, her black hair covering her eyes.
Cavell felt for a pulse on her neck. “Miko, you really died great!” He took out his camera. “Wait until Ansell sees these.”
Sherrill clutched at her stomach, imagining that the blade had punctured her own flesh. She felt queasy and faint. She didn't want to die. Not here. Not now. She didn't want this monster child to rip her flesh with knives or swords. She was terrified of being murdered. But, slowly, she controlled her fear. She wasn't going to scream. She had to completely, continually repeat it to repress her screams. “I am not going to scream.”
Cavell covered Miko's body with a sheet from her bed and left the room. Sherrill had no idea where to go, but she would not go back to the bedroom with a dead body in it. She turned and climbed up the ladder and traced her steps back to the mirror entrance. Fear shadowed her every step.
Vanessa’s body was gone. In its place was a pool of blood. There was still blood smeared across the glass. As Sherrill pushed on the mirror, she stepped into something sticky and wet. She stepped back, an icy horror racing up her spine. Blood had seeped in under the mirror. She was standing in Vanessa’s blood.
And the mirror would not open.
Sherrill fled down the passageway in the other direction. The passageway dead-ended. Bolted to the wall was another ladder. She looked up into darkness. She couldn't see the top of the ladder. Having no other choice, she began to climb. Thirty feet up the ladder came to a wooden hatch. She pushed the hatch open and climbed into a small wood paneled room.
The room was lit by a single naked 25 watts old and it took her a few minutes to find the door. There was a peephole and she peered out into another darkened room. This one had shelves and locked cabinets and a refrigerator. She quietly undid the latch stepped into the storage room. The shelves contained boxes and bottles of medical supplies. Across the room were a metal door and a one foot square window. The window glass was shatterproof with a wire mesh embedded. She crept across the room to the window.
Beyond this door was a room looked like a doctor's waiting room. It was a large sterile room, with chairs couches, magazines and such. Two curtained doors led to examination rooms. And there was a large receptionist’s desk.
Seated behind the desk was a dusky, sultry young woman. She wore a starched nurse’s uniform. The uniform had a miniskirt, unbuttoned high up one thigh to reveal a lacy garter belt holding up white nylons on the nurse’s elegant legs. The snug fitting uniform was unbuttoned from the collar to her ample bosom. Full, firm breasts peeked out and strained the crisp fabric.
Sherrill recalled having worn an identical costume in one of her porno films. She had played a sexy, naive young nurse, lured down to the morgue by a sexy young doctor to make love. Once there her character had been gang-raped and murdered by a band of lusty doctors. At that time Sherrill had enjoyed the role. As the only woman in the film, she had considered herself the female lead. Her death scene had been worthy of an Oscar, she had thought. Now Sherrill shuddered at the morbid memories.
The nameplate on the desk read “Luiza Goncalves.” Luiza was an exotic blend of South American Indian, African, and Portuguese. The slender woman had honey brown skin, mounds and mounds of full ebony hair, and emerald green eyes.
Luiza was talking on the telephone.
Sherrill decided to wait. She had an excellent hiding place. She could watch if anyone can into the receptionist’s room. She had a line of retreat. And if one of the boys came up the ladder, she could escape through the waiting room. She waited, hoping the nurse would leave, hoping to use the telephone. She couldn't, of course, tell the truth. Nobody would believe her. Two little boys hunting her through a huge mansion, slaughtering their staff along the way? But she could call the fire department. Report a burglary to the police, call an ambulance. In all the commotion, surely some one would open a door and she could escape this lunatic asylum.
While Sherrill watched from the dark supply room, Cavell strolled casually into the reception room. Nurse Luiza put down the phone greeted him pleasantly. “Hello, menino.”
Cavell saluted her. “Hi, Miss Luiza.”
“How goes the hunt?” Luiza asked.
“Not so good, Luiza,” Cavell complained. “Miss Jones is so lucky. She got away again. Has she come through here?”
“No,” Luiza said, visibly dismayed at his disappointment. “I would tell you if I saw her.” She came around and sat on the desk, leaning seductively over him. She asked, “tell me about the hunt so far.”
“You oughtta see Miss Jones,” Cavell said. “She is so pretty and sexy. She acted like a real scary cat at first. I caught her and was going to shoot her. Ansell talked me into letting her go. I haven’t been able to catch her since. I wish I woulda shot her. Miss Jones is so beautiful. I want her. I want her to be mine.”
“I heard you shot Miss Julia,” Luiza said. “Julia was very beautiful. Wasn't that fun?”
“Yeah, it was.” Cavell brightened up a bit. “She wanted it. I shot her through the heart to kill her.”
“Que romantico!” said Luiza. “I would love to be shot through the heart. That would be so romantic.”
“But Miss Jones is more beautiful than Miss Julia. I just gotta kill Miss Jones.”
“I would love to help you,” Luiza said. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”
“Thank you, Luiza,” Cavell said. “You’re my best friend. But if you help me, Ansell would probably kill you and I don't want that.”
