BODACIOUS Page 12

  Franklin took great pains in selecting the spot for his sleeping bag. On his hands and knees, he smoothed away rocks and sticks, concentrating on his task. She tried to calm down--to think.

  On his second trip to the truck, he turned off the headlights and returned with a bag which he placed on a rock several feet from the bedding. He produced two quart jars of what looked like moonshine whiskey. He opened one jar and took a long swig, which induced a coughing fit. He wiped his eyes and ventured a look at Sara.

  Under his scrutiny, she was acutely aware of her clothing. The thin nightshirt outlined her breasts. She rounded her shoulders to conceal them as much as possible. The shirt normally hung nearly to her shins but with her arms raised, it was hiked to her knees. When Franklin turned back to his chores, she began working on the cord again, clawing frantically with her thumbs, tearing her nails, trying to ignore the swelling, injured hand.

  The night air grew cold. She could see her breath in puffs, and chills covered her arms and legs. Dressed as she was, she was going to get badly chilled before dawn. She shivered and hoped by dawn, the cold was the worst of her problems. She should never have come with Franklin. How could she have been so stupid?

  She worked the bindings and eyed her adversary carefully as he hummed and busied himself making camp, tippling frequently from the fruit jar as he worked. He glanced up at her from time-to-time, freezing her thumbs mid scratch.

  Her hand throbbed in the cold. She mustn’t think of her weaknesses, must focus on her strengths. She was smarter than he was. She needed to take advantage, make that work for her?

  “Franklin,” she said in a coaxing voice. He looked up. “I’m cold. I wish we had a fire.”

  He studied her hard. She lowered her eyes.

  “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. I knew it was too much to ask.” She pretended to be ashamed for making such a difficult request. “Campers need special equipment to build campfires. I just thought that you, being a mountain man, might know a secret. Please go on. I’m learning a lot just watching you work.”

  Franklin cocked his head and the naked gums reappeared, gleaming behind his toothless grin. “They ain’t nothin’ to buildin’ a fire.”

  “You’re being modest. No one could come out here in the wilderness and build a campfire without the right equipment.”

  He scurried to gather dried grass and small sticks which he piled into a heap on flat, bare ground. He rimmed the site with rocks, then hunkered, his back to her. She heard a match snap before he ignited a small flame and turned, his grin expectant, eager for praise.

  “Oh, Franklin.” Sara forced herself to smile. “I never dreamed you could do it. Thank you very much.”

  Giggling, he knelt and bent low to blow on the flame as he added small sticks.

  “You are really good at this.”

  He added larger pieces of wood and, finally, an armful of dead branches.

  “Franklin, you’re a regular Daniel Boone.”

  He had produced a nice blaze, one which Sara hoped might be visible against the nighttime sky, should anyone be looking.

  Another swig from the jar and Franklin swaggered forward, eying Sara. She stopped working on the bindings hoping they were loose enough.

  Her eyes darted from his face to the fruit jar and back. “Did you bring enough for me?” She tried to sound playful.

  Holding the mouth of the container with fingers wrapped over the top, he sidled closer, stopped a few feet in front of her and took another long drink. Grinning, he let the brown liquid dribble through his scraggly beard and down his chin.

  Sara struggled for control of her facial expression. She didn’t want her revulsion to show. He was still out of range. The cord was so loose she was afraid it might fall off the branch before she was ready. If she could hurt him, really hurt him, she’d break for the truck. The keys were there. Make it to the truck, and she was home free.

  “Come on, Franklin, I’d share with you.”

  He took another step and another swallow. His eyelids drooped. His dull eyes had gotten duller but the silly grin continued. Clutching the jar, fingers clamped over the lip, he reached for the neck of her shirt with the other. She eased back as far as the cord allowed. Franklin shuffled forward.

  She took one stride, planted her left foot and brought her right knee straight up, slamming it into his groin.

  He let out, a wild, banshee shriek, dropped the jar, grabbed himself with both hands and crumpled to his knees then onto one side, writhing in the dirt.

  Before he hit the ground, Sara’s right hand was free. The cord still tight around her left, slithered over the branch and coiled to the ground.

