Ray Hoy - Jack Frost 01 - The Vegas Factor Page 4

  * * *

  I walked out of the grocery store in Zephyr Cove and hurried to my car, my arms full of groceries. I fired up the Jag and headed for home, filled with an unexplainable sense of urgency.

  A brisk, steady breeze produced a broad sweep of swirling color as the trees gave up their leaves; they fluttered to the ground by the thousands. Today was a beauty: brilliant, cold and clear. Yellow and red leaves covered the ground. An occasional gust of wind blew them into the air. Then they slowly settled to the ground again in ever-tightening circles. Some of the trees stood in naked silence, already stripped of their foliage, preparing for the approaching Lake Tahoe winter.

  I patted the Jag’s steering wheel. With the long snow season approaching, it wouldn’t be long before I’d get her ready for hibernation and start driving the Land Rover.

  I’m a bit quirky, and even I know it. Every now and then I feel it’s time to take inventory of myself, and this was one of those times. I ran through the little list of my good and bad points—or at least those I was aware of:

  1. I’m basically blessed with an irrepressible nature. If all of Al-Qaeda were in Reno, I’d still feel like I would come out on top, even if I had nothing but a handful of rocks. That’s one for me.

  2. I am an eternal optimist. Hey, I’m doing okay here.

  3. At the same time, I consider myself a hard-core realist, which can be a real downer at times. Good? Bad? Probably fifty-fifty.

  4. I have more self-confidence than a man probably should have. However, since I’m doing the judging here, I’m still going to put a check mark on the “Good” side of the ledger.

  5. I don’t like to lose—at anything. Good? Bad? I chose fifty-fifty again.

  6. If I’m given a “take it or leave it,” I’ll always leave it. Absolutely good.

  7. I bore easily. Probably bad.

  I suddenly realized I was tired of the game. I laughed. “See Number 7, preceding,” I said aloud.

  I was sure it would all work out. “See Number 2, above!”

  But I was also sure it was going to be a long, rough road ahead. “Number 3!” I said to the car.

  I don’t care who Varchetta sends to grab Felicia, I will kick his ass royally and send him home whimpering. “Number 4!” I yelled. “Definitely Number 4!”

  Nothing is going to happen to her. Nothing, by God! “Number 1!” I shouted. “Not a doubt … Number 1!”

  I took the steps two at a time and let myself into the cabin. I stood inside the door listening to deep silence. The ashes in the fireplace looked cold. I shut the door quietly behind me. From the bedroom, Felicia’s voice rose and fell. I couldn’t understand what she was saying, but I did recognize a broken-hearted woman’s desperation and grief.

  I eased the bedroom door open and stood there. She was a pathetic sight. She lay on the bed, her naked body gleaming with perspiration. Her long black hair was damp and uncombed, her eyes swollen from crying. She appeared to be in pain, her hands balled up into little fists. Ripper lay on the bed with her, looking as miserable as I’ve ever seen him. His huge head lay between her breasts. He whined, lifted his head and looked at me for help, then lowered his head again.

  Occasionally, she hit the brute in the head with a flailing fist. He never flinched, just whimpered and looked even more miserable.

  Her eyes opened wide and she stared at the ceiling. Then she turned and looked at me. She didn’t seem to recognize me. Perhaps she didn’t even know I was there. But then anger changed her face, and when she spoke, her voice was filled with rage.

  “Damn you, Jonathan Flynn! Why did you have to race cars?” She sat up, spilling Ripper away. He almost fell off the bed, but recovered and sat there on the edge of the mattress, staring at her. She continued to rage at me, her face twisted. “Why did you have to drive race cars? To prove you’re a man? You didn’t have to prove it to me!” Tears spilled down her cheeks. Then softly, she said again, “You didn’t have to prove it to me.”

  Suddenly aware of my presence, she clambered to her feet and stood on the bed. She backed away as I approached, nearly losing her balance. “Stay away from me!” she screamed.