“I don't want Ansell to kill me,” Luiza agreed. “But I would do anything for you.” The hint was too subtle for Cavell.
But Sherrill understood the Brazilian woman's seductively voice and body language. She was trying to seduce Cavell, not to make love to her, but to kill her. Sherrill watched in horrified fascination. She hardly dared breathe. She was petrified by fear and horror. She dug her fingernails into the soft flesh of the palms of her hands.
“Tell me, Luiza,” Cavell said. “You’re both a nurse and a girl. Where is the best place to shoot a girl so she dies slowly and sexy. Where does a girl want it?”
“Never shoot a girl in her head,” Luiza instructed. “A girl wants a pretty face when she is dead. And it kills her too fast.”
“I never do,” Cavell said.
“Girls love to be shot through the heart,” Luiza said, seductively clutching her breast. “It is so romantic.”
“But don't that kill for too fast?” Cavell said.
“You’re right.” Luiza seductively rubbed her slender, inviting belly. “Here. Shoot her here. She dies very slowly, very sexy for you.” Cavell still did not take the hint.
“Thank you, Luiza,” Cavell said. “I hafta go now. When I kill Miss Jones, I’ll be thinking of you.”
“You are very welcome, meu amor,” Luiza said. She followed him to the door and gazed longingly after him when he was gone. The nurse waited by the door for a few moments. Then she left the room.
Sherrill immediately rushed out and seized the phone receiver. She dialed 911.
“All outside phone lines are disconnected during the game,” a monotone, computer-generated voice said. “Please try again later. All outside phone lines are disconnected during the game.”
“GOTCHA!”
Sherrill dropped the phone, a scaly claw of fear wrenched her guts, and she whirled to face the door and the source of the horrible voice.
Cavell, grinning demonically, aiming his gun at her heart, stood in the door. Behind him, her hands on his shoulders, was Luiza. The voluptuous nurse smiled contently.
“Don't move, chick,” Cavell threatened. “Or I’ll plug ya.”
Sherrill couldn’t move. There was no way to outrun a bullet. But she fought back her fear and began planning her escape. She wasn't dead yet. For the moment no plan came to her.
“Didn’t I tell you, Luiza,” Cavell crowed triumphantly. “I knew she'd come here. I told you. This time I'm going to kill her.”
They moved into the room. Under Cavell’s direction Luiza took up a pair handcuffs and chained Sherrill to a couch armrest. Sherrill couldn’t keep her eyes from the muzzle of Cavell’s gun. It never moved from her heart.
Cavell approached her, his loyal Brazilian sidekick at his side.
“It’s been a good game, Miss Jones,” Cavell said. “You have done good. But it’s time for the climax. It’s time for you to die.”
“I don't want to die,” Sherrill hoarsely said. Fear clutched at her throat.
“Yeah, you do,” Cavell said. “Dying is a lot of fun. You’ll really enjoy it. I know I’ll enjoy killing you. And I promise to love you forever.”
“But I’ll be dead. How can you love a dead woman?”
“Miss Julia explained it to me in Greek history,” Cavell said, enthusiastic to demonstrate his great knowledge. “When you die, your soul goes to the River Sticks. There is a guy named Sharon waiting for you. I know Sharon is a funny name for a guy, but Sharon is a weird guy; he is all bones and wears a monk’s black, hooded robe. He is the ferry man who will ferry you across the River Sticks to Hades.
“Hades is where all the souls go to claim their eternal rewards. Because you’ll die young and beautiful, your soul in Hades will be young and beautiful. So, ya see, Miss Jones, I’m doing you a big favor. “Moreover, all the heroes earn great rewards in Hades. As a great hero, all the girls I kill will belong to me in Hades. They’ll be my young and beautiful, willing love slaves.
“I ‘m going to kill over 1000 beautiful girls before I die,” Cavell said. “When I grow up, I’m gonna be a mercenary or a professional assassin. I’m gonna fight wars and fight great battles and kill girls all my life. I’ll end my life at age 33, in some great battle or gunfight. It’ll be so glorious. Thousands will die. Then, just before they get me, I’ll shoot myself in the heart. I’ll triumphantly go to Hades and all my girls.”
“That’s insane!” Sherrill said.
“You think so?” Cavell said. “What do you think will happen when I kill you?”
“God will punish you!” Sherrill said. Suddenly there was a terrible ache in her heart. Where had that come from? She had heard that phrase before. But she couldn't remember where.
“God!” Cavell laughed. “There is no god.”
Sherrill burst into sobs. Suddenly she remembered. The judge had released her father’s murderers for lack of evidence. “Is there no justice?” Sherrill had asked.
“God will punish them,” her mother had told her.
“God? There is no god,” Sherrill had bitterly snapped back at her. Sherrill wept at the bitter memories.
“Stop crying,” Cavell insisted. “Remember what my brother said. Die with dignity.”
