Cooked Goose Read online

  “Aw, pooh. It’s unadulterated filth, and you know it. You should be ashamed of yourself, having that stuff in your house.”

  “So, let me guess: You’ve stashed it in your tote bag, and you’re taking it home with you tonight?”

  Tammy shrugged, then nodded. “I thought it was the least I could do . . . for your sake, of course.”

  “Of course. How very thoughtful. Whatever would I do without you?”

  Tammy picked up her tote bag and headed out the bedroom door with Savannah following. “You’d be embarrassed when your sister discovered what a pervert you are, reading pornographic materials like that.”

  “There’s nothing in those books she hasn’t done herself; she is pregnant, you know.”

  Tammy grinned slyly. “I thumbed through a couple of pages, and I don’t think most of the sexual practices in those books even lead to pregnancy. ‘Unnatural’ is the word that comes to mind.”

  Savannah pointed to the head of the stairs with her left hand and gave Tammy a gentle shove with her right. “It’s getting late, kid,” she said. “Don’t you have a home of your own to go to?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do need to be going.” Tammy started down the steps, then gave Savannah a playful smirk over her shoulder. “I think I’ll hit the sack early tonight; I need to catch up on my reading.”

  7:47 P.M.

  Margie was shaking so badly that she could hardly drive. But he was sitting in the passenger’s seat of her Roadster with the tip of a huge knife pressed against her ribs, so she had to do the best she could.

  “Turn right at the next intersection,” he said, poking her with the blade for emphasis, “and be sure to make a full stop at the sign. We don’t want you breaking any laws or any cops pulling us over, now do we?”

  He was leading her through dark, back roads. So the hope that anyone might notice him sitting beside her, wearing a Santa costume, were next to nil. Besides, he was slouched down in the seat, and when they met another car, he ducked down below the dash.

  She could tell he was taking her to the edge of town. To the orange groves. Not far from where her dad had been investigating the rapist’s last scene, when she had dropped by to ask for money.

  For just a moment, she thought of how her dad was going to feel when he saw her body, lying there on the ground, beaten, cut up, dead. Margie was a cop’s kid, and she had sneaked plenty of peeks at crime scene photos over the years. Eight by ten, full color pictures.

  Now she wished she hadn’t.

  She and her dad might not get along; they might never have been close, like a father and daughter should be. But he was still going to feel really, really bad when he saw her.

  Suddenly, she hated the man sitting next to her. And the hate made her feel stronger, not quite so weak and vulnerable, so she nursed the feeling, allowing it to grow inside her.

  “So . . . baby . . . do you know who you’re riding around with?” he asked her.

  She despised the snide tone in his voice. He was actually proud of himself, the bastard.

  “Yeah, I know all about you,” she replied, equally sarcastic. “You get your kicks by raping and beating women. You’re a real fuckin’ celebrity.”

  He hit her on the side of the head so hard that she nearly lost control of the car. It was all she could do not to smack him back, start crying hysterically, or both.

  “Watch your language,” he said. “I don’t approve of women cussing . . . especially kids. You’re a smart-mouth punk who needs to be taught a few lessons.”

  Margie swallowed the retort that rushed to her lips. She had to be smart. This guy was looking for any excuse to hurt her. The realization that he actually enjoyed causing her pain was like a blast of ice water through her body, alerting every nerve and cell to the mortal threat she was facing.

  This felt like a bad dream, but it wasn’t. This was real. And she had to keep her wits about her if she was going to find a way out of the nightmare alive.

  Summoning every particle of courage and experience she had gathered in her brief life, Margie shifted into “cop’s daughter” mode. Her dad hadn’t really talked to her that much about crime, or the potential of being victimized, but she had absorbed some secondhand knowledge by watching and listening when her father thought she was tuning out.

  She studied her kidnapper in her peripheral vision, trying to gather all the information she could in spite of his disguise.

  He sat several inches higher than her in the seat, and when they had been standing face-to-face in the garage, she had come up to about chin level on him. Under his bulky black sweatshirt, he looked to be in good shape, neither fat nor skinny, just medium.

  His hands were large. So was the knife he was holding. It looked like something you would take hunting, if you were expecting to do hand-to-hand combat with a grizzly bear.

  As they passed beneath a streetlamp, she caught the glint of a ring on his finger. It was big, like some sort of class ring, and had a gold star in the middle of the setting.

  That rang a bell, somewhere in her distant memory. She had seen a ring like that before, but she couldn’t recall where or when. And there wasn’t time to think about it now, because they were getting farther and farther out of town . . . closer to the place he had chosen.

  Very soon her nightmare was going to get much worse.

  “Turn left up there,” he told her, pointing to a dark road that veered off the main one about a quarter of a mile ahead.

  There were no other cars in sight. Any dim hope she had been entertaining that they might cross paths with a cruising police unit evaporated.

  Margie realized that no one was going to help her get out of this one. If she was going to live, or die horribly, it was all up to her and this maniac sitting next to her.

  And she wasn’t about to leave her life in his hands if she could possibly avoid it.

  “Tell me something, kid,” he said, again, using that mocking tone that she hated. “Are you a virgin, or are you an experienced woman?”