  She stood there, wild-eyed, her fingers spread apart, claw-like. Her full breasts rolled and shook as she tried to balance herself on the bed. She was finely muscled, and they rippled under her wet, brown skin as she moved. The bloody scratches on her breasts, the damp, uncombed black hair, and the hunted look in those big, deep, black eyes combined to form the picture of a primitive woman, caged and desperate.

  The standoff lasted only a few moments. Ripper whined. At the sound, she looked down at him and her face softened. Her fingers closed into fists again, then opened. With a sigh she settled to her knees and wrapped her arms around him. She held him against her and cried, rocking him back and forth as if she were holding a baby. The big dog draped his head over her right shoulder and whined softly.

  I didn’t know what to do. Finally I walked into the bathroom, started running a tub of hot water, and returned to the bedroom. I tried to pull her arms from around Ripper. He snarled, showing me a mouthful of teeth any Great White would be proud of.

  “Knock it off!” I said. I managed to break her grip on Ripper’s neck. He was still not happy with me. He jumped off the bed, more than a little interested in what I was going to do with her. I carried her into the bathroom and lowered her into the tub of water.

  I washed her face with a bath sponge. She sat there, dazed. Then she looked up at me, her eyes comprehending for the first time. She looked down at the water coming up around her breasts. When she looked up at me again, she seemed aware of the situation, but she was too far gone to be embarrassed.

  Nevertheless, I quickly got to my feet and walked out. I hurried to the kitchen and poured a glass of wine, then quickly returned to the bathroom. I knocked before I entered, then walked in and placed the glass on the edge of the tub. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded, eyes brimming with tears. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” I felt suddenly helpless. “If you need anything, I’ll be in the living room.” I walked out, shutting the door behind me.

  I mixed myself a Rusty Nail and got a blaze going in the fireplace. I turned on some music, perhaps louder than usual, something up-tempo and light.

  She’d gotten something, somewhere. There’s always a creep who’ll sell you death in a capsule for just a few bucks. And there’s always the weak who’ll buy it, not knowing what’s in it, or caring.

  This changed everything. I couldn’t trust her.

  Chapter 7

  The young prostitute walked through the motel door, Benny Florentine close behind. She took a deep breath and turned to face him, trying to think of a way to get out of this frightening situation. She looked up into his gray, hooded eyes, and her words stuck in her throat. She saw the beaded sweat in his blond crew cut, smelled the musty odor of a man who had gone too long without a shower. He was probably over three-hundred pounds, and looked close to seven feet tall.

  The cruel look on his face, and the cords in his bull-like neck frightened her. When he approached her on the street she had been afraid to turn him down. He had pushed her into his car, and she knew it was going to turn out all wrong.

  He dropped a fifty-dollar bill on the table, then turned his dead eyes on her again. Grabbing the front of her dress, he ripped it from her body with one easy movement.

  She stood there, covering her bare breasts with her hands like a virgin schoolgirl. “C’mon, Benny, please. This dress cost me a hundred bucks and …”

  Further protest died on her lips when he grinned and said, “You’ll be paid for it. I always pay for what I get.” Then he took another fifty-dollar bill, dropped it on the floor, and told her to pick it up.

  She hesitated, then bent over to pick it up. He yanked her upright by the hair, and as her face came up, hit her with an open palm. She fell backward onto the bed. He was on her in a moment, stri
pping her panties off her legs. He slapped her twice, rocking her head from side to side.

  He stood next to the bed, looking down at her. He smiled, showing very bad teeth. His voice took on a crooning tone as he leaned over and ran his hands over her small breasts, then down over her stomach. He spread her legs roughly and probed with his fingers. She winced. He laughed and probed harder. She writhed in pain.

  “You ain’t very big, honey,” he said and withdrew his fingers. He wiped them across her face and got down on his knees and took a breast in each hand. Laughing, he squeezed until she cried out. Then he pinned her and pulled her legs as far apart as he could. She felt the bones creaking in her hips, as he buried his face in her warm flesh. Without stopping, he reached up and placed one big hand around her throat and squeezed. She gagged. The room began to spin and everything began to go black. She heard her own voice screaming inside her head: I am going to die right now!