“Cavell, dear,” Luiza interrupted. “Don't kill her yet.”
“Why not, Luiza?” Cavell said. “I’ve waited all day for this moment.”
‘Please, dear Cavell, my master,” Luiza begged. “You must murder me. I long to die for you. Death at your hands is my greatest desire.”
Luiza, with one sweep of her arm, cleared the desk. She lay on her back, one silky leg arched so her short skirt fell aside, exposing more smooth flesh. She took a deep breath, her lovely breasts rising, straining at the taunt fabric of her uniform. “Look at this, Cavell. The beautiful virgin lies upon the sacrificial altar. The trembling body awaits the thrust of the blade.”
“Oh, Luiza,” Cavell gently reminded her, “you’re no virgin.”
“But I am.” Luiza insisted. My body has not yet been violated by your steel. Take out your bayonet and penetrate my willing body. I await the deep thrust.”
“Oh, Luiza, I can't kill you.”
“Why not?” Luiza sat up with disappointment.
“Because I love you. You’re my best friend.”
“Am I'm not beautiful enough for you?” She coquettishly caressed her own vibrant body.
“You’re beautiful. You’re gorgeous. You’re sexy, Luiza.”
“Then why won't you kill me?” Luiza pouted. “You can kill me before you kill Miss Jones and claim you punished me for helping her. Please punish me, dear Cavell.”
Cavell licked his lips. “If it’ll make you happy, I’ll murder you, Luiza.”
“Oh, thank you, dear Cavell,” Luiza cooed. “And I promise to die ever so sexy for you.”
“How you want it?”
Luiza took his hand and guided it to his bayonet. He took it out and held its razor-sharp blade to her flat belly. “Stab me in my tummy. Slide your steel into my body, putting it in me slowly and deep. Puncture my willing flesh, make me suffer and bleed. As I writhe in agony, just before I die, shoot into my heart as a romantic gesture of our eternal love.”
“I’ll do it, Luiza.”
The raven-haired beauty bent over to smother the boy with grateful kisses. “Kiss me and kill me,” Luiza pleaded “Violate my luscious body and hot flesh with your cold steel.”
They stepped apart, into character, as it was.
“Nurse Luiza, I have captured you aiding this enemy spy. I must execute you for treason.”
Luiza clasped her hands together and dropped to her knees to be eye-to-eye with Cavell.
“Oh, sir, please do not kill me. I do not want to die!” She pleaded, her rosy lips pouted. Her lovely breasts heaved with fearful gasps. But her flirting dark eyes betrayed a glimpse of eager anticipation. “Please do not thrust your hard, sharp bayonet deep into my belly!”
“Okay,” Cavell said. “For a kiss I will spare your worthless life.”
She embraced him. He placed his left hand on the back of her neck and grasped her tightly. With his right hand Cavell took out his bayonet. He touched its razor-sharp blade to her trembling belly.
As they kissed, he began to slowly sink the black steel into the sultry girl’s starched white uniform, into the smooth dark flesh beneath. Luiza's green eyes rolled back in ecstasy and, her lower lip quivering, she moaned. Her hands groped towards black blade violating her flesh as red steamy blood erupted from her punctured stomach. Her slender waist undulated in agony and ecstasy. She rotated her hips like a belly dancer, driving the black blade deeper into her intestines, impaling her body on the bayonet.
Luiza moaned huskily. “Oh, eu morro!” Her hot blood bubbled between her delicate fingers. Her lovely breasts rose with painful gasps.
Cavell thrust the knife in deeper, eliciting more moans of pleasure. He plunged it in up to the hilt.
“OOOH!” Luiza groaned, arching her back in a pseudo orgasmic spasm. Blood trickled into the white rug.
Cavell withdrew his knife and sheathed it. He cradled the dying woman in his arms. Luiza stared up at him with longing eyes. “Oh, thank you, meu amor,” she whispered. “Thank you for murdering me. Now. Finish me now.”
Cavell reached for his gun.
Sherrill watched the death scene in growing panic. That would soon be her body impaled on the unforgiving black blade. She frantically jerked the handcuffs. The couch was bolted to the floor. The steel cuff ripped her skin. “Calm down!” she told herself. The cuff wasn't cinched all the way down. She stole a glance at Cavell and the dying nurse. Luiza was groaning, her blood flowing into the rug. Cavell’s eyes were fixated on Luiza’s face.
Sherry tried to slip the cuff over her hands. It was a tight squeeze, but she worked it up to her knuckles. She tore her skin, trying to get the cuff over her knuckles. She bit her lips and held in the pain. Luiza moaned in dying ecstasy.
Sherry spotted a hand lotion dispenser on the lamp table next to the couch. What luck! She smeared hand lotion on her hands and slipped the cuff off over her fingers. Sherrill looked at Cavell. He was still enthralled in murdering the nurse.
She backed slowly towards the door, one eye Cavell, one eye on her destination. She didn't run as not to attract his attention. Finally she reached the door.
