Message-ID: <29149asstr$983394605@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: From: kellis X-Original-Message-ID: MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; charset=US-ASCII Subject: {ASSM} The Innocent Fugitives Ch24 {Varkel} (MF oral bd ws) Date: Wed, 28 Feb 2001 16:10:05 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: gill-bates, newsman The Innocent Fugitives a Novel by Varkel Copyright (C) 2001, Varkel Chapter 24: A Sudden Transfer The uniformed sergeant entered the booth by the silent pneumatic back door. He asked in a low voice, "Any luck, Cassie?" "No," said the woman leaning over the turning tape cassette, chin in hand, watching the interrogation room through the one-way glass, "but something's going on. The girl was tickled to see them when they came in. The man asked her what she'd told us. She said, 'Nothing.' The woman whispered something to her and they've been sitting with their arms around each other ever since. They haven't said another word." The sergeant shrugged. "They've watched too much TV." He handed her a paper. "Take a look at this." She glanced at it. "Matched what images?" "Look at them closely. That's off the FBI computer. The man and woman are wanted for questioning about a drug bust and a murder in Ohio, and their names aren't Smith." "I agree, it sure looks like them. And the same first names!" She grinned up at the sergeant. "Not too bright, are they?" "The question is, who is this girl they call Bobbie? Look, I've talked to the lieutenant. A couple of detectives are on the way over. We can hold them on that Ohio warrant. We'll put them in separate rooms and turn up the heat. You take that girl back to the conference room and stay with her until the juvenile people come for her." "I can try to get on her soft side." "Why bother? Everybody who's tried that says she's a very streetwise little tart. She won't give us the time of day. She even said her name was 'Jane Doe.'" "That kind sometimes responds if you get a little rough." "Don't do it, Cassie. This is a high-profile case. Hawker was well known at the university, too. I think we got about all we need on him from the other kid -- not to speak of the load of stuff Hawker left in his computers. Have you heard about that?" "Yeah." She grimaced distastefully. "So the boy is talking freely?" "Well, he _was_ till his mamma showed up with a lawyer. Waverley made the mistake of charging both kids with Murder-Two before we got the M.E. results. His lawyer clammed him right up and bundled him off to the juvenile people before we could get it straightened out. But that's all right. Not much mystery left in Hawker. Now we'll find out about this twelve year old nymphomaniac." * * * Corley knocked perfunctorily and walked across the long, plush carpet to the little man at the brightly lit desk. He managed to look worried and sympathetic at the same time. "I'm sorry, Bernie. It's another one, Big Donald this time. He's heard from his guy at the station house, too." Bernie pushed his keyboard back. "What's going on, Corley? I thought it was just the kid in trouble." "I just got off the phone with Marley. Jenny and Paul are being held now on that Ohio warrant. All that will hit the papers, too. Big Donald knows about it. He'll talk to no one but you. Line Four." The little man took a deep breath, punched his telephone and lifted the receiver. "Bernie Nails," he declared. Corley waited as the receiver squawked on and on. After a bit Bernie said placatingly, "Yes, Donald, I know. But just last week you thought she added a year to your father's life." Wincing, he removed the receiver a few inches as it erupted loudly. When it quieted, he said, "I can't do that, Donald, but I can get her out of town." The instrument rattled more calmly. "Don't worry, Donald. I expect she'll go tomorrow. Maybe even tonight... Yeah, I'll let you know." He dropped the receiver into its cradle and gave Corley a stricken look. "What's the matter with them? We fancy it up, but these girls are _whores_. Who expects a whore to be a saint?" Corley replied primly, "It's not that, sir. You know what it is: the exposure. In your idiom, 'the goddamn newspapers.' And the television, of course. They're all afraid she'll make some kind of deal with the cops, with the result that their names get smeared in the news. Or their fathers'. This may be Chicago, where anything goes, but not if you get caught! And employing a prostitute is still a Class A Misdemeanor, even if you're a rich old man on his deathbed. Prosecutors absolutely love the free advertising they get from a case like that." "Very eloquent, Corley," Bernie conceded dryly. He took a deep breath. "I sure hate to do it, but it looks like I've got no