III
Greta was awakened by a raucous band of crows, and by something else: an
insistent electronic beeping. It sounded so much like the alarm clock back at
her apartment in Youngstown that she was confused when she opened her eyes and
saw blue sky and trees overhead. She sat up, and the crows began flying away -
lazily, as if to show they weren't afraid of her.
She wondered what time it was.
Beep, beep. There it was again. It was coming from one of her shoes, a
few feet from her. Then she remembered that she had put Davis's radio in her
shoe the night before.
Beep, beep. Should she click it on and listen? Maybe they were trying to
reach Davis. Maybe they didn't know he was dead. Maybe she could learn something
that would help get through another day alive.
Or maybe once she clicked on, they would somehow know exactly where she
was.
Beep, beep. "Here goes nothing," she said to herself, as she punched the
"on" button. What she heard was a conversation between two or three other
parties. They seemed unaware that she had tuned in. "Cleared Sector Nine. No
sign of her." "Okay, we're clear down here, too. Let's move on to Seven."
"Jimbo, how are things at your end?" "We've looked in and all around Bunkhouse
Two. She must have been here yesterday, because we found a supply cart with a
bunch of open boxes. But she's long gone. We're going to move south."
Greta smiled. At last, she had caught a real break. They were combing
the Ranch, sector by sector, and the area around Bunkhouse Two was clear, as far
as they were concerned. If she could just get back there, she could break into
the bunkhouse, sleep in a real bed, and have all the cocktail onions a girl
could ask for.
She headed north.
Which is precisely what McTeague hoped she would do. He knew she had
taken Davis's radio, and he knew she had been to Bunkhouse Two. But where she
was now was anyone's guess.
If they couldn't find her, maybe they could get her to come to them. The
beeping and the radio conversation had been carefully planned. He wanted Greta
to think she was eavesdropping. He wanted her to come out of hiding and make it
to Bunkhouse Two. He wanted it so much that he had told the hunt crew, and that
fatuous fat-head, Tom, to steer clear if they saw her.
Let her come to Papa, he thought. I'll reel her in like a lovely little
trout.
# # #
Greta moved cautiously through the trees, scanning the clearing ahead of
her. There was no sign of life, except for a couple of barn swallows zipping
back and forth over the near side of the bunkhouse. Still, she waited a little
longer. Just to be safe, she thought. Then she smiled grimly. Who could be safe
in a place like this?
She stepped into the clearing and walked purposefully toward the
bunkhouse. As she turned a corner, there was a blur of something big moving
fast, and that something smashed into her. She bumped into the wall and fell to
her knees. When she looked up, she was looking into the cold grey eyes of
McTeague.
"You're up awfully early on a Sunday morning," he said. She struggled to
her feet and faced him, trying to be brave. Out of the corner of her eye, she
saw Sims walking toward them. "You've caused us no end of trouble, young lady,"
McTeague said. Then, so fast she had no time to defend against it, he slapped
her face.
It was the hardest she'd ever been slapped, and she tasted blood. He
stepped back and drew his hunting knife.
"No," cried Sims. "Tom paid for his chance. You can't kill her yet."
"Oh, I'm not going to kill her," McTeague said. Then he plunged the
knife into her left thigh and twisted it. "I'm just going to give Fat Tom a
fighting chance."
Greta fell to the ground, writhing in agony. Why this? Why didn't the
son of a bitch just finish her off?
McTeague's voice cut through the fog of pain. He was talking on the
radio. "Tom, we've had a bit of good luck. We're at Bunkhouse Two, and who did
we run into but Greta herself. Seems she's had a bit of an accident. If you
hurry over, you may catch her." He paused and listened to Tom's reply. "Read the
goddam map, Tom. You're not far away. Just hurry over, and keep your eyes open."
He looked down at Greta. "Start running, you miserable cunt. Start running and
hope this fat pig of a hunter doesn't find you and do to you what I'd like to
do."
She rose unsteadily to her feet. Her leg throbbed. Run? Hardly. She
hobbled to the edge of the woods, turned and looked back at the two men. Sims
was protesting and gesticulating. But McTeague was looking at her with the smile
of a funeral director.