“Oh, thank you, meu amor,” Luiza whispered. Thank you for murdering me. Now. Finish me now.”
Cavell reached for his gun.
Sherrill ran.
She heard the single gunshot. And moment later she heard Cavell’s angry scream. As she reached the end of the hall she heard another gunshot. A Ming vase in front of her burst into a thousand chards. She rounded the corner into the intersecting hall.
To her horror this hall turned into a dead end. There were only four doors, two on the left, two on the right. She ran to the first door on the right; it was locked. She ran to the second door; it was locked. She crossed to the second door on the left. It too was locked. She stared at the last door.
To run to it was to run towards Cavell. She would not risk it.
In the center of the wall was a square hatch, a laundry chute. In a sweat, Sherrill yanked and dove headlong into utter darkness. She descended on what seemed like an amusement park slide, circling down at a hellish speed. Suddenly she emerged into glaring light and hot humid air and plunged into a wheeled canvas laundry cart full of soiled bed sheets. A girl screamed in alarm.
“Who are jou?” A startled voiced asked Sherrill as she climbed out of the cart. She found herself surrounded by huge, industrial washing machines, dryers, presses, and other steamy machinery.
The laundress was a big breasted, waspish-waisted Guatemalan girl wearing an off the shoulder, revealing white peasant blouse; she had plenty to reveal. She wore a floral miniskirt. She had long, ebony hair, dancing brown eyes, and a pleasant smile. She walked with a joyful bounce.
“Jou are the guest of the muchachos,” the chocolate skinned girl smiled effervescently.
Sherrill questioned the use of the word guest. Prey was a better word.
“Jes. The muchachos, they bring a girl guest every time their parents are away,” the laundress pleasantly explained. The misters they no like the violence.”
“I suppose not,” Sherrill agreed. “How do I get out of here?”
“The elevator,” the curvaceous Latin girl said eager to please. “And don't worry; Marita is on your side.” She took Sherrill's arm to reassure her.
“How do I find a telephone with an outside line?”
Marita bit her lip and frowned. “The telephones they do not work during the game.” Then she brightened up. “Maybe the telephone in Mr. Huntington’s office work.”
“Where is that?” Sherrill was impatient. She had to get out of here before Cavell showed up and blew the air out of this airhead’s head.
Too late!
The girls’ attention was rapidly drawn to a swoosh emanating from the laundry chute. “Quick! One of the boys he follow you. Hide here.” Marita opened a service panel on one of the washing machines. Sherrill climbed inside, it smelled damp and musty. Rolled into a year fetal position, her knees poking into chin, Sherrill watched through a grated vent while Marita rushed across the room to the elevator and sent it upstairs. Crouching down, Marita held up five fingers and held an imaginary phone to her head. The office and the phone were on the fifth floor.
Cavell plopped into the laundry card. Marita rushed to help him out.
Once out Cavell straightened his cap. Steely eyes stared at her big brown doe-like eyes. “Where is she, Marita?” the little tin soldier demand.
“I don' know,” Marita said, glancing back at the elevator.
Cavell’s eyes followed hers. And saw the numbers changing. “Where’s she going?”
“I don' know.” The dark eyed belle was rapidly losing her composure.
Cavell strode into the elevator and punched the down button. “Ya helped her, didn’cha?”
“No, Senorito Cavell. Marita no help her.” She wasn't very convincing. Her ruby lips trembled with her obvious lies.
Cavell was grinning wickedly. “You know the penalty for helping guest?” He unsheathed his bayonet as his eyes fixed on her soft brown curves. He strode up to her and held the tip of the black blade to her trembling body.
Marita, wide- eyed, stared carefully at the vicious black blade. “No, please.” Marita begged. “Don' kill me. I don' want to die.”
At this point Sherrill decided to surrender herself to save Marita. She backed up onto the balls of her feet and reached for the panel. Suddenly it came to her; her sudden appearance would confirm Marita’s obvious duplicity. Cavell would never forgive Marita for helping Sherrill.
She remained deathly silent. Marita would have to save herself.
“Please don' stab me, Mr. Cavell,” Marita cried.
“Stop crying,” Cavell said, “and let me explain.” He offered her his hand and gently led her to a chair. The little hunter took out his handkerchief and kindly wiped away her tears.
“It’s this way, Marita,” Cavell gently explained. “I just love killing beautiful girls. I love to shoot them. I love to stab them and I love to watch them die. Girls are such good victims, they die so sexy. Girls make such beautiful dead bodies, such beautiful trophies.
Marita, you’re so beautiful. I would love to plunge my bayonet into your beautiful body and watch you die. I would have so much fun killing you and you’d be such a beautiful dead girl. How about it, will you let me stab you to death? Let me stab you, Marita. I’d love you forever. I promise.”
“But what about me?” Marita asked. “I don' wanna be a dead girl.”
“Why not? You’re so sexy, Marita. You’re very beautiful.”
“I’m sorry, Senorito Cavell, Marita apologized.
