Eyes of the Predator (4 page)

Her mouth opened as if to scream.
Shaking his head, he pressed the knife more firmly against her throat, until
the blade drew the smallest trickle of blood. Her mouth closed, and her head
nodded understanding. No sound.

With a fluid motion, he opened
the passenger door of the car, pushing her in with his body. He forced her down
on the seat, holding her there with his weight. Pulling a plastic tie wrap from
his pocket, the kind electricians use to bundle wires and cables, he looped it
around her wrists and pulled hard. He knew that police officers used similar
tie wraps to secure prisoners when they ran out of hand cuffs. Smart boys,
those cops were.

The girl gasped in pain as the
narrow, hard plastic strip cut into her wrists. Taking another plastic tie wrap
from his pocket, he looped it through the one on her wrists and then through
the seat frame by the door. This had all taken only a few seconds. The small
gasp she had made could not have been heard inside the store and probably would
not have been audible more than a few feet away.

His actions were swift, decisive,
and powerful, throwing the young girl into a state of complete traumatic
confusion fed by fear. It hadn’t always been that way. His hunting skills had
been acquired through trial and error, much the way young lion cubs learn. He
had been lucky more than once, but that was also part of the thrill of the
game.

Now, years of planning and
practice made his movements reflexive. There was no thought about what he was
doing. He just did it. When to make his move, how fast to move, how hard to
grip the throat, where to press the knife. He just knew.

It was almost a little
disappointing to him. He was too good. The thrill of chance was missing.

But it couldn’t be helped. Better
safe than sorry, he reminded himself when he felt the urge to take an
unnecessary chance. He would have to make up for the lost thrill in some other
way. This thought must have flashed across his face in some way because the
girl’s eyes widened, and she opened her mouth as if to scream.

That was only for an instant
though. He pushed the knife hard against her throat, and this time blood
trickled down onto her shirt.

 “No sound,” he whispered
through clenched teeth. “Do you understand? Do what I say, and you will be
okay. If you don’t…” The knife’s point pressed harder against her throat again
making a new, small cut.

She nodded. Through eyes dimmed
by tears, she saw him smile.

He closed the door softly, but
firmly, not bothering with duct tape over her mouth. That was dangerous in
public, even at night. Duct tape was fine to prevent screams from attracting
attention in a hotel room or somewhere where no one could see. In public, the
sight of duct tape over the girl’s mouth would attract immediate attention.
Even at night, a roaming police car might get close enough for the officer to
see a taped girl in the seat.

No. It wasn’t necessary. He knew
how to control her. The girl’s trembling silence was testament to his ability
in this respect.

It took him only a second to scan
the lot for anyone who might have seen as he moved to the driver’s side of the
car. No one had.

Sliding behind the wheel, he
turned the key. The old car started quietly. It was in excellent running
condition, despite the fading paint job. The car glided through the parking
lot, not too fast and not slow; just the right speed for a person who had
picked up a few groceries and was casually heading home for the evening.

From the corner of his eye, he
saw her turn her head towards the store. Two cashiers and a couple of customers
could be seen through the brightly lit window. A teenage boy was bagging
groceries for one of the customers. She could see them, but he knew that they
could not see her trembling, tear stained face or hear the soft sobbing sounds
she made, as she struggled to follow his command to remain silent.

Huddled against the door, the
girl was just a silhouette in the dark car. Her sobbing continued, softly.

Regarding her with curiosity, her
captor wondered what she was feeling. How deep was her fear? What thoughts
crashed through her mind? Sympathy, nor guilt, did not exist for him; just an
intense, hungry curiosity that had to be satisfied. He would know. She would
reveal it all to him. The fear. The terror. The hope for survival. And then her
terrible realization that there was no hope. He would know it all before the
night ended. He had plans for her that would ensure that it all came spilling,
tumbling onto the floor. He would wash himself in it.

“Are you ready for our night on
the town?” he asked, almost softly.