choice." He studied his deputy. "Do you think this Calhoun is the same guy who's been mangling my people?" "I don't know, sir. But he's the only one we know who wants her. Perhaps he is the killer's agent, even if unawares." "Even what?" "Giving Calhoun the benefit of the doubt as a police lieutenant, perhaps he is the killer's dupe. The killer expects to take her from him." "And what will happen to her?" "I don't know, sir. But the man wants her very badly indeed!" Bernie sighed. "Lanning, too." "Yes, sir, but we don't really care about Lanning. Unfortunately it's too late to give away only the one." "Yes, it is. Okay, Corley, go make your call." "Yes, sir." * * * "Well, Lanning," said the plain-clothes detective, leaning back in his chair, "might as well be friendly. We'll keep calling you Smith if that's your preference." Paul sat with his arms crossed on his chest behind a scarred table in another room with "Interrogation" on the door and a large, rather dull mirror on the wall. The main difference was the uniformed cop standing against the wall, the grinning fellow across the table and the notable absence of the only two people in the world who mattered. "What do you want?" he asked. "Just a few answers," said the man. He looked at a form in his hand. "They read you your rights, didn't they?" "Yes." Paul added dryly. "They even let me wipe off most of the ink." The detective shrugged. "Taking fingerprints and photograph is just routine, part of being booked. You do know, don't you, that you're not charged with anything in Chicago?" Paul nodded. "So the sergeant told me. Is that why you haven't let me call a lawyer?" "Why do you want a lawyer? You'll need one of them when you get to Ohio." "If you're going to ask questions, I ought to have a lawyer." The man laughed sourly. "Damn the TV! That's the only reason you think so; you saw it on _Law and Order_. Look, I'm not going to ask you any _probative_ questions: you know, like did you kill anybody or sell any drugs. I just want to ask a few _status_ questions. You don't need a lawyer for them." Paul shook his head. "Status? You've matched my fingerprints with the FBI by now. You know all about me. What's to ask?" "Well, like this girl, Bobbie. She can hardly be your daughter. Neither you nor Ms. Collier has any kids. Who is she really?" Paul stared. After a bit he said, "You think that's just a status question?" "Sure. That's all!" "Well, I don't agree. My answer is, ask her." "Maybe I will. When did she take up with you?" "Ask her." "The better question is _where_ did she take up with you?" "Ask her." "I'm asking _you_, Lanning! Do you know about the doctrine of assumed liability? If you supported that girl, gave her a home and claimed her as your daughter -- which you have done, at least at Pilgrim Hill -- then unless you kidnapped her you are responsible under the law the same as if she _was_ your daughter. If you knowingly let her engage in sex, for example, I can charge you with Child Endangerment, Delinquency Contribution and a list of stuff long as your arm, a list that won't look good to a jury, believe me!" Paul took a deep, shaky breath. "I believe you. But I'm not telling you anything else. I --" "I think you have a guilty conscience, Mr. Henry Paul Lanning- Smith. You fucked her, too, by god!" Paul's face turned paper-white. The detective laughed. "Talk about a telling shot! Why don't you come clean, Lanning? Get it off your chest." "I want a lawyer," Paul declared in a low, flat voice. "Yeah, you're going to need one, and a good one, too!" * * * Calhoun raised up on his arms and smiled fondly down at the dazed woman. Her breasts, glistening with perspiration, tossed with panting. Only the whites of her eyes showed. Slowly her pupils rolled forward and focused on him. He declared, "A good one, Ruthie!" "Oh, god, John!" she responded weakly. "I ... didn't know life allowed such sweetness." He chuckled. "I don't think it does for most people. Instead of killing and thieving they would do more of this." She smiled wanly. "In its own way ... this kills, too." "Want to quit it, then?" Her eyes widened dramatically. "Never say that, John! It kills the way my mother wanted to die. It transports me straight to heaven. You realize that I am becoming your slave?" He chuckled again. "Hardly that, Ruthie." "Oh, but I am! That magic wand of yours charms me out of my senses. Lay beside me, will you, dear?" "Whatever you say, slave." Smiling, he withdrew from her and rolled on his side. She raised up. Her hand lifted him. She said dreamily, "Absolutely charming, John! How I hate for it to leave me." She bent forward and took it into her mouth. For a while he stroked her bobbing back before suggesting, "Don't knock yourself