Cavell sighed, “Ye’r no fun.” He nodded. “Okay, Marita, I won't stab you to death today.”
“Muchas gracias.” Marita exclaimed. She clapped her hands.
“Marita,” Cavell politely inquired, “could you do me a big favor.”
“Certainly, mi patroncito,” Marita gushed, still eager to please.
“Smile for me,” he said. “And kiss me.”
“Oh, jes, mi amor.” Marita passionately kissed the little boy-monster on his forehead.
As Marita stepped back from her passionate kiss, she saw to her horror that Cavell held his now unholstered pistol aimed dead at her heart. “Never said I wouldn't shoot you, Marita.” Cavell chortled and fired a simple shot.
Marita clapped her hands to her left breast. She withdrew her right hand and her eyes went wide as she watched her blood drip one drop at time from her delicate fingers. Her left hand clasped her wounded breast.
“Oh, no!” Marita mournfully moaned. Her right hand went back to clutch at her wounded breast. A huge red stain flowed down her white blouse. Her bright doe-like eyes stared at the blood bubbling between her fingers. With a fading moan, Marita’s legs collapsed and she slowly slumped into a large pile of dirty towels. The towels soaked up her blood.
The boy stood triumphantly over the lifeless body. “Thank you, Marita.” Cavell said. Licking his lips and tipping his gun to his cap. “You died so sexy and you make such a beautiful dead girl.” He holstered his gun and took out his camera to record the kill.
Sherrill stifled a whimper. She closed her eyes, refusing to witness Cavell’s joy. She replayed the entire scene over in her mind. What could she have done to save Marita? She could not discover an answer. Cavell left and took the elevator to the twelfth floor.
They have the wrong name for this game, Sherrill thought; it should be ‘Hide and Seek and Destroy.’ While she thought on this, two security guards arrived on the elevator. They zipped Marita’s body into a black body bag and hauled her away.
If this is a game, she thought, then I am nothing more than a toy. A rich man's toy. Uncle Bobbie and his friends treated me like a toy, and when they tired of me, they passed me onto Madame Irene. I was nothing more than a toy to her clients. And now I'm a toy again. A toy for two spoiled rich brats who delight in destroying their toys.
The father had not thought of her as a toy. He always called her ‘his Little Lady.’ And her mother-- Memories of the countless nights her mother had tucked her into bed, read her stories, sang for her, comforted her when ill. All returned. Sherrill became heartsick recalling how she had mistreated her mother.
“If you ever want to come back, you will have a home here, Sherrill,” had been her mother's final words to her.
And hers had been: “Go to hell!”
She climbed out of the washer. When he lost her trail, Cavell would backtrack to the laundry room and in no way did she want to be trapped in room with only one exit. She tip-toed past the blood stained towels and took the elevator to the second floor. She punched in all the numbers and sent the elevator on up empty to confuse her pursuers. Cautiously she made her way back to the fifth floor.
She found a great hallway lined with trophy cases. Inside were framed magazine covers, movie posters, awards, certificates, diplomas, platinum records, Oscars, Emmys, Tonys, and autographed photographs of movie stars and politicians and presidents. All the items had one thing in common, the name ‘Noble Flavius Huntington’ and usually with the title ‘producer’ or some equivalent. She suddenly realized she recognized this name— it had been one of her greatest goals, back when she thought she would actually be a real actress, to work for this man. At the end of the hall was a spacious reception room.
Inside the reception room was a huge desk, with a PC, telephone, and a name-plaque which read: ‘Scarlet O'Hair.’
However, the receptionist, a gorgeous girl with flaming red hair, bright emerald eyes, and a shapely body dressed in a green suit and ivory silk blouse, wasn’t sitting at her desk. She lay on a couch, munching on popcorn, and watching a wide screen television. Upon seeing her, Sherrill immediately began to leave.
“Phones don't work during the hunt, honey,” Scarlet said. “But do come in and watch the show,” she insisted.
“No,” Sherrill said.
“Oh, honey, Ah’m in no danger,” Scarlet insisted again, ever so polite, “Do come in and rest awhile. Y’all will find the show real interestin’.”
Sherrill was curious. How had she known about the phones? What was she watching? Sherrill walked around until she could see the screen. It showed Cavell skulking down a hall.
“He’s on the third-floor,” Scarlet commented.
“Do you know where the other one is?” Sherrill asked.
“Computer, locate Ansell.”
The scene shifted to the schematic of the house. An icon marked Ansell’s location. “Computer, activate camera. Pool Room.” The screen showed Ansell lounging alongside of an Olympic size swimming pool chatting with a couple of girls in bikinis.
“That's on the first floor.”
Scarlet pointed to a mirrored hemisphere in the wall. “Every room has a security camera in it. The security teams monitor every room and film every thing, even the boys’ hunts. There's nothing for me to do while Mr. Huntington is away, so Ah had one of the security men fix it so Ah can watch the hunt on my TV.
