Chapter 2

Week one, Day one, continued:

I finished my coffee, returned indoors, and looked through the spyhole on the door. Miss Gregson was clearly still not at all happy with the standard of accommodation on offer, and seemed to be voicing her poor opinion of me quite freely. She didn’t seem to have taken to me one little bit. I could pretty much hear what she was shouting through the door, and the volume got a whole lot louder when I donned the ski mask and cracked the door open. Oh boy!

Seemed I’d gotten it all wrong – she wasn’t bitching about the lack of view, or the rudeness of the staff, she wasn’t demanding an upgrade to an en-suite bathroom or a suite, or a bigger bed, it was simply a case of she didn’t want to stay at my hotel at all. That was hard to believe, it wasn’t like she was paying for the window or carpet or bed or minibar or bathroom she didn’t have; it was a much nicer place to be than some of the concrete structures I’d dossed down in over in Iraq. I supposed that it compared unfavorably to her richly furnished girlie bedroom at home.

I grinned. Well, tough shit, sweetie.

I didn’t want to get divorced. I didn’t want to lose my darling daughter. I didn’t want to lose my home. Life’s a bitch and then you marry one; sometimes you get stuck with someone else’s bill. She was stuck with paying off her father’s dues, and there wasn’t anything she could do to change that.

My, that girl could curse. There’d been a couple of ladies I’d come across in the service who had tried the wrong way to show that they were just as good as the men, and their grasp of bad language wasn’t nearly as creative as hers. Some repetition, but not bad enough to be marked down on. I almost considered asking her if she was majoring in Anglo-Saxon, but I didn’t want to raise the topic of her new semester; she didn’t yet need to know that she wouldn’t be going back to college for a while.

I opened the door carefully and stepped round the stinking wet blanket on the floor. The stinking wet girl made a lunge for me; not unexpected, and I’d already decided that I wasn’t going to play nice until she did. A splayed hand fend-off in her face put her back on the floor again, and with the cuffs still on, she wasn’t going to be getting up again very quickly. The shock of being pushed down kept her quiet for maybe a good five or six seconds, and then she started up on me again. So I shouted back.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP AND LISTEN! Are you going to cooperate and stay still while I remove the cuffs?”

“FUCK YOU ASSHOLE!”

I shrugged my shoulders in an exaggerated manner to show that I was cool with the situation. My gesture was probably wasted, but this was my home and I was gonna do what I liked.

“Okay, okay. Have it your own way if you prefer to be cold, wet and stinking. I’ve got all the time in the world.”

She began yelling obscenities again. If she didn’t let up soon, she was going to have a sore throat from shouting. There was certainly nothing wrong with her lung capacity; seemed like her weekly runs were keeping her in good shape. If it had been me, I’d have wanted to rinse the taste of acid early-morning-empty-stomach vomit out of my mouth as soon as possible, though I guessed that with the amount of spittle flying out with the curses, she’d probably expelled most of it already.

I pulled the unopened bottle of water from my pocket and placed it on the floor, then picked up the discarded blanket, backed out of the door, and locked it again. I pulled off the mask and took both blankets down to the swimming hole to thoroughly rinse them in the creek, and brought back a bucket of clean water to replace the one I’d washed her down with. I hung the blankets over the tailgate of my truck; it was warm enough out that they’d soon be dry.

Then I made myself another coffee and spent a couple of hours working on my latest assignment for my online associate degree in construction management. That had been another major life change since the Spring.

When he’d promoted me to run the team, Henry Hallett had sat me down and discussed my future. He told me that I’d always been one of his more reliable workers, that my Guard service had matured me beyond my years, and that if I got myself qualified, he could see me becoming his general manager in years to come. I agreed that I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life humping sheetrock for a weekly wage, and that I was interested in gaining some book learning. We’d talked study courses, he’d advanced me the money to pay the up-front tuition, taking it back out of my wages at only a hundred bucks a month, which I thought was more than fair of him.

With no mortgage or family expenses, I was now able to put some decent money away every month, and I’d taken great care to pay the property taxes on the cabin way in advance of the deadline, to ensure that it stayed in my possession.