# # #
Tom had gotten the call from McTeague while hiking with Loopy along the
edge of the Rill. McTeague and Sims hadn't wanted him to try to track down Greta
unattended, so Loopy was tagging along to provide protection. Now, after hearing
from McTeague, Tom moved with renewed energy. They had spotted Greta. Better
yet, she was hurt. This time he had a chance.
They came to the edge of a clearing. In the woods on the other side,
something was moving. Something pale. It was Greta, and indeed she appeared
hurt. She stumbled, picked herself up and pushed on - toward them.
Tom turned to Loopy.
"Let me handle this," he whispered. "I paid for it. Go on back to the
hotel."
Loopy shrugged. Greta looked pretty harmless. He would have enjoyed
watching the fun, but the customer is always right. He turned and walked away.
Greta came into the clearing without stopping or looking. She was in too
much pain and too weak to take precautions. She just wanted to get as far away
from McTeague as possible. Tom rushed her when she was only a few yards away.
She looked up, startled, then he tackled her. She fell to the ground,
with Tom on top. She tried to hit and scratch him, but he grabbed her wrists and
pressed them to the ground. His face was only inches from hers.
"This is it, bitch," he said. "This is where you check out." He released
her wrists, sat up and punched her in the jaw. She went limp. Tom struggled to
his feet. Then he saw the stab wound in her thigh. Nasty, he thought. Let's see
if she's really out. He stepped heavily on her leg. She groaned and tried to sit
up. He stepped back and kicked her in the chest.
Then, as she turned over and tried to crawl away from him, he stomped
twice on her lower back. She quit moving. Tom was breathing heavily. Between his
exertion and sexual arousal, he felt almost dizzy. Gotta think this through, he
told himself. He regretted having sent Loopy away. He would be handy right now,
to carry Greta to the Abattoir. Maybe he could radio for help, he thought. But
he discovered his radio was missing. Must have fallen off during the hike. Well,
he still had six feet of nylon rope in his backpack and a hunting knife on his
belt.
He pulled Greta's wrists together behind her and began tying them. He
didn't know much about knots, but he devised something he felt would hold.
Greta was stirring again. She seemed to have trouble breathing. He
pulled off her pants and shoes and flung them into the bushes. Then he stuck his
hand into her pussy. He wiggled his fingers, trying to get her wet. Greta's mind
was out of commission, but her body was still responsive. Quickly, her pussy was
lubricated. Tom unzipped his shorts and fucked her.
Afterward, he leaned down next to her and drew his knife. He held it
close to her face. "I'm going to get some company so we can all enjoy you,
sweetie pie. And when I get back, I'm going to carve you up like a Thanksgiving
turkey."
He laughed at the notion of her trussed up on a platter. Then he gave
her one last, savage kick in the side and headed northeast. That should take him
to McTeague and Sims. Read the goddam map, McTeague had said. Well, he had read
it, and he knew exactly where he was going.
# # #
Greta lay quiet for several minutes, until she was sure Tom was gone.
Then she began struggling with the rope that held her. The knot was clumsy,
complicated and ineffective. It didn't take her long to slip free.
When she got to her feet, a wave of nausea almost sent her back to the
ground.
How could she go on?
How could she not?
Tom had headed toward the bunkhouse, so they would be coming from the
northeast. They'd probably figure she was headed downstream. Instead, she went
due east.
The woods grew thinner, which meant she was becoming easier to spot, but
she pushed on. And when she came to an asphalt path that ran south, she turned
on to it without thinking. She didn't notice when a shadow glided across her
path, but she saw it when it returned half a minute later. Something big, she
thought. Big wings. Then she felt sick again, and the thought of whatever it was
overhead disappeared.
But that something didn't disappear. It was a buzzard, and it had become
interested in Greta the moment she staggered out of the woods and onto the path.
Whatever this pale two-legged animal was, it was clearly in distress. Experience
and instinct told the buzzard that this was a meal, or soon would be. It swooped
lower and picked up the scent of blood.
The buzzard's excitement grew as Greta fell face first onto the path. It
glided down and landed clumsily a few feet from her. The black bird approached
cautiously. Just then, another shadow glided across the path, and a second
buzzard landed on the other side of this promising new form of road kill.
The first buzzard moved closer, looking for Greta's eyes. However
primitive its brain, it knew that plucking out the eyes disabled still living
animals quickly and sent them into shock. Also, eyes were tasty.