“After the hunting is over, if there is enough extra footage, one of Mr. Huntington’s editors turns it into a snuff film. They are very popular and profitable. This hunt is sure to be one of the best. Most girls don't last half an hour. Y’all ‘s been marvelous.”
“You‘re all fuckin’ insane! I didn’t sign no release to be in no snuff film. And those little monsters have murdered half their staff. You all mad!”
Scarlet smiled pleasantly. “If the smell of money makes one mad. Ah suppose we all are. But you, honey, are an unlicensed streetwalker. The boys murder you, nobody will care. Mr. Huntington will pay one of his lawyers a thousand dollars to pay the boys’ fine for unlawfully killing you, maybe twenty-five dollars at most. That goes for the rest of us, honey. We were all illegally working the same profession.
“Ah was near death when the boys asked me here and hunted me. Ah survived the hunt and Mr. Huntington asked me to be his receptionist. You know how much he pays me? $50,000.00 per year, after taxes. The normal receptionist makes about $35,000 a year. And do you know how much the government takes? About ninety percent, including federal, state, and Social Security withholdings. Sure, they give you food stamps and housing permits, but it's never enough. Here, Ah live in a rich man’s mansion, share a rich man's food, and do practically nothing. All for less risk than Ah ran on the streets. So just who is mad?” Scarlet asked smugly.
“But if they’re filming this,” Sherrill said; “the boys’ll know I was with you . . .”
“Do you think Ah am stupid? Computer. Activate camera. Reception room.” The screen showed Scarlet busily typing on her computer. Scarlet pointed to a videodisc player. “My friend fixed that for me too.”
“Now, let me let y’all in on a big secret. Ansell always wins. Y’all know why? Because he cheats. All of us girls are on his payroll. When we see the guest, we call him on the intercom and give him the location. He kills her, and he pays us $500. So in two minutes Ah am going to call him and tell him y’all were here.”
“For five hundred dollars?”
“Or, Ah can save your life. All y’all have to do is pay me five thousand dollars.”
“I don't have $5,000.00.”
“Honey, y’all weren’t listening very carefully. The boys bet their allowances on this hunt. Y’all live, you win $20,000. So if you agree, Ah will show you how to use the intercom. Every few minutes y’all call me and Ah’ll guide y’all away from the boys. When the chauffer for takes y’all back to the city, y’all will give her your $2,000.00 up front money for being my courier and another five grand for me.”
“How do I trust you?”
“Don't trust me, honey; trust the money. Ah’m going to be a millionaire before Ah am thirty-five. The sooner the better because then Ah can leave this funny farm. So which would Ah rather have? Ansell’s five hundred? Or your five grand?”
“What good is the money if I’m dead?”
“Exactly, honey. How much time y’all have left?”
“Thirty eight minutes,” Sherrill said; looking at her watch.
Scarlet showed her how to use the intercom. The she called Ansell. “Ansell, your guest is in your father's office, hurry on up. Scarlet turned to Sherrill, “that covers me. Now go. And, honey, good luck.”
Half an hour later Sherrill began to believe for the first time she might survive this nightmare. She was on the second floor and seen no trace of the boys since Scarlet’s office. She walked to an intercom and buzzed the reception room.
“Y’all are two rooms from where y’all started,” Scarlet said. “Go back to that room. The boys never look there.”
Sherrill tip-toed into the room. Lizette’s body was gone, but a pool of blood marked where she had fallen.
The door closed behind her.
“Hello, Miss Jones,” Ansell said pleasantly. He was standing in a corner, his gun leveled at her.
Sherrill’s heart skipped a beat and then sank. She wanted to cry, but did not. “So you win,” she said feigning resignation, looking for a way out.
“Yes, I win,” Ansell said. “I always win.” He was so very matter of fact. He motioned her away from the door. “We will wait for Cavell. He will be here any moment now. I no longer experience the perverse pleasure of killing girls that he does. I am discovering there are better things to do with girls. What I do enjoy strongly is depriving him of that pleasure and, most of all, taking his money.”
“Tell me something,” she asked, “would you have really let me go if I had won?”
“Of course,” Ansell said. “A Huntington always keeps his word.”
Cavell burst into the room and with one glance appraised the situation.
“I win, Cavell,” Ansell taunted him. “I win and I get to kill her. Me. Me. Me. And not you!”
“But she's so beautiful,” Cavell whined, “I wantta do it.”
“Dummy! Big stupid dummy!” Ansell chortled. “The dummy had his chance; but you blew it, stupid. You always blow it, stupid. I always fool you and it is so easy. Stupid!”
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”
“Dummy!” Ansell ragged him relentlessly. “I always win. I win your money, dummy. I get to shoot Miss Jones to death and it will be so fun. Dummy!”
Cavell snatched up a pillow and hurled it with all his might at his taunting brother. “I want to win; I want to win, “he screamed.
The pillow didn’t hit Ansell all that very hard; but he stumbled, fell back, and hit his head on one of the bed posts. His eyes rolled back in his head, he gave off a little squeak, and he fainted.