Her sobbing grew louder. Perfect
he thought, and a small shudder of excitement coursed through his body.

“What do you want?” she whispered
between sobs. “What did I do?”

“Do? Why, you didn’t do anything.
You were just there.”

His words were intended to show
her the random and hopeless nature of her circumstances. They succeeded. Her
sobbing grew louder again, “Please, please don’t hurt me.”

“Hurt you? Why, I’m not going to
hurt you. Have I hurt you yet?” He let the question linger in the air, letting
her consider it. Maybe there was hope. He wanted her to believe that for now.
It would make her later realization of the truth even sweeter.

It worked. She calmed some and
her sobbing became softer again.

“Then why are you doing this?
Please let me go. I won’t tell…just please let me go.”

“Calm down, honey. I could have
hurt you, but I didn’t…I won’t.” He let the lie linger there in the quiet of
the car knowing that it would deepen her hope. Squeezing every ounce of
pleasure and satisfaction out of this game was a practiced ability.

“You know why I won’t hurt you?”
He looked over at her and saw the glimmer of hope brighten in her eye. “Because
I have…needs. You can help me with those. Then I’ll let you go,” he said softly
and honestly.

It was honest because it was
true. She would help him with his needs, feed him and satisfy the animal caged
inside, and he would let her go. He would send her on her way; into the
darkness that he imagined death to be. Of course, his honesty did not extend to
telling her that or in what condition she would be when he did let her go. That
would come later. She would know. Right now, he wanted her to hope, to believe,
that she could survive. When the time came, her disappointment and terror at the
realization of what he really meant would be exquisite.

He could almost hear her
thoughts. They were like electricity in the car. ‘Rape? Okay rape. I can get
through this. I can deal with rape. Just survive. Don’t do anything to make him
do more than rape me. Survive.’

She was the rabbit surprised and
caught in the talons of the owl, lying still in the cool night grass thinking
that if it made no sudden movement, the owl might release. But eventually the
owl would tear into the flesh, and the rabbit would scream its high-pitched,
eerie scream, knowing that death was near.

She wanted to believe in her
survival, and so she did.

Turning right onto the main road,
they drove north. The state line was another twenty miles up the road. Georgia.
Georgia was on his mind.

Lyn jerked her bedroom door open
and saw her mother lying on the floor in the middle of the room. Blood trickled
from her head. The beer can that her father had thrown was on the floor beside
her. He stood there with a wolfish grin on his face, proud of what he’d done.

“You son of a bitch!” Lyn
screamed at him as she ran to her mother’s side.

Trying to stand, her mother held
a hand to the side of her face where blood trickled down under her fingers from
the  gash the thrown can had caused above her left eye.

 “What the hell did you call
me?” her father said with a tone of incredulity in his voice, and then
recovering he shouted, “You ain’t gonna talk to me like that you little fucking
bitch!”

Lurching across the room, he made
a drunken, unsteady grab for his daughter. Lyn dodged, but he followed up with
a backhand that caught her across the face and sent her reeling against the
wall. Beer soaked as he was, he was still a powerful man. He reached down and
grabbed her arm pulling her up with his left hand and balling up his right fist
to strike her.

“No!” Mama screamed.

A moment later, her father’s grip
relaxed as he tumbled forward to the floor on top of Lyn. She dragged herself
out from under his dead weight and stood up, a look of revulsion, mingled with
dread, on her face.

Mama stood there, shaking with
anger. Tears, mixed with the blood from the gash, streaked her worn face. A
heavy iron skillet was in her hand. It had been on the old stove on the other
side of the room.

Lyn had been wrong. This was not
like every other night. Somehow, tonight had just gotten worse…much worse. Or
maybe, she had just become aware of how fucked up they all were. All of them.
Her father’s evil bullying, her mother’s acceptance, and her own silence in the
face of it all. Everything that had been bottled up for so long had just come
out at once. She looked down at her father.

“Is he…”

“Dead? I doubt it, but no loss if
he is.” Mama replied and then knelt down to check him.