Greta smelt a foul odor. She looked up just as the buzzard lunged at
her. She slapped its head away and tried to roll to safety, bumping into second
bird, which scrambled to get out of her way.
The buzzards retreated and watched. This was going to take some time,
but they were in no hurry. Greta pushed herself up until she was on her hands
and knees. She looked down and saw blood still flowing from her stab wound. This
made her dizzy again, and she sank back to the pavement.
The buzzards waddled closer. One extended its neck and bit into Greta's
bare behind. She moaned and twitched but couldn't fight back. The other hopped
onto her extended forearm, leaned forward and ripped off the upper part of her
left ear. The pain no longer registered. Greta lay motionless.
More shadows passed over this gathering, and within seconds two more
buzzards had landed. They arranged themselves as if at an intimate dinner party,
two on each side of the table. They sensed Greta was beyond resistance. One
grabbed her shoulder in its powerful beak and yanked her over, onto her back,
exposing her face, breasts and belly. The others closed in.
# # #
"It was right here. I left her right here."
"Are you sure, Tom," said McTeague. His voice was calm, but Sims took
one look at him and knew a storm was brewing.
Tom was running around the clearing in growing confusion. "I left her
tied up," he said. "And she was unconscious. Someone must have come and taken
her away."
McTeague's face darkened.
"Wait," said Tom. "There's her shorts. And a shoe. See, I told you this
is where I nailed the bitch."
"Okay," said McTeague. "We'll take over now. You just get back to the
hotel. Anywhere but here. I want you out of my sight."
Tom was set to protest, but Sims, standing behind McTeague, motioned him
to keep quiet. He turned angrily and marched off in a direction he hoped would
take him to the hotel. It was time to get the hell out of this rip-off joint.
This whole expensive enterprise had been a disaster.
McTeague lifted his radio and spoke quietly. "We're in a clearing about
50 yards from Tower Four. Bring Ginger and Jeebies." He picked up Greta's
shorts.
"Are you sure this is a good idea, Gunter?" Sims asked. "There are
people wandering all over the Ranch right now. Those dogs are dangerous."
"But at least they're here," McTeague shot back, "unlike the Plott
hounds you promised. Ginger and Jeebies will do what I command." He sniffed the
crotch of Greta's shorts. "They'll get a whiff of this, then they'll track her
down and rip her apart. I only wish I could be there to watch."
Sims lit a cigarette, and McTeague whistled softly. He seemed lost in
thought. After a few minutes, they heard barking in the distance. Then the
mastiffs rushed up to McTeague, wagging their tails, eager for attention and
approval. McTeague wrestled with them, hugged them, let them slobber all over
him. He loved them more than he had ever loved any other creature on earth.
He rubbed Greta's shorts against their snouts. "Here's what you're
after, my darling, ferocious pets. Go get her. Go get her and do your bloody
worst." The dogs ran around in circles for a few seconds, then headed south.
McTeague watched them with an expression of pride.
Sims watched, too, but he was filled with apprehension.
# # #
Troy Parris was driving the electric cart as fast as it would go, which
wasn't very fast, especially when pulling a wagon full of bed linens. This
wasn't one of his regular duties, but he was happy to be outdoors.
As he came around a turn, he was confronted by a congregation of
buzzards. They looked up from whatever it was they were eating, recognized
danger and reluctantly waddled off in the other direction, not yet ready to give
up their meal and get airborne.
Troy hit the brakes and gasped. The meal was a young woman. One look at
her platinum blonde hair and long, lovely legs told him it was Greta. He leapt
out of the cart and knelt beside her. The upper half of her left ear had been
ripped off, and her right eyelid was bleeding. But the eyeball was intact, and
the other eye hadn't been touched.
He felt her neck. Her heart was still pumping, thank God. He examined
the rest of her. There was a bloody cut in one shoulder and what looked like a
stab wound in her leg. He turned her over gently. A hunk of flesh had been
ripped out of her right buttock. She was in pretty bad shape, but none of the
wounds appeared life-threatening.
He gathered her in his arms and carried her to the supply wagon. She
murmured incoherently. "Quiet, honey," he said softly. "You're going to be okay.