out, sweet Ruthie. It's all yours these days, even if I do have to go to work occasionally." Her mouth released him as she turned her eyes up. "But you work such irregular hours, John! Why does a lieutenant need to do that?" "You know I'm not a man who just sits at a desk. In fact right now I need to check my voice mail. It's almost eleven." "Yes, master," she said ironically. Rising from the bed, she retrieved her cordless telephone and passed it to him. "Thank you." He cocked an eyebrow. "Who said slavery was so bad?" He dialed the number and his password. The receiver began to rattle. She crouched at his midsection and resumed her gentle suckling of the shrinking organ while one hand stroked his hard, ribbed belly. Suddenly she felt his body tense. "Oh, ho!" he called, rising up in the bed. He twisted lithely away from her and stood beside the chair containing his britches, from which he extracted his wallet. "What is it?" she asked. "I need to call Chicago. Don't worry; I'll use my card." "You know I don't care about the bill," she protested. He ignored her, punching numbers into the telephone. She wondered, not for the first time, if his insistence on using the calling card was not mainly in order to keep his correspondents' numbers off her telephone bill, but dismissed it, also not for the first time, as an unworthy suspicion. "This is Lt. John Calhoun," he said into the phone, "of the Bering, Ohio, police. I understand you are holding Paul Lanning and Jenny Collier. Is that on my fugitive warrant? ... Okay, I'll wait." She raised her eyebrows. "They caught them?" He nodded. "According to the informant." "My god, John," she murmured admiringly, "have you got yourself an ear in the Chicago police?" "Not quite," he replied with a grin that vanished suddenly. "What's that -- Child Abandonment? Are you referring to Bobbie Gentry?" The receiver rattled. Calhoun continued, "Right: age twelve, blonde hair, blue eyes, four-foot-seven, about 95 pounds. Her full name is Bobbie Marie Gentry and you'll find her birth certificate in the Michigan registry... That's up to you. I don't have anything on her. When can you release the two adults?" His expression showed frustration. "Fighting extradition? When's the hearing? ... All right, thanks for the confirmation. Keep me informed, will you?" He stood naked beside the chair, letting the telephone dangle from his hand, a distant expression on his face. Ruth lay on the bed, raised on an elbow, body still tingling from their recent lovemaking. She had hoped to renew that tingle, but now she despaired, even before he spoke. "I've got to make tracks, Ruthie. With any luck I can get them out before dawn." * * * "I was beginning to wonder if you were asleep back there." The turnkey grimaced. "Take it easy, sarge. I was in the john." "Well, I got to get these people over to Plimpton before I can stop for breakfast, and I'm hungry. Shake them up, will you?" "People? Where's your paper?" The big man passed across a long court document, blank on one side, on the other the splotchy gray common since Xerox: the umpteenth copy of a copy. Only the prisoners' names, the origin and destination prisons, the judge's and clerk's signatures and the court seal imprint appeared in fresh ink. "Note down here: you're to put shackles and cuffs on them." "Cuffs is okay, but I ain't got but one set of leg irons. Can I chain them together?" "If you'll write and sign a change on the order. I wouldn't want Plimpton to think I lost a leg iron." The jailer chuckled. "No, guess not. You want to help me fetch them or wait here?" "You need help?" "Not really. These two are pussies. And that's funny. Who is it thinks they need to be bumped up to Plimpton?" Calhoun shrugged. "Maybe an old record showed up. All I know is, somebody convinced a judge they need better security. If it's all the same to you, I'll just wait here. It's been a long night." "Yeah, it has. I'll be back in a few minutes." As the turnkey vanished behind his barred desk, the big man took a seat in one of the straight chairs provided in the corner and leaned his head back against the wall. His eyes sank nearly closed and he drowsed for ten minutes until the clank of metal beyond the bars announced the jailer's return with company. He sprang to his feet and shook the sleep from his eyes. "Wait here," the turnkey told the sullen faced man and woman behind him, still in their own clothing including overcoats. He came to his desk, bearing two large manila envelopes, and presented them to Calhoun. To each was stapled a card with names, photographs, descriptions and fingerprints. Calhoun glanced at them and laid them aside. He passed the transfer order across in exchange. "Fill in something about the leg-irons and