I’d really lucked out when I wandered into the pawn shop that day. The bitch had dumped most of my personal items of any value in there, eager to screw the last possible cent out of my stuff. If she’d had it taken to the town dump I’d never have seen any of it again, but I now had my tool box, my few power tools, my guns and their safe, and my computer back. Everything on the guy’s books that had been pawned by her was now back in my ownership. No clothes, no personal items, no housekeeping stuff, but most of that could be replaced to some extent. I was pissed that I had no mementos of my folks other than Dad’s shotgun, but there was nothing I could do about that other than keep my eyes open. I’d have loved to have found my grandfather’s rocking chair, but I guess some collector had offered her cash for that and the other furniture. I’d keep on looking.

I had no grid electricity in the cabin, but Mr Hallett had invited me to keep my computer at the office for study purposes, so I could also access my old photos and documents, and control my new bank account online.

I was now only doing the mandatory duty time with the Guard. Before our short support rotation in Iraq, I’d volunteered for almost anything that would improve my skills and military knowledge, heck, I’d even done some online courses in my own time.

After our return, reluctant to admit to my friends and comrades that my marriage had crashed so spectacularly, I had deliberately minimized my contribution. Our Company First Sergeant had quickly noticed that they were seeing me less often and had taken me to one side to ask what had changed; I’d only told him part of the truth, that my regular work responsibilities had increased. That wasn’t uncommon, so he accepted my excuse. He was a great guy, and I felt pretty bad not being totally honest with him, but at that time, I just wasn’t in any mental state to open up fully to anyone.

(With hindsight, that secrecy had been a huge mistake on my part. What was an intensely personal disaster to me was only a routine and minor problem to the Army; they’d helped many a service member get through what I was experiencing, and would have helped me too, had I let them know. Of course, my life now would have been very different if the Army had summoned the Judge to a Federal Court and threatened him with imprisonment himself if he didn’t vacate and repudiate his flawed decision. I wouldn’t have had to put myself beyond the law by kidnapping his daughter. But I didn’t know that at the time.)

Henry Hallett was the only person who knew the truth about my divorce, heck, I’d kept Kasey and Aggie as my Next of Kin as far as the service was concerned. Who else was there?

I’d even considered resigning from the Guard so as not to have to face my comrades as a failed husband and father, but being a citizen soldier still had a real meaning for me. Maybe once this episode of revenge upon Judge Walter Cormell Gregson had given me closure and was over, I might go back to my old level of commitment, working for Henry Hallett permitting.

I had gotten to a sensible break point in my studies, so I put down my pen and looked in at my captive through the spyhole; she’d finally exhausted herself shouting and was now crouched against the far wall. She looked like shit; a very different woman from the society girl in the newspaper photo. Then she’d been wearing a costly evening gown, diamonds sparkling from her ears, her light brown hair shining; clearly salon-washed and styled that very day. Now she was dressed in running shorts, a short sweat shirt with sports bikini under, all wet and covered with the remnants of her vomit. Her hair was wet, tangled, a real mess. She must have been getting cold by now; the cabin was well insulated and shaded from the sun by the big trees that surrounded it, so the air inside was cool.

I pulled on the ski mask and picked up the bucket of water, a washcloth and a towel. I opened the door and was met by a glare that would have blasted me if looks could kill. I’d seen some similar facial expressions on Iraqi insurgents we’d been holding. I didn’t speak, just dropped the washing kit on the floor and backed out of the room. She could clean up some, but with the handcuffs still in place, it wouldn’t be easy. Not really my problem. She’d come round in time. The bottle of water I’d given her earlier was now empty; I guessed that she’d used some of it to rinse out her mouth, then drunk the rest. She’d survive until I gave her another one.

I took myself for a slow stroll around my property; it was quiet and peaceful, and I remembered again exactly why I’d bought this place as a refuge from the noise, smell and traffic of town. The bridge over the river may have brought prosperity to the place and made it grow from a few shacks into a town, but the downside was that a whole lot of commercial vehicles used the road. Out here, there was nothing but the occasional aircraft, way overhead. I had been sure that Aggie would have grown to love it as I did; Kasey maybe not so much. Kasey still liked to party and go out at night, forgetting that she now had a child. I wondered for a moment how they were doing; I hoped that Aggie was healthy and happy, but if Kasey had really gone off the rails, she wouldn’t be getting the level of love and attention that I’d given her.

I got back to the cabin, locked and barred the outer door, and used the spyhole to check on my captive. She looked a tad cleaner; at least she’d used the facecloth to get the last traces of snot and vomit off of her face. I checked where the bucket was, decided it was safe to enter the room, pulled on the ski mask and unlocked the door.

Oiling the lock and the hinges so they moved silently had been a real smart move; I was inside and fully aware of my surroundings before she even knew I was there. I grabbed the bucket and got it safely out of the way before I spoke.