Just be real quiet." He covered her with a bed sheet, but within seconds blood
had seeped through. He grabbed a dark blue woolen blanket and spread it over
her. Then he started up the cart and headed for an abandoned cabin he used for
assignations with several women on the staff. No one came around the cabin
except him and his occasional lovers, and he would gladly forego lovemaking
until he had nursed Greta back to health.
Somewhere in the woods dogs were barking, then Troy heard someone scream
for help. You're on your own, buddy, he thought. I've done all the rescuing I'm
going to do today.
# # #
The mastiffs weren't especially adept at tracking game, but this was an
easy assignment. The trail was fresh and the scent overpowering. They loped
along, slowing occasionally to sniff the ground or piss on a bush, and within a
few minutes they spotted a fat human walking ahead.
Tom turned and froze when he heard the first bark. Two huge dogs were
headed straight for him.
"Down boy, down boy. Holy shit! HELP!"
Those were his last words. What followed were wild gurgles and screams,
as the dogs did their deadly work. One attacked his face and throat. The other
went for where the scent from Greta's shorts was strongest. Tom's jugular and
testicles were severed at almost the same instant.
# # #
It had been eight days since Greta had fled into the woods, trailing
blood. Eight days of intensive searching. And nothing.
"This is unacceptable," said C. Marston Moulton, chairman of the
foundation that owned the Ranch. He was also vice chairman of the Medical Center
and senior partner in one of the state's most powerful law firms. He was
presiding at a meeting of the executive committee and the senior staff in a
conference room at the Ranch.
"We've lost two hunters and now a hunt master. And we can't find a
helpless, injured young cunt. We're not dealing here with Wonder Woman, for
Christ's sake. What the hell kind of outfit is this?"
McTeague squirmed in his chair and was about to speak. But Jimbo
Robbins, head of security, saw an opening. "The way I see it, Mr. Moulton, she's
most likely dead. Mr. McTeague says he stabbed her pretty deep. I suspect she
wandered off into the woods and bled to death. By now the coyotes and raccoons
and buzzards and all the other birdies and beasties have pretty much stripped
away all the soft parts."
"Very graphic, Mr. Robbins," said Moulton. "Thank you for sharing -
especially just before lunch. But if we want to be grisly, consider this: If she
is, in fact, a rotting corpse, how come the Plott hounds that the late and
unlamented Mr. Sims finally brought in from McDowell County didn't find her? How
come the bloodhounds I had shipped in from Tennessee failed as well?"
Robbins fell silent.
"Mr. Moulton," said McTeague. "I'm as upset as you are at how things
turned out. Especially the loss of Tom Dishman to the mastiffs. I told Sims it
was a bad idea, turning the dogs loose. It wasn't their fault. It was just a
case of bad human judgment."
"It certainly was," said Moulton, "though I still think Sims should have
been given a chance to defend himself to the board. Your summary execution looks
to me like a case of bad judgment, too."
McTeague's face reddened, but he didn't respond.
"Well, that's all water over the dam, sir," said Robbins. He was
enjoying McTeague's discomfort and wanted to exploit what looked like a possible
opening for advancement. "Our goal now is to find her and, if she's alive, kill
her. The collar she's wearing cannot be removed without a key, at least not
without removing her head." He chuckled, but no one else smiled. "It has a tiny
transmitter," he continued, "and when radio units attached to the steel fence
posts pick up the signal, they amplify it and send it to Security. My suggestion
is that we remove several of those fence post units and carry them through the
woods, sector by sector, and see if we get a beep."
Moulton thought this over and said, "Good idea. How long do the
batteries in the collars last?"
Robbins triumphant smile faded. "I don't know, sir. We always change
them before each hunt. I'll find out." He turned to Loopy, who was sitting
against a wall. "Go get the specs on the Q-3 system, will you? They're on top of
my desk."
"If I may," said McTeague, "I'd like to suggest another step, a
complementary step. We've checked all the buildings, of course, except those
used by staff. I'm not making any accusations, but it's possible someone on
staff is hiding her. It's unlikely, but let's make sure."
"I'm surprised you haven't already done that," said Moulton. "Well, by
all means, get on with it. And if anyone did, in fact, help this young woman,
they must be terminated, too."
"Of course," said McTeague.