  She ran for the truck scrabbling at the cord still attached to the one wrist. She couldn’t get it off. She’d leave it for now.

  The keys dangled tauntingly in the ignition, behind the closed window on the passenger side. She yanked the door. It held. She yanked again and kicked it before she remembered. The handle didn’t work.

  She glanced over her shoulder. Franklin was on his knees, holding himself with both hands, looking around in a stupor, probably trying to locate her.

  She ran to the driver’s side, leaped into the truck, locked the door and turned the key. The starter ground but didn’t fire.

  Frantically, she pumped the gas pedal, stole another look at Franklin, and tried again.

  He was on his feet, staggering, still holding himself.

  The engine wouldn’t turn. She smelled gasoline. She’d flooded it. Damn! She rammed the accelerator to the floor and held it as she tried again and again. The starter ground more and more slowly until, finally, it quit.

  She looked for Franklin. He wasn’t there.

  The driver’s side door flew open. She had locked it. She knew she had. Damn this damned truck anyway.

  Franklin grabbed at something and she realized again that the cord was still tied around her wrist. He snatched up the line trailing out the door and gave it a savage yank.

  Sara’s upper body lurched sideways, following her arm. Her feet still in the floorboard, she couldn’t catch herself as she skidded out and down, face first.

  Chapter Eleven

  Franklin caught a fistful of her hair and yanked Sara’s head up. Grabbing at his hands, she clamored to her feet.

  The whites of his eyes looked yellow and the pupils, red. They bulged with fury and pain.

  “Don’t look at me, bitch.” He swung and his hand caught the side of her head. She flew sideways with the impact and hit the ground, her face again snuffling in the dirt.

  He tossed the hank of her hair, shaking loose strands off his fingers, and lunged, grabbing for her again.

  She ducked as he snatched another handful of hair and kneed her in the side. Her feet skittered in the dirt, spinning her as she tried to get back to her hands and knees.

  He yanked the rope still tied to her left wrist, pulling her arm out from under her, and she nose dived. Her nightshirt flapped. He kicked at her and she scrambled frantically, dodging his feet.

  Squirming, slithering in the dirt, Sara avoided one well-aimed boot, then a second. Her evasions only seemed to fan his rage.

  Franklin yanked the rope and pulled Sara’s captive arm up over her head giving him a clear shot at the exposed rib cage as she sprawled on her side in the dirt, gasping for air.

  Sneering, he drew back and landed a boot to her stomach. The blow knocked the wind out of her. She lay stunned, silent. Unable to draw a breath, she clawed at him feebly with her free hand, mutely pleading for help. He laughed.

  “Not so brave now, are you, puss? You gonna’ die. Oh, yeah, you gonna’ die right here, right now. I’m gonna’ watch.” He jigged around in a circle, high-stepping. “You not gonna’ breathe no more air. You gonna’ suffocate yourself right outta this world, eating dirt.”

  Sara managed to draw a whisper of air, then a gulp. She had seen high school and college football players get the wind knocked out of them. They had looked f
rightened, but none of them had died of it. She would get her breath. She would recover...this time. The nagging question was, could she survive the next?

  Watching her, Franklin pranced on his toes and grinned, finally slowing to arch his bristly eyebrows.

  “No, you not gonna’ die...yet.” His grin got bigger and he licked his lips. “You not gonna’ get dead without me knowing how you taste. You got them nice woman tits. Sweetest tits I ever seen.” He rubbed the fingers of one hand over the palm of his other. “I’m gonna’ feel of ‘em, smear ‘em with peanut butter and lick ‘em clean.” A tremor ran the length of her body. “That ain’t all I’m gonna do with ‘em neither.”

  The mousy brown patch of chin hair twitched as he looked her up and down, finally settling his gaze back on her breasts, still concealed beneath the torn shirt. “I’m gonna’ be real careful with the prettiest one. Then I’m going to cut it off with my knife. Gonna’ put it in my collection.” He leered. “It’ll be my prize one, ‘til I find a better ‘un.”