  For half a second, her memory returned to the backseat of Tommy Morrison’s classic Mustang . . . and to Jerry Whitley’s basement family room the night of her sixteenth-birthday party. Then she shoved any honest answers to the question aside and tried to figure out what he wanted to hear.

  Any guy who didn’t approve of women saying “fuck” probably wouldn’t approve of them doing it, either.

  “Well?” he said, poking her on the upper arm with the point of his knife blade.

  She felt it nick her skin and a small warm, liquid trickle flow down the back of her arm. He had cut her. And he had done it so casually, as though it were nothing at all to him.

  Her shaking got worse.

  “Yes,” she told him. “I’m a virgin.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, sure. And I’m Santa Claus.”

  The road they were on became more and more narrow. On either side was nothing but orange trees. Row after row, leaves and round fruit, shining silver in the moonlight.

  “All right,” he said. “See that driveway up there, on the other side of that big water tank? I want you to pull the car into the drive. Nice and slow.”

  Margie’s heart had been pounding before, but now it felt like it was about to jump out through her throat. She could hardly hear what he was saying for the pulse throbbing in her ears.

  Time slowed to a surreal crawl as a hundred thoughts streaked through her brain. But the thought that stuck was something Savannah had said in their defense class: “Even if you take all these precautions,” she had told them, “you may still find yourself in a potentially life-threatening situation. And you may have to do something bold, something dangerous and extraordinary to get out. You may have to risk your life to save it. Only you will be able to make that decision. Go with your instincts.”

  And Margie’s instincts told her that if she and this guy got out of the car together and walked into that orange grove, she would never walk out again.

  For hal
f a second, she thought of her pretty new car and how careful she had been not to even get a scratch on it. Then she thought, To hell with that! This asshole’s not going to rape and murder this punk kid if I can keep him from it!

  Margie rammed the gas pedal to the floor and steered straight for the water tank.

  7:50 P.M.

  No sooner had Savannah settled her weary body into the Victorian, clawfoot tub full of fragrant bubbles, than the phone rang.

  “Someday I’ll learn not to bring you in here with me,” she told the cordless phone as she lifted it from the top of the hamper and pushed the On button.

  “Whoever this is, I’m not very happy with you,” she said into the receiver.

  The rich, throaty chuckle on the other end made Savannah smile from ear to ear and forget all about the intrusion.

  “Gran!” she said, “I take it back. You’re the only person on the planet who’s welcome to call me anytime, day or night.”

  “Let me guess. . .” her grandmother replied in an eloquent Southern drawl as soft as Georgia peach fuzz, “. . . you’re taking a bubble bath, roses or gardenia. And you probably have a few votive candles lit and—”

  Savannah laughed. “You know me too well.”

  “I taught you everything you know about being a woman.”

  “That’s true,” Savannah replied, “but I’m still waiting for you to teach me everything that you know.”

  “Now, darlin’, you can’t handle that much knowledge . . . not just yet. It’s too much power for one so young.”

  “I’m over forty.”

  “You’re half my age. You’re a baby.”

  Savannah sank lower into the bubbles and felt the past week’s tension melt away, thanks to the silky warmth of the water and her grandmother’s soothing presence that could reach three thousand miles and rejuvenate her spirit.

  “You know, Gran,” she said, “I’d like to think that when I’m your age I’d have half your vinegar.”

  She heard a ladylike sniff on the other end. “Hell, child. You’d have been lucky to have half my vinegar last week. Are you ready for Christmas?”

  “Ready for Christmas?” Some of Savannah’s stress returned with a rush. “A lot’s been going on around here. I haven’t even started yet. And you?”

  “All done . . . except for you. What would you like Santa to bring you?”

  “A big, handsome hunk, wearing a sprig of mistletoe for a mustache.”

  “Mmmm . . .” Gran considered the request thoughtfully for a moment. “I think that could be arranged. I’ll run over to the old folks’ home and see if I can scare up somethin’ for you.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Hey, some of those fellas are pretty spunky. They’re always chasing me around.”

  Savannah grinned. “You’d better run fast. You know what they want.”

  Another sniff. “I know what they want, all right. They’re after my pension check, but I’m gonna spend it all by myself. I already raised one man—your grandpa, may he rest in peace—and that’s enough toil and trouble for any woman.”

  Savannah lifted a handful of suds and watched them glisten, irridescent in the candlelight. “Have you heard, I’m going to be having company in a few days?”

  “Of course I’ve heard. In a town this size, we know what everybody had for supper last night and we’ve got an opinion on the subject.”

  “So, what’s your opinion on this subject?”

  “Butch is a jackass, and your sister doesn’t have the sense the good Lord gave a goose, God love ’em both. And now they’re gonna afflict you with their malarkey. You’re just lucky, I reckon.”

  “And are the twins still as adorable as always?”

  “Even more so. Do you have a freshly recharged fire extinguisher?”

  “Ah, I think I do—”

  “And something you can use for a tourniquet?”

  “Do you really think I’ll need—”

  “And do you have enough money stashed away for some major home repairs because by the time they leave, you’re gonna need a new roof and carpeting.”