  But then he stopped. The black went to a mist of red and her vision began to clear. She gagged, then despite herself, vomited. He jumped up, angry, brushing the mess from his suit. He slapped her a dozen times until she blacked out.

  When she came to she was on her back, spread-eagled on the bed, cords binding her wrists and ankles to the bedposts. He stood in front of her, naked now, looking down at her with a curious smile. “You shouldn’t have oughta done that to ol’ Benny. He don’t like that.”

  He raped her, over and over until she lay spent and shuddering on the bed. Occasionally he smoked and watched television, only to return to the bed, time after time.

  The night wore on. He never tired of his game. Her muscles and bones ached, but she did not complain, afraid to open her mouth. She was smeared from head to toe with his body fluids, and her own mess.

  She felt sick. She gritted her teeth and prayed for the first time in a very long time. I swear it, God! If I get out of here alive, this will be my last trick. Please!

  For the next hour or so, Benny sat in front of the television, patting himself on the stomach. The room reeked of him. The young prostitute closed her eyes. How much longer? She heard him move, and her eyes flew open. He stood and turned toward her again. A smile played across his face.

  “Wanna do it again, Billy?” He looked hurt. “And can’t you show me a little affection, this time? You’re really a cold bitch, you know that?” He reached for her bruised breasts, but the sound of his cell phone ringing stopped him.

  He straightened, a frown on his face. He lumbered over to his clothes, piled in a heap on the floor, and pulled his phone from a pants pocket. He looked at the caller I.D., then reluctantly answered. “Hi, boss, it’s me, Benny.” His face fell at the reply at the other end of the receiver.

  The conversation went on for some time, while Billy drifted in and out of consciousness. She did not want him to know she was awake. Please leave when you hang up, Benny. Please.

  Benny sat with the phone pressed to his ear, screwing up his face like a little boy being reprimanded by his father. Finally he mumbled, “Okay. Bye.” He turned the cell phone off as rage darkened his face.

  Billy felt a sinking feeling as he advanced on her. “The boss shouldn’t talk to me like that,” he muttered. “I ain’t no dummy.”

  He looked down at her. “I got another hour or so, Billy. You’re gonna have to show me some affection.”

  Chapter 8

  I stood in the doorway, looking down at Felicia with as much sternness as I could muster. I was trying, I suppose, to intimidate her with my size—it wasn’t working. “Felicia, it’s dangerous for you to leave this place, do you understand?”

  “Yes, Jack.”

  “C’mon, Felicia, drop the ‘Yes, Jack,’ because this is serious!”

  “Yes, Jack.”

  I realized that she was not being coy, she was simply telling me what I wanted to hear in order to get me off her back.

  “Felicia, listen to me, please … if you do have to leave—and I don’t want you to—do not, under any circumstances, I repeat, do not leave without Ripper.”

  “Yes, Jack.”

  I put my hands on my hips, stared up at the ceiling, and gritted my teeth. “Yes, Jack,” I muttered. I turned away and pulled my sheepskin-lined jacket over the heavy turtleneck sweater I was wearing. I opened the door and was greeted by a cold wind blowing off the glittering Alpine lake.

  I walked out on the deck, then stopped and turned to look at her one more time. She was wearing one of my old Vikings sweatshirts, sleeves pushed up to her elbows. The bottom hit her about where a good miniskirt would. I had an overwhelming urge to pick her up and hug her. She was a waif with big eyes and a woeful look. And, she was wearing silly looking pink fuzzy slippers, which for some reason added to her appeal.

  “Keep this door locked, and stay with Ripper.”

  “Hurry back, Jack,” she said.

  I opened my mouth to say something else, but she shut the door in my face. I stood there for a moment, then turned and walked to my car.

  The day was magnificent, despite the cold wind. I donned my sunglasses, then gave the surrounding woods a thorough examination. Everything looked normal, but I felt unsettled.

  I got into the Jag, fired up the engine and slowly pulled away from the cabin. The beautiful day was doing its best to tamp down the anxiety I was feeling, but it wasn’t quite succeeding.

