TROLL
A Short story by
Wodke Hawkinson
Description:
Officers are called to investigate the report of a troll under the William Frank Bridge
Approximately 3,221 words
© 2012 by Wodke Hawkinson
All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations and events in this work are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
Mary Frahns, dispatcher for Macksburg County, took the call at 11:27 p.m. on a Thursday night. “Dispatch.”
An excited voice issued loudly through her headset, causing her to pull it away as she replied, “Ok, calm down please. Can you repeat the information?”
This time the voice wasn’t as shrill and the caller explained in more detail. After disconnecting, Mary radioed Officers Clem and Deuce. She couldn’t keep the smile from her voice as she spoke. “Report of a troll under the William Frank Bridge.” There was no code in her book for a troll.
“Please repeat.” After hearing the info once again he grinned widely. “10-4. We're two blocks away,” Deuce radioed back in his usual lazy voice, not giving her the satisfaction of a reaction. Turning, he gave his partner a wink. “Well, pilgrim, what say you and I go round us up a troll,” he said in a pitiful imitation of John Wayne.
Clem grinned and twirled an imaginary revolver, “I’m right beside ya, partner.” His impression of The Duke was spot on. He was rather proud of this talent, and practiced regularly in front of his mirror at home.
Arriving at the bridge, the officers pulled their service pistols and approached the curved opening from opposite ends. Shining a flashlight into the dark interior, they couldn’t help but gape at what they saw. “If that ain’t the damndest thing,” Clem muttered.
An hour later, they wrestled the subject into the station amid much cursing, spitting, and flailing.
Mary peeked around the corner to watch the booking. Gladys, the booking officer, jumped from her chair and backed up four or five paces, her hand clutching the front of her shirt.
The officers deposited their captive in the chair next to Gladys’s desk and held him down by his shoulders while another deputy ran for the shackles. Only after he was secured did Gladys sidle over and sit on the edge of her seat, poised for a quick exit if it became necessary. She adjusted her glasses with trembling fingers and reached for her keyboard. “Name please?” She asked the question, carefully avoiding eye contact with the perpetrator.
Snarling, he shook his long matted hair and looked down at the floor. Art Clem stood on one side and Casper “Ace” Deuce on the other, should the detainee decide to try anything. Between the two large officers, the arrestee looked diminutive and harmless, but the tension in his body said otherwise.
“Name?” Gladys repeated, sneaking a look from under her thin bangs. The subject twisted in the chair and growled a long utterance, which no one understood. With his bulging forehead, bulbous nose, and pointy ears protruding from his wild hair, he looked not quite human. Gladys tried again, making her voice gentle to disguise the fact that she was frightened. “Your name, please?” She knew if he didn't answer he would raise the ire of the two officers, who at this point were merely amused.
“Larkensparkenbluertruerharken!” His voice was guttural, like stones falling into a metal pipe.
“How do you spell that?” Gladys asked, and the deputies burst out laughing.
Ace slapped his thick thigh several times and turned away, trying to quell his mirth. “How do you spell that?” he wheezed as tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. “Lord a mercy!”
Art Clem covered his own mouth like a tittering girl. “Like he could spell! Bet ten bucks he ain’t never been inside a school room. His folks probably kept him locked in the attic.”
“Maybe they rented him out to freak shows to make a little extry cash,” Ace speculated, still tickled. He bent down slightly and stared at the arrestee. “Better give the nice lady your name now. No more fooling around.”
“Larkensparkenbluertruerharken!” the troll shouted and heaved against the restraints.
Gladys flinched. “Oh, my,” she murmured.
“Calm down there, pal,” Ace said, placing a warning hand on the little man's shoulder.
Gladys struggled through the spelling of the odd name, repeating the syllables slowly to herself. “Ok, uh, dear, now what's your last name?”
“What do you speak of?” the man barked. His strange orange-hued eyes rolled in their deep sockets. He tapped at the armrests with long dirty claw-like fingernails; the chains on his wrists rattled lightly with his moves. “I’ve given ye my name, now set me free.” The cloud of odor surrounding him was almost visible.
Gladys couldn't place the smells, but they were familiar. Her olfactory sense was compromised by constant sinus congestion. She sniffed, but it did little good. She was a mouth breather most of the time.
“Your last name? Larkinsparkinbluetruehark is your first name. Correct? What's your last name?” Gladys was patient, her fear replaced by sympathy for the scruffy malformed individual she was processing.
“I've but one name!” he blurted, panting from fear and distress. “One name! Why would a body need more than one name? I'll not abide your trickery, dame. I'll not abide it!” He twisted and shot a look over his shoulder at Ace. “Ye’ve me name, now let me go. ‘Tis the way of things, the common rule!”
Ace muffled a laugh and glanced at his partner. “Hear that, Art? Thinks he makes the rules.” Lowering his gaze to their captive, he said, “We follow the law around here. Got that? The law. Not some so-called ‘common rule’. Now you’ll answer the questions you’re asked, if you know what’s good for you.”