  Beep.

  “Excuse me, Gran, but I’ve got another call coming through.” Savannah sighed, surrendering all hope of that relaxing bath. “Can you hold for a minute?”

  “I suppose, but remember, I’m eighty-six; I could kick off any minute now.”

  Savannah punched the Flash button. “Hello.”

  The instant she heard the sobbing on the other end, she knew someone was in bad trouble. “Savannah, it’s me, Margie, Margie Bloss.”

  “Yes, of course, Margie. What’s wrong?”

  “I got away from him. He was going to kill me, but I wrecked my car and ran away.”

  Savannah sat, bolt upright, in the tub, splashing water all over the floor. “The rapist?”

  “Uh-huh. The Santa guy.”

  “He attacked you?”

  “No, I mean, he got into my car with me and made me drive out to the orange grove, but I got away and—”

  “Margie, calm down, sweetheart, and tell me where you are.” She vaulted out of the tub, yanked a towel off the rack, and began to frantically dry off.

  “I’m at a phone booth,” the girl said between gasps. “I ran all the way here and I can’t breathe.”

  Savannah raced across the hall to her bedroom. She tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder and pulled a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt from her dresser drawer. “That’s because you’re scared. Honey, try to take a couple of slow, deep breaths. Come on, do it with me. In . . . really slow . . . now out . . . that’s it. Again. And again. Now tell me where you are.”

  “I told you. I’m in a phone booth.”

  “I know, but where is the phone booth?” She struggled into the clothes and pulled on a pair of sneakers. “Are you near a store or—”

  “A service station . . . a Mobil. But it’s closed. There’s no one around.”

  “A Mobil station . . . orange groves . . . is it the one on Turner Canyon Road?”

  “I think so.”

  “Where was the rapist, the last time you saw him?”

  Margie laughed, but it was the sound of hysteria. “He was flying across my car. I ran it into a water tank as hard as I could. I think it knocked him out. I didn’t hang around to find out. I got out of the car and ran like crazy.”

  “Good girl! You did great, Margie. I’m very proud of you. Is the phone booth where you are, well lit?”

  “Yes. When I opened the door, the light came on.”

  “Well, I want you to hang up and get out of the booth. Look around you. Is there any place you can hide . . . beside the building . . . in some bushes?”

  “There’s a pile of old tires next to a truck.”

  “Get between those tires and the truck and don’t move until I get there. It’ll take me about five or six minutes.”

  Savannah raced down the stairs and snatched her purse, gun and keys from the hall table. “As soon as we hang up, I’m going to call the police for you,” she told the girl. “Maybe they can get there first and—”

  “No! Don’t call the cops! That’s why I called you. I don’t want to talk to my stupid dad yet.” She began to cry again. “I just want to see you first, not him.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m on my way. Now hide and hang tight until I get there.”

  No sooner had Savannah turned the phone off than it rang again. Gran.

  She punched the button again. “Gotta go, Gran,” she said as she ran out the door. “Emergency.”

  “I understand. I’ll pray for you.”

  “Thanks, love you.”

  “You, too.”

  As Savannah sprinted down the driveway to her car, she said a couple of quick prayers herself. One to thank God for a grandmother who was astute enough to know, from three thousand miles away, when her granddaughter needed a prayer. And one for Margie . . . that the good Lord above would keep that rotten bastard away from the kid until Savannah could get
to her.

  CHAPTER TEN

  8:02 P.M.

  On the way to the gas station on Turner Canyon Road, Savannah called Dirk on her cellular phone. When he didn’t answer at work, she gave him a ring at home. His sleepy “hello” told her he had hit the sack early, trying to make up for the sleep deprivation of the past forty-eight hours.

  Too bad. If she couldn’t enjoy a simple bubble bath, he sure as hell didn’t get snooze time.

  “You’ll never guess where I am,” she told him as she sped toward the edge of town and the agricultural area of the county.

  “I don’t care where you are,” he grumped.

  “He nabbed another one.”

  Mentally, she could see Dirk perk up like a bloodhound catching a whiff of raccoon scent. “Where? When?” He certainly didn’t sound sleepy now.

  “Just now, out on Turner Canyon Road. But forget about where and when. Ask me who?”

  “Ask you who?”

  “That’s right. Ask.”

  “Okay . . . who?”

  “Captain Bloss’s teenage daughter, Margie.”

  “No shit!”

  “Absolutely not a smidgen. But she got away from him before he could rape her, or worse. She called me at home and I’m on my way right now to pick her up.”

  “Where? Where are you going? Where is she?”

  She could hear him rushing around, throwing on clothes, just as she had done a few minutes ago.

  “I’ll tell you, but you can’t question her until I get her to a hospital or back to my house. She’s shook up and she said she didn’t want me to call the cops until we’ve had a chance to talk.”

  “Yeah, right. Where is she? Where are you picking her up?”

  “I’m not telling you unless you promise not to butt in.”

  “Butt in, my ass. I—”

  “Or your ass either. I don’t want to see any part of you, Coulter—heads or tails—until I give you the thumbs-up. Promise.”

  “All right,” he mumbled.