Chapter 7

Art McGuire rummaged through his pockets for a dime and finding none, plunged into it once more and dug for a handful of change. Selecting two worn nickels, he headed for the phone booth for the second time that day. Certainly Kathy would be home by now. He only hoped she wouldn't be too angry when he told her he wouldn't be home until very late that evening... maybe not until the sun was sliding up to the up over the grassy rolling hills outside of Elston.

The coins tinkled into the machine, he dialed the number, staring out of the glass cage, watching a VW van full of teenagers make an abrupt, illegal U-turn in the middle of the intersection. Losing count of the rings, he finally gave up and slammed the receiver back on the cradle, waiting long enough for the nickels to tinkle down into the tray, then, scraping his fingers to retrieve the change, he dumped it in again, this time dialing information for Bill, the horticulturist's number. Repeating it over and over to himself until the coins were deposited a third time, he dialed the number. Helen, Bill's wife picked it up almost immediately.

"Helen, this is Art..." Is Bill there?"

"Hi, Bill, this is Art... yeah, just fine. Listen, what did Kathy have to say when you showed up with your shovel." He chuckled nervously, anxiously.

"She what?" Art's eyes widened, his lower jaw dropped to his chin. His cheeks flushed with anger. "You wouldn't be pulling my leg, now would you Bill?... This isn't a practical joke, is it?... A what?" Art pounded his forehead with his fist, his upper jaw worked against his lower one, and his face graduated from a deep red to a pale pink, and then snow white, and finally slate gray without ever once hitting its normal complexion. Arms swinging at his sides, he took yard-long steps back to the Dodge and slammed the door, never turning to stare at a bewildered Buddy who stepped on the accelerator. The squealed out of the parking lot.

When they reached the four-way stop at the intersection, Buddy turned to his partner. "What's eatin' ya?" He watched Art unroll a fresh pack of Rolaids and slip not one, but two into his mouth. "Jesus, Art, you look like you're about to faint. What the hell is it? We been pals a long time, if there's something..."

Art chomped on the chalky discs, his lips stained white with alkaline.

On a lighter note, Buddy chuckled, "How did Kathy like her garden?"

"Kathy never got her garden." Art stared straight ahead, his eyes squinting, his mind plotting, thinking.

"What?" They sped through the intersection.

"Talked to Bill," started Art, crossing his arms over his back of a motorcycle."

That doesn't sound like Kathy to me!" Buddy paused, then rested his hand on Art's shoulder conjolingly. "Hey, pal. We gotta learn to expect that kinda stuff. You know, we spend a lot of time away from home... can't expect the little woman to sit home and watch TV all the time."

'Somethin's wrong, Buddy. Why, just last night she..." He couldn't talk about it. Oh, God, but with a young boy! How could he live it down? How long had she been cheating behind his back? No, that wasn't like Kathy; he knew better...

"Turn around, Buddy. We're going back to the station. Something's wrong with Kathy. I think she's been kidnapped.

"Kidnapped?" Buddy's forehead furrowed. "Why the hell would anybody want to kidnap Kathy?"

"I don't know, but somebody just did," Art's jaws worked up and down on the Rolaids, titillating, pulverizing. He swallowed dryly, gulped and pointed. "Back to the station we're going back to the station."

The blue unmarked Dodge made a hazardous U-turn in the middle of Elston where young people lined the streets, sitting on hoods of cars, cross-legged on stoops... anywhere that would accommodate them. The rock concert crowd had come to town for the weekend.

Art stared at them, cursing, muttering to himself. Kneading his fists, he slapped them into the padded dashboard, but he wasn't certain if he was cursing Kathy or his work. And he didn't know which hunch to follow. The ping-pong game going on his head could not determine a winner of his dilemma. Kathy... work... Kathy... work. Then it hit! Kathy... Kathy was the pigeon! "Take the heat off... a patsy..." That was it! Oh, Jesus!

Buddy wouldn't believe it, refused to. "Naw. She's probably just out for the afternoon. Wait a couple more hours... till one or two maybe. Then start worrying. And for Chrissakes, Art, put those Rolaids away!"

Art grunted and stuffed the wrapper into his shirt pocket. "Okay, but I want to head back to the office to see if they've picked up the trail on Jim's girl friend. What was her name again, Lydia?"

"Good thinkin', Art. I have a feeling she's going to lead us to the scene, all right."

The morning sun filtered through the pine boughs, creating shimmers of moving light on the mattress where Kathy slept. From a high bough a blue jay scolded. All lay in peaceful silence...

Then with an ear-drum shattering rumble, the valley below transformed into an electrified jungle of sound. Someone had plugged in the amplifiers that would turn the primeval setting of Olson's farm into a galvanized roar of activity. The rock concert was starting.

Kathy jumped to her feet, drawing the remnants of her nearly buttonless cotton sundress over her near naked body, and stepped over Lydia's recumbent form, her knees drawn up to her chest with her raven hair spilling over her shoulders. Kathy shuddered, remembering the night before, then pushing the dark memories aside, stumbled to the window, dirty and broken that overlooked the green valley below. Staring saucer- eyed, she watched mesmerically as waves of people, like pulsating, vibrating polka dots, drifted over the wooded hills. On the march, they might have been the Chosen People following Moses, so driftless and wandering did they appear.

"The rock concert. O dear Lord!" muttered Kathy to herself, squinting back the tears. Art would be down there somewhere... probably already was milling around in the crowd, and here she was so close, yet so distant. These children, these diabolic children... she winced, wondering what perverted and disgusting things they'd planned for her that day. It hadn't been so painful with only Jim to cope with and placate, but Lydia. My God, Lydia! Her vile games, her beautiful body, her sneers: what would that girl do next? She seemed to hold the cards, held the power to pull the punches. Even Jim, as militant and austere as he was, couldn't hold a fig to Lydia's immature and prurient imagination. Kathy swallowed dryly, remembering the horrifying scene last night: Jim's stubby young cock fucking in and out of Lydia's tight rectum! And Kathy knew that if she did not get out of that cabin soon, that would be her fate. She'd rather die!