The conversation shifted to other topics, including how to deal with
increasingly insistent questions from the survivors of the two hunters. Already,
there was talk of lawsuits.
Loopy returned and handed a folder to Robbins. Robbins examined them and
appeared shaken. "Five days, six at most," he said, almost in a whisper. "The
batteries in the collar are probably spent."
Moulton took a sip from a glass of ice water and said, "That means she
might not be on premises at all. She could have gotten past the fence without
our knowing."
"That's unlikely, sir," Robbins said defensively. "She was hurt bad, and
she would have had to get through coiled razor wire. She would've been sliced to
pieces."
Moulton rose. "I'm tired of excuses and might-have-beens. I want
results. I want the bereaved families satisfied - without shelling out a lot of
money. I want our whole security system overhauled. And I want that cunt found.
Fast."
# # #
Greta's recovery was slow but steady. The infirmary nurse, Roberta,
would do anything for Parris, and frequently had. Now she gave him antibiotics,
bandages and pills for pain and fever. She had even slipped over to the cabin
one evening to put stitches in the wound in Greta's leg and to bandage her
behind.
"She's got a nice ass," Roberta said with a wry smile. "You spend much
time there?"
"I hardly know her, Bobbie," said Parris. "I mean, okay, I did screw her
once, the first day she was here, but that's all. I brought her here because I
just felt sorry for her. Jesus Christ, you can't just let someone get eaten by
buzzards. Especially when they're still alive."
On the day the board and senior staff were meeting in the conference
room, Parris had slipped over to the cabin with a plastic container full of
tomato and artichoke soup and several chicken sandwiches. Greta's appetite had
returned, though she was still weak and shaky. After lunch, as Parris sat in a
rocking chair, Greta knelt before him and gave him a long, slow blow job. It was
the best he'd ever had. Then he took her to bed, and gently licked her pussy
until she came. He wanted to lie next to her and sleep the afternoon away, but
he was scheduled to go on duty at the desk at two o'clock. A corporate board
retreat was to begin that evening, and guests would be checking in all
afternoon.
When he closed and locked the front door of the cabin, he saw McTeague
and Loopy approaching.
"Hello, Troy," said McTeague. "What brings you here?"
"The usual," Parris said, blushing.
"Anyone we know?" McTeague asked, teasingly.
"Yes, but I'm too much of a gentleman to tell."
McTeague laughed. "Okay. I don't want to embarrass you or her."
He and Loopy joined Parris as they walked to the asphalt path. "See you
later," Parris said, and headed for the hotel.
"Wanna check out the cabin?" Loopy asked. "No," said McTeague. "I trust
Troy. And I don't want to make things difficult for his lady friend. It's
probably the new girl in the kitchen. He beds them all, sooner or later."
# # #
Loopy had been told from early childhood that he was stupid, and he had
more or less come to believe it. But he had a good nose for lies, and he was
pretty sure Troy Parris was lying. So after he and McTeague had checked several
other buildings and returned to the hotel, he slipped away and went back to the
cabin.
The shades were drawn on the front and side windows, but in back, where
there was a screen porch, one window was half open. Made sense, he thought, it
was a pretty warm day. As quietly as a 270-pound man could, he climbed the
steps, opened the screen door and crept over to the window. He needn't have
worried about the creaking boards. An electric fan inside was turned on, and the
noise would have drowned out his approach.
He found himself looking into one of the cabin's two bedrooms. The room
was pretty dark, but he could see that no one was there. He continued watching.
He had nothing more important to do. After about 10 minutes, someone passed in
the hall outside the bedroom. He didn't get a good look, but he was sure it was
a woman. A slender woman. With pale hair.
Loopy knew the layout of the cabins. She would have been going from the
other bedroom to the kitchen. He waited. In a few minutes, she returned. He got
a good look. It was Greta.
He wondered how he could break the news to McTeague without triggering
an explosion. McTeague had been a good boss, had paid Loopy well and entrusted
him with important assignments. But he had a terrible temper, and Loopy worried
that his rage might be turned on the messenger, not just on the subjects of the
message. By the time he got back to the hotel, he had decided to lay it out
plain and simple.
Greta was in the cabin. Troy had betrayed him. Those were the facts.
Loopy would do whatever McTeague needed him to do.
(To be continued.)