His gun bounced on the rug.
Sherrill did not hesitate; she snatched up the fallen gun as Cavell slapped leather. Both fired at once. Sherrill unconsciously fired into the ceiling. Cavell ducked in a blind panic and his shot went wild.
Sherrill threw the gun away and fled into the hall.
“Hold it, honey!” It was Scarlet’s sweet voice behind her. “Ah have got a gun on you, honey.”
Sherrill was filled with despair, utter despair, as she turned to face Scarlet. Scarlet held a tiny little silver revolver. Aimed right at Sherrill’s beating heart.
Scarlet called out, “Ansell, Ah have her for you.” Her smile never ended
Until Cavell stepped of the room. He was grinning diabolically.
“Hello, Scarlet.”
“Her smile and her smugness evaporated. “Oh . . . Oh. . . Cavell,” she stammered, “Cavell, Ah have her for y’all.”
“Thank you, Scarlet. Please stay and watch; this is going to be good.”
“Yes, Mr. Cavell.” Her smugness slowly returned.
“That was really fun, Miss Jones,” Cavell said. “Nobody has ever shot at me before. It was so exciting. So exciting that I want to do it again. So that's we’re gonna do. On instant replay. Scarlet will play Ansell’s part. And you will reprise your part. You know what to do. And maybe you’ll get lucky this time.”
“Do something,” Sherrill warned Scarlet. “He’s going to kill you.”
Y’all are wrong; he is goin’ to shoot you.” Her firm belief in her own immortality blinded her. “Tell her, Cavell. Tell her you are going to shoot her.”
“Are we ready?” Cavell asked. “This is going to be great.”
"Run, Scarlet,” Sherrill screamed.
“Shoot her!” Scarlet screamed. “Shoot her!”
Cavell fired six rapid shots. Six bright red flowers blossomed on Scarlet’s white blouse. Her finely sculpted face showed more surprise than pain. Her mouth dropped open, her green eyes rolled back in her head, and her knees trembled. She dropped her little gun and clutched at her bleeding breasts.
“Fall down, Scarlet,” Cavell said, “you’re dead!”
Tremors wracked Scarlet’s slender body. Her legs gave way; she did a little half twirl as she slowly sank to the rug. Her last breath rattled out of her lungs and she lay still on the rug.
Sherrill leapt over the sprawled body and snatched up the little gun. She aimed it at Cavell. He was leisurely taking his time reloading his gun. Sherrill discovered an awful truth. She could not do it. She could not pull the trigger.
Cavell finished reloading. Almost nonchalantly he aimed it at Sherrill’s heart and asked; “What’s the problem, Miss Jones?” He was so smug.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don't know. Maybe it's because you’re just a kid. Or maybe, I just can't kill another human being.”
“Go ahead. Shoot. It's okay. Shoot.” He grinned.
Sherrill smelled and a rat. She pointed the gun at the ceiling and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. The gun was empty. She sank deeper into despair. And dropped the gun.
“Do you think we're stupid enough to give loaded guns to employees?” Cavell chortled. He laughed endlessly at his joke.
Her watch beeped. It read: “00.00.00”
“My time is up, Cavell,” Sherrill said hopefully. “I win.”
Cavell stopped laughing. “NO!” he hollered. “No! No! No! No! No! No! No! No!”
It took him a couple of minutes to calm down.
“I don't care,” he said finally. “I'm going to kill you. You understand, don't you? You are so beautiful. I can't help myself. I’ve looked forward to this ever since I first set eyes on you. I won't be denied my pleasure. I'm going to shoot you down like a mad dog.”
Sherrill felt so incredibly tired. She didn't even bother to protest. She fought to banish her fear. To die with some dignity.
“Aren't you going to beg for your life?” Cavell asked.
“Would it do any good?” Sherrill asked, already knowing the answer.
“No,” Cavell said. “But I would enjoy it.”
It was exactly what she expected from him. But a plan came to her. A way to bring some good out of this horror.
”Would you enjoy it?” She asked. “I will do it for you; I will put on this performance for you if you do me a favor.” She didn't even wait for his answer, she didn’t know if he would wait for her to finish. If this was all being filmed, perhaps someone would honor her last request.
“Contact my mother; tell for me that I am so sorry I hurt her. Tell her how sorry I am.”
Cavell’s smile disappeared. Perhaps he had a conscience after all. But the devilish grinned returned. “Okay. I‘ll do it. But I changed my mind. Instead of begging me not to kill you; I wancha to beg me to kill you. I want you to want it.”
Sherrill heart sank. It was the deepest darkest moment in her life. So this is what she had finally come to. After three years living a depraved, degrading life, she had come to the final degradation: she had to beg for her own death.
“Your word of honor. I want your word of honor as a Huntington that you will contact my mother.”
“On my honor as a Huntington,” Cavell swore, “if you beg for me to kill you, I will send somebody with the message.”