go make your copy." The man struck through part of the shackle order and wrote an amendment, then signed his name. "Not much point in a copy. You can hardly read this one!" "Better follow procedure," Calhoun advised. "It'll take ten minutes for the copier to warm up. Shackled, they're not going anywhere you don't want them to. Here. Sign the custody sheet." Calhoun leaned in and signed voluminously but illegibly in two places. The jailer shook his head but withheld comment as he passed the shackle keys to Calhoun. The door buzzed. "All right, you two. Go with the sergeant." With the manila folders under one arm, Calhoun reached past the swinging bars and clutched Paul's handcuff. He turned around and led the two stumbling prisoners out of the room and up the staircase to the cold night air. Paul's left ankle was chained to Jenny's right. A civilian vehicle was parked in the visitor's slot with its engine running. Calhoun pushed his prisoners into the backseat. As he did so, Jenny's eyes widened in the bright light above the prison door. "You!" She stared at Calhoun, who ignored her exclamation as he handcuffed the chain between her handcuffs to a hole in a seatbelt receiver. He backed out of the car, slammed the door and went around to open the trunk. "Didn't you recognize him?" asked Jenny. "Yeah," Paul answered with little interest. "He's that damned lieutenant from Bering who's been after us so long." "Yes, but what's he doing in a Chicago sergeant's uniform?" "Huh?" "You have to pay attention, Paul. Didn't that lawyer say we couldn't be taken to Ohio until the extradition hearing?" "Yeah, but after all these new charges because of Bobbie, I think we'd better take our chances in Ohio." "But ... but ... You may be right, but still, what happened to the extradition hearing?" Paul shrugged. "I guess they didn't need it after all." The driver's door opened and the car rocked as Calhoun settled into the seat. The dome light turned off with the closing door, but not before both prisoner's saw the silver lieutenant's bars gracing the big man's shoulders. He turned around to back the car out of its slot. "Promoted again so soon?" asked Paul whimsically. Calhoun grinned at him. "A big frog in a small pond is often a small frog in a big one." "You don't mean --" "A reciprocal agreement between Chicago and Bering. Makes for good relations, cross training, all sorts of advantages. Lots of cities do it." He turned the car out into a dark street and increased speed. The first false light was showing in the east. "Did that turnkey let you use your toilets before he hustled you out?" "No!" both prisoners declared in heated tones. "I haven't either. Hang on and I'll stop as soon as we cross into Indiana, another 45 minutes." Jenny asked tremulously, "Wh-what's going to happen to us, lieutenant?" "You'll be incarcerated in Bering until we can schedule a bail hearing, though I warn you, you've already run once. Judges don't like to grant bail to runners. Your Chicago lawyer won't be any good in Ohio. Do you have one in Ohio?" "Never needed one before," Paul noted sorrowfully. "Well, I'll see that the court appoints you one until you find one of your own." "We're innocent, you know," said Jenny as an afterthought. "Yes, I know." He must be tired, she thought. He didn't sound at all sarcastic. * * * "What are you listening to?" Cassie reached out and punched "Stop" on the tape player. She and the detective removed their earphones. The detective answered, "A tape found in the search of Bobbie Gentry's place. We need to get somebody from the prosecutor's office down here to listen, too, captain. This is hot and if it keeps on the way it started, we'll have the goods on that pair." "Lanning and Collier? What goods?" "Yeah. Lanning's voice is on here. He's asking the kid questions and you ought hear her answers! She's telling him everybody she ever had sex with, beginning about age nine. She even came to Chicago once to pop naked out of a cake for some kind of doctors' party. If we can tie down all the references, we'll nail people in at least three states. The feds will go nuts." The man with the captain's bars leaned over the desk and punched "Eject" on the player, then examined the cassette. It was labeled in felt tip: "Bobbie's Confession, 12/7." He directed, "Get technical services to make three copies of this and lock the original in the evidence room. Cassie, you'll be the only one to carry a key. Also tell the techies to make a transcription of it. Are there any other voices on it?" Cassie answered, "No, sir. Just Lanning and the girl so far." The captain thought a moment. "Is she telling her story in more- or-less chronological order?" "I believe so." He handed her the cassette. "Then