“Miss Gregson, the offer of taking the handcuffs off is still open. If you do that, I’ll bring you some food and drink.”

“Why don’t you just take me home, asshole? Have you any idea exactly who my father is? He’s the fucking County Judge, that’s who. You couldn’t have picked a worse person to tangle with. He’s not going to permit any plea deal, not with his only child. You’ve abducted me; a major felony, that means the rest of your miserable life in jail. Federal jail too; you won’t like that. Gonna be rough for you, fucking dickhead!”

I grinned at her words. At least she’d started thinking about her situation, probably realizing that if I’d taken her just to rape her, I’d have done that by now.

“You’re forgetting two important things, sweetie. One, the sentence for murder isn’t a whole lot higher than for kidnapping, and two, if I just kill you and bury you out in the woods, no-one is ever going to find you, or me. Now, you need to understand that until your father comes up with the ransom money, you don’t get to go home. It’s not worth my while otherwise.”

She paled a bit at the word ‘murder’, but I’ll give her her due. She didn’t look or sound particularly scared, just riled.

“I’m not your fucking sweetie, shithead. You’re wasting our time. Take me back home right now. You’re a complete fuckup, and you have no idea of the world of hurt you’ve just gotten yourself into. A weenie like you isn’t going to last long in jail, heck, with your whining attitude someone will stick a shiv into your miserable kidneys before you even get to trial. You’ll die screaming in agony, or you’ll spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair. And I’ll fucking laugh my ass off when I hear the news.”

I grinned. She had quite the imagination.

“Okay, sweetie, dream on. If you don’t want to change out of your wet clothes, that’s your choice. I just hope that they aren’t chafing your skin too much. Now, I want to get you out of here just as much as you want to be home. How about we write the ransom note to your father and get the process started?”

She hissed in anger.

“Fuck off, needledick. Just FUCK OFF!”

“Okay, sweetie, no skin off my nose. Be seeing you.”

That was twelve o’clock. I did another hour on my assignment, and then fixed myself some pre-packed sausage with slaw for lunch. I’ve eaten worse, a lot worse. Like the week the supply sergeant didn’t check the labels on the MREs, and we had the same fucking menu for eight straight days. I’d never look at Spicy Penne Pasta again without feeling nauseous. Hell, the smell would be enough to set me off. Note that I use the word ‘smell’. I reserve ‘aroma’ for food or drink. Spicy Penne Pasta didn’t fit those categories. In my view, it was more under ‘fuel’, or maybe ‘chemical warfare’. Most of our company felt the same; there was the odd weirdo who claimed to still actually enjoy eating MREs, but, as they say, you can’t fix stupid.

One of the old-timers had joked that Uncle Sam’s taste was actually improving; he said that it was gourmet eating compared to the old Ham Omelet, or the Chicken Tetrazzini. If he was speaking the truth, then you had to question his sanity in re-upping so many times.

Just before two, I pulled on the mask and entered the room again.

“Thought any more, Miss Gregson?”

“Yes. FUCK RIGHT OFF, you fucking pervert.”

“Okay, sweetie. At least you’re consistent. Missing you already!”

There was another outraged squeal of protest as I backed out of the doorway, locked up, and left her alone for another couple of hours.

Well, that was my intention, but after one hour of sitting out on my porch enjoying the quiet, I thought I’d go see if she’d yet changed her mind. I didn’t want her getting sick through her own mule-headed-ness, which is why I’d given her some water to drink free, gratis and for nothing. Anything else would have to be earned by speaking to me. I was pretty sure that her wet sports bikini would be chafing her skin already, and the last thing I wanted was her to get some kind of infection. For her own sake, she needed to stay healthy while she was my captive.

I had thought that she’d blow up at me again, but her early start, very empty stomach and wet, stinking and filthy clothes had at last taken some of her attitude away, as I’d known they eventually would. The look could have killed, but the words were resigned and quiet.

“I need something more to drink.”

I decided not to yank her chain by calling her ‘sweetie’ again. She was being polite – for now.

“Okay, Miss Gregson, I’ll get you some bottles of water. You could have had them six hours ago, you know. All you had to do was ask.”

She somehow managed to hold back the retort, but her eyes flashed dangerously. Yeah, she had a fair point; if I hadn’t kidnapped her in the first place, six hours ago she’d have been back home, her run completed, in her own bedroom, having a hot shower before breakfast, looking forward to the weekend ahead. Life can be a real bitch sometimes, you know?

