Dead River (47 page)

“You know what else I’d like to have that’s more affordable right now than a bike?” Adam asked.

Betsy lifted her shoulders.

“A piece,” Adam answered. “But being a convicted felon and all, I can’t just walk into a gun shop and buy one.”

“What do you need a gun for, Krueger? Damn, you aren’t going to—”

“No, I’m not going to do another job. I just want protection. I’m not used to being without one. It’s almost like walkin’ outside naked.”

“If you get caught, you’ll violate your parole. You’ll go back to prison.”

“Hell, I’m violatin’ my parole right now bein’ in here drinkin’. But I’m not going to get caught. The way other guys get caught is they get stupid. They don’t pay attention to what they’re doin’. I’m not your run-of-the-mill ex-con, believe me.”

Betsy removed her hand from Adam’s arm. “Why are you tellin’ me this?”

“’Cause I thought you might know someone that could hook me up with a gun that’s not registered, maybe without a serial number.”

Adam watched Betsy as she looked into his eyes. Hers were as green as emeralds and irresistibly alluring.

“It turns out that I do know someone,” she said.

“Is he here now?”

“No, but he does hang out here. This is where I met him.”

“Will he be here later tonight?”

“I don’t know. I usually see him here on Tuesday nights.”

“Tell you what, I’ll stop by tomorrow night, and if he’s here, maybe you can introduce me to him. You gonna be here?”

“Sure will.”

“Okay, see you tomorrow night.”

The words had no sooner than left his mouth and Betsy leaned in and kissed him, slipping her hand around the back of his neck. Adam tasted her deliciously warm lips and wanted more. She must have sensed this and parted hers. Adam let his tongue slide gently into her mouth. God, what am I doing?

He felt a surge of longing course through his body. But then she backed away and smiled.

“See you tomorrow night,” she said.

 103

THE ABANDONED DICKERSON HOUSE was cold, and Kelly was hungry and frightened beyond imagination. She sat on the cold hardwood floor with only her underpants and sweater on. Nausea swept through her body as she thought about how much it hurt between her legs. She estimated at least eight hours had gone by since she last saw her abductor, which she figured was close to noon on Monday. It was difficult to determine because she was still groggy when he left the house, and now it was dark outside.

Her hands were tied behind her, and there was a separate piece of rope that connected her bound hands to one of the broken boards in the floor. He hadn’t tied her feet together, so she was able to walk around the small room. At first she thought the rope was only secured to the broken board, but upon examination she discovered that it was also secured to a large support beam. Her initial idea of kicking the thick floorboard to break it was quickly abandoned.

She also gave up the idea of trying to untie her tether to the large beam when she realized her hands wouldn’t fit into the opening in the floor. She concluded the man must have crawled underneath the house to secure the rope. Any ideas of escape seemed hopeless.

The duct tape stuck to her mouth was beginning to irritate her skin and pull on her hair. He had wrapped at least two strips of the tape around her head.

Question after question rattled around in her head: Why did he kidnap me? Just for sex? When will I get something to eat? Why do I have to call him Gabriel? What’s he going to do to me?

Kelly’s emotions soared out of control. She began to cry, but only muffled whimpers came from under the duct tape covering her mouth. Please don’t hurt me any more! Oh God, please don’t kill me!

Sikes drove his car off Willaby Creek Road and onto a narrow dirt path leading to the Dickerson house. The old house, sitting on a hill in the middle of dense oaks and pines, was vacated in the early ’50s. The thick bushes that lined the dirt pathway scraped both sides of his car as he drove slowly toward the house. Unlike the dilapidated structure near where Sara Ann Riley’s body had been found, the house where Kelly Capron was being held captive could not be seen from the road.

The Rolling Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil” again started pounding away inside Sikes’s head …

As he entered the back door Sikes heard moaning coming from the bedroom. He opened the door and saw Kelly leaning against the wall, close to a window. She immediately brought her knees up to her chest and tried to scream. Pieces of crumbling sheetrock broke loose from the wall and hit the rough hardwood floor with light ticking sounds. All that could be heard from Kelly was a muffled hum. Sikes stood in the doorway holding a white paper bag.

He removed the tape from around her head, taking some of her hair with it, and told her if she screamed he would put the tape back on and not let her eat. He asked if she understood, and she nodded in agreement. The skin around her mouth was irritated and had a deep reddish hue. Kelly remained silent as Sikes fed her a hamburger and fries, and an occasional sip of Coke.

“How was that?” Sikes asked.

Kelly said nothing.

“I asked you, how was the food?”

“Fine,” she said with her head bowed, staring at the crumbled sheetrock on the floor.

“I have some things I need to do, so I won’t be back until late tonight.”

Kelly continued staring at the floor.

“I’ll see you later,” he said as he stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. She immediately jerked away from the contact. “While I’m gone I want you to think about what you want when I come back. Okay?”

“Yes,” she whispered softly.

“What’s that?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Gabriel,” Kelly said with a whimper.

 104

AT THREE-THIRTY on Tuesday, Adam left work for Orlando. Sneaking past Sally Grabel, whose nose was buried deep in Style magazine, was again easy. Images of Betsy had popped in and out of his mind all day, and thoughts of her warm, full lips drove him to several unnerving, squirming fits at his desk. It reminded him of eleventh grade, and the lascivious thoughts that ran through his mind as he would catch a glimpse of Mary Jo McCory’s white panties when she crossed her legs in world history class.