skip ahead and see if she implicates Lanning as a molester." "Before I take it to be copied?" "Right away. The prisoners have had breakfast by now. I'll get Lanning up here immediately for more interrogation, mention this tape and let him stew until you give me the word. Better notify his lawyer." "Yes, sir, but there's enough on here already to prove endangerment and criminal neglect." "Good. That will soften him up. And we can make Collier testify against him. He can't claim spousal privilege." As the woman restored the cassette to the player, the captain picked up a telephone receiver and punched a few buttons. In a moment he said, "This is Captain Villiers. I want the prisoner Paul Lanning brought up to eye-three right away. Send a guard to stay with him. You got it? ... What problem?" His eyes widened. "They what?" The receiver rattled. "Who authorized that? ... What do you mean, you don't know? Read it off the copy of the transfer order... Hello? ... Well, find that order, damn it, and call me back." He slammed down the telephone and glowered at his two subordinates, by now displaying their most innocent expressions in response to his anger. He grated, "Lanning and Collier have been transferred to Plimpton." The detective blinked. "Whatever for?" "Yeah, that's the question, all right. I suppose their lawyer must have arranged it, though what he hopes to accomplish is anybody's guess." He sighed. "I'll set my admin to tracking this down and get that pair back over here. Meanwhile you have your orders for the tape." * * * "Bobbie, I am Bessie Harrod from the Child Protection Division." The girl, still wearing yesterday's school uniform, had looked up at the middle-aged woman's entrance to the conference room. She glowered at the newcomer and said with a sneer, "Then how about protecting me out of here?" The woman nodded, taking a seat across the table. "Getting you out of this police station is exactly why I'm here. It has no proper facilities to hold children. The question is, Bobbie, just where do you need to go?" "How about letting me go back to my parents?" "Your parents?" "Paul and Jenny Smith." "And where are they located, Bobbie?" The girl shrugged. "Last night they were a few doors down the hall. I don't know where you guys put them since." "I see. You mean Paul Lanning and Jenny Collier, do you?" The girl only stared. The woman sighed. "They are not your parents, Bobbie." "I say they are." The woman studied her thoughtfully. "Do you really want that, Bobbie? We have incontrovertible evidence of how they molested you." "Incont-cont --" "Evidence they can't deny." "Who says?" "_You_ did, as a matter of fact. We have your voluntary confession on tape." "Oh, that!" The girl smiled slyly. "That was all a crock, you know." "No, it wasn't, Bobbie. We have already started checking it out. Your Uncle Kenny, Kenneth Peter Gentry, is your only relative of record. That is, he was." "He's dead?" "Yes, Bobbie. He was shot dead in a drunken quarrel last month. The Michigan police are still investigating. I'm sorry." The girl tilted her head back. "I told you: Paul and Jenny are my parents." The woman shook her head. "Well, you couldn't go with them even if in fact they were. So I'd like to ask you a few general questions about yourself, Bobbie. These are very important questions. Your answers will determine where you spend the next several weeks." Bobbie's eyes showed interest. "What's the choices?" "If you don't mind, I'll tell you that after you answer my questions." She took pen and pad from her purse. "Would you like to visit a bathroom first?" "No." "Want something to drink?" "No." "All right. Here's the first question. "What do you like the best in the world?" The girl sniffed. "I don't have to answer your questions." "Yes, you do, Bobbie. I'll tell you why. I don't have the power to hurt you, to do anything to you except recommend a place of residency for the next few weeks. But if you won't talk to me, then you'll have to go before a man who _can_ hurt you: a juvenile court judge! He has the power to put you in solitary confinement until you're eighteen... So the real first question is, had you rather talk to me or to him?" The girl studied the woman. At last she took a deep breath and said, "Dick." "What?" "Dick is what I like best in the world." * * * Calhoun leaned into the car and unlocked the shackles on their ankles. Leaving Jenny chained to the seat, he took Paul's arm and helped him to rise. Paul stretched as well as he could despite the handcuffs. "Wait here," Calhoun said to Jenny with a smug grin, leading Paul away and into the hulking building. That morning the lieutenant had entered the first truck stop they encountered in Indiana, let them use the relief