  * * *

  Felicia stood at the closed door, listening. Jack was a big man, but he never seemed to make any noise when he walked. In fact, she realized, he never seemed to make any noise at all. She opened the door slightly and peered out. Seeing nothing, she closed it quickly and hurried to the window. She caught a glimpse of the dark green Jaguar as it disappeared around the corner at the end of the lane.

  Sighing with relief, she hurried to the bedroom. She kicked the slippers off, stepped into a pair of shoes, and grabbed a long coat. She pulled it on as she walked to the front door, picking up her purse as she went.

  Ripper followed on her heels. At the front door, she got down on her knees, put her arms around him and whispered into his ear. “No, Ripper. Stay. I’ll be right back.” He whined and tried to force his face into the doorway as she opened the door, but she blocked his path. Sternly she said, “Stay, Ripper!” Then she left, pulling the door shut behind her. She could hear his scratching high up on the door, as he stood on his hind legs. “Poor Ripper,” she whispered, as she hurried toward the Land Rover.

  * * *

  An hour later, Felicia cruised slowly down Reno’s nearly deserted South Virginia Street, eyes searching desperately for the man she had found the last time she slipped away.

  She tried to suppress the rising panic. Please be there. She finally spotted him standing in front of a liquor store. Relieved, she quickly parked the car, and hurried toward him.

  A wry smile appeared on his face as she approached. He opened a grubby hand and showed her a small pile of pills, every color of the rainbow it seemed. He poked them apart with a broken, dirty fingernail and ran through the names and “selling points” of each one.

  Felicia held out a handful of cash in her open palm. His face twisted into an amazed smile. Then he took all the cash and pressed the pills into her open hand. His ugly smile made her feel dirty and guilty. She turned and walked away to escape his watery stare.

  She hurried toward Jack’s Land Rover, head down against the cold wind, hands buried in her coat pockets. Suddenly she was aware of the big man walking beside her. She looked up, wide-eyed, not wanting to see the anger on Jack’s face. An explanation was already forming in her mind when she saw the granite-like forehead protruding from beneath the hat, the hooded, dry gray eyes staring at her with amusement. “Benny,” she said, her voice barely audible. “Benny—”

  “Mr. Varchetta wants you back, Felicia.” He grabbed her by the elbow and applied enough pressure to make her knees go weak. “We gotta get goin’ now, understand?”

  She stumbled along next to him as he led her to a light
blue sedan. She was aware of her breasts, moving free and easy under the sweatshirt. He pushed her roughly into the front seat and closed the door. She hurriedly buttoned her long coat as he walked around the car and got in behind the wheel.

  “You’ll be back in Vegas tonight, where you belong,” he said, as he started the car. “Don’t give me no trouble, hear? I don’t wanna have to hurt you. The boss wouldn’t like that.”

  The thought of Harry Varchetta brought a picture of the man bursting into her brain. She recoiled and felt the sickness in her stomach again. She remembered the long days and nights, the bad breath, the repulsive personal habits, the depraved sexual fantasies he forced her to act out. She squeezed her eyes shut and thought about Ripper, just a few miles away, and the warm, safe cabin. Jack would be home in a few minutes. In her mind she heard her own voice: Yes, Jack.

  She pulled the collar up around her neck and leaned against the window, feeling the glass form a small cold spot on her forehead.

  Chapter 9

  “I was gone half an hour at the most.” My statement hung in the air, a hollow excuse. I stood there, my cell phone glued to my ear, feeling guilty as hell.

  “Don’t beat yourself up, Jack. The mood she was in, she was impossible to protect,” Jilly said. “When are you leaving for Vegas?”

  “As soon as I get things together. But it’s a seven or eight-hour drive down 95. I’d sooner go by air. When’s your next freighter heading that way?” One of Jilly’s interests included JL Enterprises, a small fleet of freight jets.

  “The next one leaves at nine o’clock, with a stop in Vegas,” Jilly said. “Have your car there an hour early, at least. You and Ripper want to ride along, or do you want to go on a commercial flight?”