  What was he talking about? He couldn’t be saying what she thought he was saying.

  “Always before when I cut them tits off, the women was passed out or maybe dead. I ain’t gonna’ be that good to you.” Again he slurped back drool.

  Sara pretended not to hear. She kept her eyes averted and struggled to control her involuntary trembling.

  “And that cunt a’ yourn be mine too.” She blinked, her breathing erratic. “I’m gonna’ diddle ya all night long. I might diddle you tomorrow and next day, and day after that one too.”

  She flinched as he raised his eyes to hers.

  He slurped repeatedly and his voice dropped to a hiss. “But you gonna’ have to beg me for it. ‘Long as you pleasure me, you gonna live. See?” He suddenly froze and regarded her with mock sorrow.

  “Cappy’s little heart’s gonna’ break wide open when I tell him about how, after me, thinkin’ about that little prick of his made you jump right off that ridge yonder into this here canyon.

  “But Ma and them others’ll know how ya begged, how good you was to me. Oh, yeah, I’m gonna’ tell ‘em all about how it is.”

  He shuffled toward her.

  Staring at his boots, Sara struggled to her knees, then to her feet. She tried to stand but couldn’t seem to unbend. It felt as if her ribs were tangled together.

  Franklin caught the trailing end of the rope, looped it around her free wrist and yanked.

  She stumbled but kept her feet, still doubled over.

  “We’ll get you straight soon enough.” He shoved her.

  Clamping her arms across her stomach, Sara staggered, desperate to stay on her feet, avoid any more kicking, as they walked back to his camp.

  He pranced. “Man, I got a good idea now. I mean a good ‘un.”

  Back under the tree, Franklin again tied Sara’s wrists, this time with greater care. He tossed the end of the rope over an upper branch and hoisted her arms. She unfolded slowly as he pulled her arms up and up, until she was stretched as far as she could go. She teetered on the balls of her feet to keep the cord from pulling her hands off. Her stomach roiled and she thought she might heave. Her ribs still felt as if they were knitted together. She moaned and her head rocked back. Up, high above the barren tree, was serenity, a star-studded sky. She saw something flutter and tried to focus.

  It was a bit of fabric floating on the wind. Strangely, it seemed to be on fire. How could that be?

  Pieces of her clothing scattered over the ground must have blown into the fire and gotten caught in an updraft sweeping through the hollow. She wished she were there too, floating high above this scene, free.

  She heard Franklin move and she squeezed her head back between her arms to watch him. Unable to turn her face to either side, she twisted and cut her eyes until she located him.

  He was backed off grinning, leering at her.

  “Won’t be kicking a man’s balls now, will you, sweet tits? Trouble is, I were too good to you before this.”

  He stepped forward, then scowled as he ogled her up and down.

  Stretched as she was, onto her tiptoes, Sara was half-a-head taller than Franklin. Comparing their heights, his eyes filled with rage. He straightened, stretched his neck out, got as tall as possible, even bobbled up on his toes. The top of his head came only to the bridge of her nose.

  Blood trickled from her wrists down her arms, meandering into her hair. Her throat ached and she wanted to cry but she didn’t have the strength for tears.

  With one quick movement, Franklin’s hand shot like a serpent’s strike and ripped the front of her nightshirt open. He leaped back, warily eying her knee.

  To his obvious chagrin, her ample breasts remained concealed behind either side of the nightshirt’s cotton sheeting. But the tear exposed her panties. Franklin licked the drool oozing from the corners of his mouth.

  “We gonna’ have some good times now.” He pranced on his toes, leering, pretending to ignore what she decided was his continuing vexation over the difference in their heights.

  He took a step back to survey his subject, then scurried to dig in his camp sack. He produced a jar of peanut butter and continued sorting among the supplies.

  Sara rocked her head back and tried to think of something, anything to give her hope.

  Could she stall him?

  Stall until when? Until Bo or Cappy or one of the Johnsons...until someone came. She thought of her parents, felt sorry for them, sorry their only child was about to die, murdered by a hillbilly half-wit.

  She had to do something. She squeezed her head between her arms again. She didn’t have many options left.