facilities, brought them breakfast, then parked in the back of the truck stop where he proceeded to fall asleep in the reclined front seat. As a result of his nap and two additional stops they had arrived in Bering just after nightfall. Jenny looked around in puzzlement. Now he had parked in what appeared to be a run-down industrial district, before a huge dark building hardly lit at all by lights on distant street corners. She watched him unlock a small door beside an empty loading dock and lead Paul inside. How curious! No light was on inside the building, either. She squinted at the high brick front. At one time a business name had been painted there, but something had worn it nearly away. Somebody's "Warehouse," maybe? What kind of jail was this? She repeated that question aloud when Calhoun returned to free her from the car. He grinned at her cheerfully. "You didn't hear about the Grange Street fire? Ought to keep up with things in your home town." "What fire?" she asked, stumbling after him as he slammed the car door. "Burned down the city jail last month. This is a temporary facility, one of several. Don't worry. I don't think you'll be here too long." "Was anyone ... hurt?" "No. Heroic police work saved all the prisoners. We take care of our own, Mrs. Collier. You can count on it. Now, follow close behind me. The electrical system in here has a problem. We have to climb a set of stairs in the dark." He led her into pitch blackness. She tried to pull back. "Wait a minute! Just what is going on here?" "I know this is strange," he said placatingly, "but come on around this corner and we'll start to get some light. I've got to check you in on the second floor." He tugged on her handcuff chain and reluctantly she allowed herself to be drawn forward. A chill was gathering on her scalp. She shivered. He felt it. "Take it easy, Mrs. Collier. See the light up at the top? Come on, now, and watch your step. We had a drunk fall down these stairs last week and crack his skull." At the top of the stairs she could see a door with a very dim light over it. At least she was able to make out the stair treads, metal ones that rang with their footsteps, between cinder block walls. Her nose was filled with the odor of old concrete and rust and the man's spicy perspiration. The cuffs hurt her wrists. She tried to follow closer. When they reached the top, she saw that the landing admitted to two doors. He opened the one to the left of the light and led her through it into a brightly lit room. She had an impression of furniture, a couch, table, drapery-hung walls -- and Paul standing in a recessed alcove, hands stretched over his head. Paul's unmistakable voice rose in a shout that hardly reverberated against the drapes. "Run, Jenny!" Before she could react, Calhoun, a foot taller than she, already grasping the 12-inch chain between her handcuffs, thrust his hand and arm fully above his own head. As a result she was lifted off her feet. Gaping in astonishment, she screamed, but the sound fell flat as Paul's shout. She was swept quickly forward into the alcove beside her man. Calhoun clicked another handcuff dangling there around one of her wrists. When he released her chain, she found herself still elevated by the one arm, though now her toes could touch the tile floor. Calhoun stood back, getting something from his pocket. Jenny demanded hysterically, "Wh-what are you doing to us?" His face was intent. Ignoring her question, he grabbed her other wrist, unlocked the handcuff applied that morning in Chicago and forced the wrist up into the twin of the one dangling from a chain in the ceiling. Maintaining his rapid pace, he removed the original handcuffs completely, bent to her feet and snapped another set of manacles, chained to rings in the floor, to her ankles. The fact that her new set of manacles, both for wrists and ankles, was felt-lined did not appease Jenny in the slightest. She snarled, "You bastard! What kind of a cop are you?" He smiled at her and took the time to gather both hers and presumably Paul's Chicago handcuffs, slipping them into his lieutenant's coat pocket, before answering. "That should be obvious to you, Mrs. Collier: a _rogue_ one! Do you know the concept?" "A _rogue_ cop? What does that mean?" "One with no regard whatsoever for the law in his private affairs." "Good god!" she declared, eyes widening in horror. "Perhaps not so good, eh?" He took off his coat, laid it over a couch, and went to a small box mounted on the wall. "72 in here. That will soon be uncomfortably cool for you." He touched the box. "Let's raise it up to 78." From the thermostat he turned to the drawer of a small table, took out an implement and again stood before his prisoners. "These are