“Okay.” Sherrill said. She steeled herself. She turned her back on him to prepare herself for her last act. “Let me get into character.”
She convinced herself it was just another part in one of her movies. When she was ready, she turned to face him. She was determined to give him the best performance of her life.
“Oh, Mister Huntington,” she began in a husky, sexy voice. “You can’t believe how happy I am to discover it was you who captured me. I am such an evil woman: seducing the president, spying for the enemy, betraying my country. I must die for my evil ways. I am so happy it is you who will kill me.”
Cavell’s mouth dropped. He panted like a happy little puppy. His eyes glowed. “More,” he croaked.”
“Oh, yes, my love; kill me!” she begged in a lusty whisper. Make me die. Oh, please, kill me!”
Sherrill had never felt so low, but so alive. She saw vivid colors, she could hear both hearts pounding; she smelled the tangy odor of Scarlet’s blood and the musty smell of her own sweat.
“Shoot me! Shoot me to death!”
Cavell’s tongue danced on his lips.
Sherrill saw his trigger finger go white.
She heard two distinct cracks.
“Bite the dust, chick!”
Sherrill felt two sharp jabbing pains to her abdomen.
Once.
Twice.
She desperately clutched at the sharp pain in her belly. Blood, bright red flowing blood stained her blouse.
But the sudden pain was subsiding.
“Come on, chick,” Cavell demanded, “drop dead!” She stared at him mutely and he shot her again.
Sherrill understood
“Ya got me, kiddo!” Sherrill gasped in awful pain. Her voice was deep and husky. “Ya got me right in the guts!” She clutched at her bleeding stomach. Her slender body trembled. She sank slowly to her knees, one hand clutched at her belly, the other hand reached longingly at Cavell. “I am a dead girl,” she whispered sadly. She pitched forward, biting the dust. Her almond eyes stared vacantly at Cavell.
When Ansell came out of the bedroom and Scarlet stood up Sherrill knew the game was over.
“Didja see that?!” Cavell gushed. “Wasn't she great?”
“I saw it all on TV.” Ansell said.
Scarlet had helped Sherrill up. “I neglected to tell you that the boys’ father pays us a $500.00 bonus if we play along,” Scarlet said. Her ‘southern accent’ had disappeared. “It’s a thousand bucks if they kill us. So I try to get shot to death about once a week.”
“It really was a game?” Sherrill ventured.
Oh, sure,” Ansell said, “and you’ve been a really good sport. “Most girls just stand there like idiots when we shoot them. Some even get mad.”
Sherrill pointed to her now blood-soaked blouse. It was still dripping blood. “How?”
“The guns fire blanks, of course. But they also emit an infrared beam. The blouse has been treated with a chemical which explodes when struck by an infrared beam. That creates the bullet hole. Also, woven into the fabric are millions of micro-sponges containing the fake blood. The initial explosion ruptures a few micro- sponges, releasing some fake blood. The fake blood absorbs moisture from the air and this combination releases an acidic chemical which ruptures more micro- sponges. The chain reaction causes the victim to appear to be bleeding profusely. We got the idea from some TV shows our dad produced.”
Cavell exuberantly broke in. “Yeah! Miss Jones, you were really great. How about working for us? Dad could get a job. You are such a good actress. I bet he could get you a job in Hollywood.”
“No, thank you,” Sherrill said quietly and diplomatically.
“You can shower and change now,” Ansell said. “We will send a limousine for you.”
When Sherrill finished showering she discovered her raggedy dress had disappeared. In its place was a new suit. Her purse with the $2,000.00 was where she had left it. The butler, Sidney, knocked on the door and came in. “Your limousine is waiting for you,” she said. Like Scarlet, her English accent had disappeared. “The boys asked me to give you these things.”
“What?”
She gave Sherrill two computer discs. “These are your federal criminal records. The originals have been destroyed.”
Sherrill walked to the disposal shoot. “May I?”
“As you wish.” She then gave Sherrill an envelope. “Since both boys cheated, you officially won the game. Here are your winnings. Inside she found a payroll check, made out for $20,000, after taxes. ‘For acting services rendered,’ it read. And to protect her money, paper-clipped to back of the check was a five-year membership card for the Screen Actors Guild in her name. And tax papers.
“Keep the tax forms,” Sydney said. “When you file your tax return in January, you will become eligible for federal housing permits and food stamps.”
“It's enough to start a new life with,” Sherrill said.
“If your expectations are low,” Sydney replied.
“Not if you're willing to work hard,” Sherrill said. Another of her mother’s sayings.
Sidney gave her another envelope. Inside was a one-way airline ticket to Memphis, Tennessee. “Cavell said he needed somebody to go to Tennessee with a message. He said you best of all knows what the message is, so he is sending you.”
The Limousine dropped her at the airport. Sherrill didn’t really feel safe until they were airborne. She locked herself in the soundproof bathroom.
“Mommy! Your daughter’s coming home!”

The End