  “Franklin, did you ever go out with a girl who liked you or do you always have to hog-tie your women?” Her voice rasped.

  He scowled up from the sack.

  “Come on,” she urged, trying to ignore the blood flowing more and more freely from her wrists, “you can tell me. I can’t tell anyone if I’m dead. I’m the one person with whom you can be totally honest.” She cleared her throat. “Tell the truth. Have you ever had sex with a woman of her own free will?”

  “’Course I have. Sure I have. Lots and lots of times.”

  “Name one.”

  He sneered. “You.”

  She quailed. Surely no one would believe that. “No, not me.”

  “Why not you? All you women want it. Why you gotta play games? I know you want what I got right here in my pants.” He patted his trousers gingerly, frowned down at himself, and muttered, “If you ain’t gone and ruined it. All you women want a man to pleasure ‘em, diddle ‘em proper. Here I am, willin.’ What kind of female are you?”

  Sara felt woozy. She tried to select her words carefully. “I’m the kind who hates sex with anybody. Not just you, Franklin, with any man.”

  Maybe if she stalled long enough, she would bleed to death or pass out, escape the final humiliation. The trickling blood oozed through her hair and pooled in the hollow above her collar bone. Her throat was clogged again. Come on, she thought, no longer able to see Franklin clearly. He had become a blur.

  “You done had sex with that crazy Bo, I bet. You done had sex a lot, ain’t you, slut, truth be told? Well, I’m the man here now. It’s me you gonna’ be rememberin’ all the way down to hell.”

  His voice dropped to a whine. “It’s what you get for being selfish, bitch. All I wanted was to see them tits. You shoulda’ just let me see ‘em, let me touch ‘em, and taste of ‘em.”

  He took the lid off the peanut butter jar and hesitated, strangling for a minute on his own spittle. “You got nice tits.” Not looking at her, he appeared to brighten with a new idea. “Fact is, I’m gonna’ have me a look at them tits, right now.”

  He looked uncertainly from Sara to the peanut butter. He put the jar on the ground, straightened, and sidled toward her, fondling the front of his trousers.

  When Franklin’s blurry form was directly in front of her, Sara summoned her last bit of strength, cleared
her throat and spat. The lugie hit him directly between the eyes.

  Franklin staggered backward and stumbled over a small log laying half in the fire and half out.

  He wallowed on the ground, righted himself, and grabbed the piece of wood which was flaming brightly on the far end. He set his jaw and lunged, aiming the fiery brand straight at her face, perhaps at her mouth which had offended him again. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping, praying to die quickly.

  She heard something crackle in the woods to her left and her eyes popped open.

  Throwing her head back, she cut her eyes and thought she saw the glint of metal hurtling through the air, red and yellow, reflecting the firelight as it flew toward Franklin.

  Forcing her head forward between her arms, she couldn’t see clearly but heard a loud THWACK as the metal struck the wood in Franklin’s hand.

  Eerily, pieces of white--bits of Franklin’s fingers, she thought--arched high in the air. The burning log fell to the ground and bounced end over end away from them.

  Franklin’s sickening squeal of disbelief was swallowed up by an ear-shattering roar from the woods, echoing like the rage of a wounded animal.

  The bits and pieces of fingers floated a moment before they plummeted into the fire which spattered and licked up the delicacies with noisy appreciation.

  Franklin crammed his hand into his mouth, muffling his own shrieks. Sara watched in disbelief, cringing at his screams which were suddenly confined to the enclosed hollow of his mouth.

  Hampered by her position, her blurred vision, and blood trickling over her eyes, Sara could see only a giant shadow stride out of the woods, bend to retrieve the knife, and wipe the blade on Franklin’s sleeve. Her former assailant collapsed into a heap, cowering from the interloper.

  Eyes rolling, Franklin offered no objections, his only sound, the tormented cries escaping around the hand in his mouth.

  The shadowy form came up in front of her and cut the cord which held Sara’s hands aloft. Still tied together, her arms dropped over the newcomer’s head, encircling his neck. Her legs had no strength left to bear her weight.