simply a sharp pair of dress-maker's shears." Indeed they were sharp. He stooped at Paul's feet, pulled the slack out of a pants leg and began to cut swiftly up the cloth of the leg. "God damn it!" Paul implored and kicked out with that shoe, succeeding in striking Calhoun's chest before reaching the limit of the chain. The big man fell over onto his backside. He looked up into Paul's glower. "I guess I can't blame you for that. I can only blame myself for carelessness." He got to his feet and returned to the little table at the side of the room. Paul saw that it was in fact a control desk, studied with electrical buttons. Calhoun punched a few and somewhere in the floor a motor began to hum. Clanking, the chains attached to his ankles were drawn into their metal-rimmed hawseholes. When the man's feet were pulled against the metal, Calhoun punched additional buttons and stopped the motors. Paul stood now, barely flatfooted on the floor, arms held fully aloft, wincing from the pressure on his ankles. Calhoun returned to his cutting. The shears slashed and ripped. Only belt, shoes and socks came away from Paul's body without being destroyed. In a very few minutes he stood stark naked. His rings and wristwatch had been taken from him in Chicago. The removed tatters, including his overcoat, filled two grocery bags. "That should be a little more comfortable," Calhoun suggested with a grin. "At least you'll be able to appreciate the ambiance here." He returned to the control table. The motors whined again and chain links played out of the holes in the floor, but only a few inches worth. "And that should be a bit easier on your ankles. But I warn you: those motors are powerful. If you succeed in kicking me again, I shall let one run until it separates that foot completely." He turned to Jenny and looked her up and down with a smile, clearly savoring his expectations. "Interesting how a little desperation modifies attitudes, isn't it, my dear?" "I am not your dear!" she averred forcefully. "Oh, but you are! You have no idea how dear." He took a breath. "You're intelligent, near the top of your class at nursing school, so perhaps you'll understand the implications of what I'm about to say. Bud told me often how you refused him, how you hated sex of any kind, particularly oral or anal. Now look at how you have changed, my dear! I have a copy of your video from Kentucky, servicing three men at once with commendable enthusiasm. And I have talked to some of your clients in Chicago. Such empathy for aged and incompetent penises! Yet you are still as lovely as the woman who refused her husband -- at least in your clothing. Let's see if it all still matches." He knelt before her to remove her shoes. His shears began to rip up the legs of her pants suit. She made no attempt to kick him. Instead she asked, "You actually _knew_ my husband?" "My dear," he responded with a leer, "I'd bet I fucked him more times than you did." "You damned queer!" Paul grated as the man ripped Jenny's blouse away. "You did her husband, who did my wife. Is that the way it was?" "Oh, no, Mr. Lanning." Calhoun made but a moment's work of the brassiere. "I fucked both of them, of course, your pretty wife the more often, I'm sure: she did beg for it so! I am a man of superior appetite, as you will soon discover, and men's bodies can be almost as satisfactory as women's." He paused to fondle the exposed breasts, squeezing them until Jenny winced. "Nothing exceptional, but not bad. At least they retain enough flesh not to hollow above the nipple -- but then, you are still a young woman, aren't you, my dear?" Her breasts exhibited red splotches when the shears attacked her coat sleeves. Jenny asked in a strained voice, "Then you must know who killed our spouses." His eyes widened almost comically. "Come, come, my dear. You can certainly tell me now. Didn't you and your new lover do it?" She blinked. "My who?" He tilted his head toward the glowering Paul. "This fine fellow whom you had never laid eyes on before you met me, and whose masculinity you have verified many times since. Do you deny it?" She shook her head violently. "I deny killing anyone. And neither did Paul." "Are you sure? We can even make a case that you two killed that couple from Oregon. Lanning's cuff-links and some of your jewelry were found scattered at the scene." "What?" demanded Paul. "But they stole --" "Hush, Paul," interrupted the woman, staring fixedly at her grinning tormentor. "He's playing with us. _You_ killed them all, didn't you!" The man's smile faded. "Do you think so, Mrs. Collier? Then think about this: those were cold blooded, vicious killings, so they say. I suggest you keep that fact in mind during the coming days." He gathered up the