This time he stopped at a different hotel to change. He wore the same outfit, with the exception of the belt buckle. He replaced the plain silver buckle with one that had a large Harley Davidson emblem.

Adam repeated his pattern from the night before and parked two blocks from the Whiskey Barrel. The Volvo looked out of place on the street in this part of Orlando, where the houses were all aged cracker boxes with peeling paint and warped, mildewed shingles.

He entered through the heavy wooden door and ambled toward the bar. The smoke inside the room was thick and caustic, and the juke box was wailing out ZZ Top’s “Tube Snake Boogie.” He ordered a beer, removed his denim jacket, and furtively glanced around the bar trying to spot Betsy. He didn’t see her.

The crowd thickened and the volume of the juke box ramped up. Adam had never seen so much black leather in one place: vests, jackets and even a few chaps. A svelte, dark-haired woman, no more than twenty-two and at least six feet tall, sashayed by the bar. She wore black leather chaps and black thong panties. His eyes followed her across the floor until she disappeared into the crowd. Adam was beginning to enjoy the Whiskey Barrel, especially the scenery.

“Watch yourself, big guy,” a voice purred behind him.

Adam turned into Betsy’s deep green eyes. Her red hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore a pair of skin-tight black leather slacks with a matching black leather vest. No bra again.

“Hey there,” Adam said.

“I was hoping you’d come back tonight, Krueger.”

“I told you I’d be here.”

Betsy glanced at Adam’s vest and ran her fingers down the front. “We match.”

“We do,” Adam said, leaning back slightly to capture a wider view of her. “Would you like a beer?”

“Sure would, sweet thing.”

Adam waved the bartender over and ordered two Buds. “Is it usually this crowded on a Tuesday night?” he asked.

“Not really,” Betsy answered. “But tonight there’s sort of a party, I guess really a wake, for one of the regulars that got killed on his bike a few days ago.”

“That’s too bad,” replied Adam.

“Someone pulled out in front of him; he was killed instantly.”

Adam shook his head then took a sip of beer.

He glanced at the wall clock behind the bar. It was getting late. Time to be carrying out the business at hand.

“By the way, have you seen the man you told me about last night?”

Betsy’s right hand covered the side of her face, and she planted her elbow on the bar. “Is that all you want me for?” she asked.

Adam reminded himself to be careful; he had a very well-defined purpose for being in this bar. Act it out, he thought. Suddenly he leaned over and kissed her on the lips. “No, but I would like to meet him. What’s his name?” Was this really an act?

“I only know him as Buzz, and yes he’s here. Wait here and I’ll try to find him.”

After about ten minutes he spotted Betsy emerging from the crowd in the center of the bar, walking toward him with a super-sized, bald-headed man at her side. He wore a denim shirt with the sleeves missing and a pair of jeans that looked like he’d lived in them while rebuilding his bike’s engine for the past six months. Adam guessed he was six-two and probably two-hundred fifty pounds. He was clean shaven except for a thick, black, handlebar moustache.

“Krueger, this is Buzz, Buzz, Krueger,” Betsy announced.

Adam stood and the two shook hands. Buzz’s handshake was like a vise, but Adam held his own.

“I’m gonna leave you two to talk,” Betsy said. She stood on her toes, kissed Adam on the lips, and walked off. She turned once and winked provocatively in his direction.

Adam and Buzz both scoped out the area as they sat at the bar, making sure that no one could hear them talking. Adam finally figured out what was different about this guy: he had one eyebrow missing. The left one was as thick as a caterpillar, but the right one was completely gone. He tried not to stare at the blank space.

“Betsy tells me you’re lookin’ to buy a piece with no serial number.”

“That’s right. Do you have something?”

“I know someone that does, but how do I know you’re not a cop.”

Adam started laughing lightly. “A cop, you’ve got to be shittin’ me. Do I look like a cop?”

Adam watched Buzz check him out from bottom to top. “I don’t know what the fuck you look like.”

“I’m not a cop. I just got out of the joint, on parole.”

“Okay, look, I can take you to see someone, but we have to leave right now. And I want two hundred before we leave. That’s my fee for taking you to see the man.”

“Okay, but what’s the rush?”

Buzz leaned in closer to Adam. “Hey, I ask the questions, you pay the fuckin’ money.”

Adam looked around first, then reached into the left front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a roll of bills. Trying to conceal as best he could the content of the bundle, he peeled off two hundreds. With the two bills in his hand, he reached out and shook hands with Buzz.

“I need to piss before we go,” Adam said.

“Hurry up, Easy Rider.”

Adam stopped in his tracks and turned back. “What’d you call me?”

“Easy Rider.”

“Why’s that?”

“’Cause you look like Dennis Hopper in that movie. Now go piss.”

 105

ADAM DID HAVE to go to the restroom, but he also wanted to see Betsy before he left. He saw her on the way out of the men’s room. She was engaged in conversation with one of the waitresses. As he approached, Betsy saw him, and the waitress walked away to check on the tables she’d neglected.