The next bottle of water was ready and waiting just outside the door, I backed away from her, picked it up by feel, and rolled it towards her. She shuffled over and clumsily picked it up with both hands, fumbling to break the seal and open the cap. She took a short swill round her mouth, spat it out onto the floor, and then drank thirstily. She looked up at me expectantly. I wasn’t going to maltreat her just for the sake of it, and I needed to make her aware of that fact.

“Handcuffs off, maybe something to eat? You gotta be real hungry by now. No breakfast, no lunch.”

She sighed as she seemingly accepted defeat.

“Yeah. I won’t fight.”

I was pretty sure, certain in fact, that she wasn’t nearly defeated, but logic had won out, and she knew she needed food, water and to get clean and dry, or she’d get sick. Like the towel-heads in the insurgent holding center, she’d worked out that her guard was the only person who could get her those things, so some bending was needed. She’d folded quite quickly, so I knew that she could well just be bluffing, pretending to co-operate so that she might get the chance to turn the tables on me.

Our instructors had been real hot on that point: you could NEVER trust a prisoner, NEVER. They’d try and lull you into a false sense of security, and then they’d pounce on the slightest sign of weakness or distraction. They weren’t going anywhere, so they would quickly develop infinite patience and guile. I could never let my guard down, not even for a minute. Apparently Stockholm Syndrome works both ways; the guard develops sympathy for the prisoner. That’s kinda dangerous. This girl might not want to chop my head off with a fucking humungous sword like the Iraqi insurgents did, but she could accidentally do me a whole lot of damage. I just had to ensure I never gave her the opportunity.

I was glad that they’d given us such thorough training in prisoner restraint techniques. Okay, so she was probably only half my body weight, but she wasn’t short, and she ran and worked out. She might even have taken some self-defense classes at college, so she could possibly know how best to hurt or incapacitate me. I certainly wouldn’t want to have to subdue her from a surprise attack. She could probably damage me; if she got in a lucky blow, she might even get out of this room and into the cabin – which was why I’d barred the outer door, and my own bedroom was locked, with anything that would make an effective weapon safely secured in there. Any contact with her would carry some risk; I just had to stay on my toes and think before acting. I’d have bet my last dime that, given the right opportunity, she could be wilder than a peach orchard boar. Like her Daddy would be if he ever got hold of me in person in his courtroom.

“Okay. Stay right there. I’ll be back shortly.”

I locked her in, collected the stuff I had ready, added a tube of soothing skin cream (yeah, we tough construction guys get abrasions and chafing too, specially from working outside in wet weather), checked the spyhole again, and unlocked the door.

“Stay exactly where you are. Don’t move a muscle.”

Keeping a close eye on her, I piled the things on the floor by the wall.

“Another bucket of water, soap, towel. Toothbrush and comb. Sweat top and pants, I guess they could be a little large. Two more bottles of water, two packs of sandwiches, and a banana. Try not to bolt the food on an empty stomach. Eat and drink slowly. Supper will be in five hours. See that bench in the corner? Lift the lid, and it’s a commode over a composting pit. Doesn’t flush, so keep the lid closed and it won’t stink. You can pour the waste water down it when you’ve finished washing. I’ll be back in an hour, and I’ll knock on the door before I open up. Clear?”

She scowled.

“Yeah. Handcuffs?”

“Kneel down facing the wall. Hands above your head. Remember not to fuck me about, or they’ll go back on tighter, and you won’t like being restrained that way.”

She wordlessly adopted the position. I stood away to one side as I’d been taught, so she couldn’t elbow me in the nuts or throw herself backwards at me. I unlocked and pulled off the cuffs and quickly backed over to the doorway. She was rubbing her wrists and cursing me. I closed and locked the door.

Did I cheat and look at her through the spyhole as she stripped off the wet and filthy gear she’d been running in? Damn right I did. Even in the distressed state she was in, she was a million times more worth looking at than anything I’d gotten near in the sandbox. Heck, perhaps because she wasn’t wearing make-up, she looked SO much better than most of the porno magazines sluts with the fake 48DDD tits, puffed up lips and unbelievable false eyelashes and fingernails.

I had already guessed that she was about five nine or ten, with small pert breasts, a trim hard stomach that would prove she worked out, and a nice little butt. Yup, right on all counts. There were signs of redness in the crease under her breasts; I guessed that the wet sports bra had indeed irritated her skin.