Lyn saw a nasty lump forming over
his right temple.

“He ain’t dead,” Mama said
standing. “Just drunker than usual. That thump in the head was what he needed
to put him out.”

Lyn started crying and then
sobbing. Her mother took her by the shoulders and pulled her to the threadbare
sofa. Sitting her down, she held her, rocking back and forth, keeping an eye on
the unconscious man across the room and a washcloth over the gash on her own
head from the thrown beer can.

After a while, Lyn’s sobbing
eased. Her mother sat her up straight and held her wet face in her rough hands,
looking her in the eye.

“You have to leave now, baby
girl.”

“But…no, Mama…”

“Quiet.” Her mother’s voice was
calm and firm. She continued, “I know you been planning to go for a while...for
a long time. Well, tonight’s the night. You are leaving.”

“But, no... What about you?”

Her mother cut her off again. “We
ain’t arguing about this baby. I’ll be fine. At least he won’t do any worse to
me than he has before. But you…you’re his conscience. You’re what makes him
feel guilty. If you stay, he’ll hurt you, maybe hurt you really bad. I won’t
let that happen. No, you’re leaving…tonight.”

There was finality in Mama’s
voice. And she knew Mama was right. Daddy would never tolerate her in the same
house again. But where? Where would she go? How could she go?

Mama’s eye softened and tears
welled up and followed the others that had streaked her face.

“I know baby. I know what you’re
thinking. You go somewhere…anywhere. I can’t say, but it has to be to a better
place than this. We ain’t got no family and there is no one around here that
you can stay with. Daddy would find you. You have to go far away. I hate that
it has to be this way, but it has to be. You go on now.”

With that, Mama pulled her close
and held her tight against her breast for a long time. She felt her mother’s
soft sobs and hugged her back tightly. After a while, Mama pushed her back,
turned her face and stood up quickly.

“Come now,” her voice was firm
again, “Let’s get you packed and out of here.”

Mama walked towards the bedroom.
Lyn sat there for a minute in a haze, hearing the heavy breathing from the man
on the floor. Could he really be her father? This big, mean, drunk man? Was
there a time when he could have been a real father?

A small framed picture sat on the
table beside Lyn. She picked it up and peered closely at it. A big man in
overalls sat outside on a kitchen chair in the yard in front of the house
holding a small baby in the crook of his arm. The baby was Lyn. The man was her
Daddy. At least that’s what Mama had told her. Was it really him? Was it really
her? Lyn couldn’t remember. She sat there until the small room seemed to close
in on her so that she had to stand up to escape. She moved numbly into the
bedroom where her few things were already being neatly folded and stacked on
the bed by the old woman who was her mother.

Ten minutes later, she stood
clutching her mother by the neck. She could smell the plain soap she used, the
detergent in her clothes, the musty, earthy fragrance of her gray, thin hair.
She tried to soak in everything about her that she could.

Finally, the old woman pried the
girl’s fingers off her neck.

“You have to go. Go.” She ordered
through her sobs.

Opening the door, she pushed her
daughter out into the night.

“Go…now,” she choked the words out
and slammed the door.

The girl stood on the front porch
of the only home she had ever known. Mean and rough as it was, it was all she
had known.

She didn’t know how long it was
before her feet started to move numbly. First one, then the other. Unconsciously,
they carried her to the dirt road and out to the two lane highway about a mile
away. Her small bag dragged in the dust as she walked.

A soft moan escaped the old
woman’s lips. She was slumped on the floor against the door she had closed
behind her only daughter. Her breast heaved in pain at the thought, and she
sobbed.

A muttered prayer came trembling
from her lips and echoed softly in the room. But the house seemed a black hole.
It sucked everything into it, not allowing it to escape. Words, thoughts,
happiness, prayers. It seemed that nothing made its way out of the dark house.

But her daughter had made it out.
And she would do whatever she could to make sure the young girl kept going.
Anywhere. Just away.