shreds of her clothing and stuffed it in another pair of bags. Like Paul, she stood naked as the day of her birth, except for the long auburn hair that cascaded behind her shoulders. Her pubes had been shaved the day before but could be detected now only by a finger. Again Calhoun looked her up and down. "Very shapely, indeed, Mrs. Collier. I am certain that your late husband, if he could be here now, would declare your beauty intact." He smirked. "From your exploits in Kentucky and Chicago, I gather that you have thoroughly investigated all modes of sexual pleasure since your departure with our Mr. Lanning. The number of spermatozoa your body has absorbed in these few months must be astronomical. Wouldn't you agree you've fucked more with far more partners since August than during your entire previous life? I presume you've been taking your contraceptives regularly." He chuckled ominously. "At least you'll no longer need to worry about conception." She stared at him with frightened eyes. "Sir and madam, Please observe a few points of your new environment. The chains to your ankles and wrists can all be lengthened and shortened. When I finish this session, I intend to lengthen them so much that you can move off the tile onto the carpet, which can make a comfortable bed. You may even console each other, if you so desire. Most of the time you will be allowed such lattitude. "Since I am personally the delivery boy, you will get only one meal a day. It will vary in quality but will be adequate in quantity. "Notice the drain hole in the center of the tile. That is for urine or vomit. You may deposit feces near it. Someone will hose you down at least every night. And now, to demonstrate its use ..." He opened his fly and pulled out a penis, sizeable even if flaccid. Standing in front of Jenny, he arched a yellow stream upon her belly. "Oh, god!" she wailed, trying to flinch back, succeeding only in transferring her weight painfully to her wrists. The man raised his organ higher, increasing his bladder pressure, and painted her sighing face. "Gah!" she cried, spitting. He laughed, held his water and waddled across the tile to Paul, where he repeated the demonstration, playing the stream particularly upon the prisoner's shrunken organ. A man always has two or three final squirts to be expelled from the lengthy pathway between prostate and orifice. Calhoun fired these into Paul's face. "God damn you!" Paul muttered, also spitting, blinking an eye rapidly. Calhoun chuckled while rezipping his fly. "You're a bit late with that curse, my friend. The damning occurred long ago. Let's see. Your last piss was about five hours back. Both your bladders should be full as mine. Please cut loose. The sooner you get accustomed to the informal methods here, the better for you." He waited. Both stared at him stonily, adding nothing to the urine dripping from their chins and from breasts and penis. He shrugged. "Suit yourself. Notice, please, Mr. Lanning, that if you try you can send your stream beyond the tile to the edge of the carpet. But if you do that, sir, it is you who will have to endure the odor all the next day. Now for a bath! Don't you think you need a bath?" He went to a cabinet set into the side wall, opened it and uncoiled a rubber hose. As he brought it forward, he declared, "This water will be rather cold, I fear. If it ran long enough it would become tepid, but we shall hardly need --" Both prisoners' glaring eyes turned to a click behind him. He whirled and smiled at the person standing in a side door. "Ah, awakened from your nap, have you? Are you feeling well tonight?" "A bit hungry." It was a middle-aged woman, gray of hair, dressed in a long, flowing housecoat partly buttoned in front. She stared at the prisoners. "What have we here?" "Subjects, very special subjects for your evaluation." "Special? What's so special about them?" "Until this morning, these people were incarcerated in a holding facility in Chicago, awaiting trial. Now they have vanished, transferred to another prison. They picked the wrong alias, you see: Smith, much too common! It turns out that the prison to which they were supposedly transferred already has two people in it named Paul and Jenny Smith. This Paul and Jenny before us are lost in the impenetrable Chicago bureaucracy -- which means they have vanished off the face of the Earth." "My god, you mean ... They belong to us?" "Body and soul, my dear. And they are special for an even stronger reason. Mrs. Amy Earnest Calhoun, my mother, may I present the innocent fugitives, Mr. Paul Lanning and Mrs. Jenny Collier?" NEXT: Chapter 25: Prisoners All Varangian: ludmax11@hotmail.com Kellis: kellis@dhp.com -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+