The little man glowered at Ace and pressed his lips tightly together. He rocked slightly back and forth and commenced humming in his raspy voice.
Gladys sighed. She gave a shrug to the officers who unlocked him from the chair and escorted him, writhing and scuffling, to a holding cell. “Maybe a few hours in solitary will loosen your tongue,” Art Clem advised him sternly. “In fact, that’s the common rule around here.”
“Ye’ll rue yer mockery of me,” the prisoner hissed as they locked him in.
Gladys put a call in to Sheriff Croft. She knew he would want to see this prisoner. In fact, everyone on duty sneaked down to the peer in the little window of the cell door. Some gasped; others gagged; and a few laughed. Word spread through the small station like an ink stain on a white sheet.
“What about me?” Mary called from dispatch. It was a slow night and she needed the distraction. “Come take over for me so I can have a look.”
Gladys rose from her chair, rubbed her aching back, and spelled Mary long enough that she could satisfy her curiosity. When she came back, Gladys stood to give her the seat.
“What the hell is he?” Mary asked as she slid into her chair. “Never seen anything like it!”
“I don't know, Mary.” Gladys frowned.
Ace Deuce and Art Clem pulled themselves away from the sideshow down the hall and strolled into Dispatch. Mary turned her question to them.
“Just some homeless freak,” Ace answered. “We pulled him out of a hole under the bridge. He was crawling in there, scrambling for all he was worth. Got a hold of his ankles and yanked him out. Once we got him under the streetlights, we could see right away why the caller said he was a troll. He’s one deformed
little goober.”
“He stinks different than our usual clientele,” Art said, puffing up his chest like Barney Fife. Had Art been a skinny man, the resemblance would have been remarkable. As it was, only his mannerisms gave him away. “No piss and body odor on that one. No, he smells of black licorice and camphor. Strong, too. Had to hold my breath in the car. Made my nostrils sting.”
“But his eyes! I've never seen brown eyes with so many flecks of orange in them. Makes him look like a demon or something. And his face! What a horrid childhood he must have had,” Gladys exclaimed.
“Always looking for a reason, ain't ya, gal?” Art smirked. “You and your soft heart. Fact is, he broke the vagrancy laws, and that makes him a criminal, no matter how much he was beat up when he was a kid.”
“We might be able to connect him with those burglaries on Warehouse Row,” Ace said thoughtfully. “Though where he's stashed the stuff is anybody's guess. Wasn't nothing under that bridge but a bedroll and a small cooking pot. No food to speak of. Probably been eating out of garbage cans.”
Sheriff Darrin Croft breezed in, every hair slicked into place as usual, his dark eyes roving the room. “Ain't you all got some work to be doing?” he boomed. The officers scattered in different directions as he strode down the hall to the holding cell. After a long look inside, he whistled softly. A chill crawled up his spine.
He returned to the booking area and propped a huge foot up on the chair in front of Gladys's desk. Resting his elbows on his leg, he stared at his booking officer. “That is one ugly customer,” he said in a low voice, shaking his head.
Gladys leaned forward, meeting his eye, and whispered, “Do you think it's really a troll, Darrin?”
Sheriff Croft snorted, and then looked over both shoulders to make sure the room was clear. “Don't repeat this to anyone, Gladys, but I'm not sure what the hell he is. I think we need to get a doctor in here to look at him. We can't hold him long, you know. He'll be assigned a public defender tomorrow and they'll get him out. We need to fingerprint and photograph the bugger before morning. We're gonna have to trim those claws, too. Might take three of us to do it. He's short, but he looks powerful, muscular. There's something intimidating about him.” He chuckled nervously. “When I was a kid, I was afraid of things like trolls. It's like meeting up with one of my childhood nightmares firsthand. But that's crazy, ain't it?”
Gladys shivered. “Not so crazy, Sheriff.”
Croft gathered the available officers to back him up, and then explained to the prisoner what they were going to do. Surprisingly, he did not resist. Perhaps even in his lunatic mind, he could see the futility of fighting. When he was returned to the cell, he flung himself to the floor in the corner and stared around wildly. He refused to talk and would answer no more questions.
At three a.m., Sheriff Croft's personal physician stumbled in looking half asleep and perturbed. “Okay, let's see him,” he mumbled, holding his bag with one hand and smoothing back his wiry hair with the other.
The sheriff accompanied Dr. Bower. At the door of the cell, he eyed the troll. “Do I need to bring some other officers with me or will you cooperate with the doctor?”
Larkensparkenbluertruerharken threw up his hands in defeat, and glared at the two men. Though it was doubtful he understood the sheriff's words, he certainly got the meaning.
“Remove your clothes,” the doctor said in a calm voice. “Let's have a look at you.”
The prisoner slowly complied.
“Holy hell!” Sheriff Croft exclaimed as the boots, shirt, and pants hit the floor.
“Sheriff!” Dr. Bower admonished. “Please. Use some restraint or I'll have to ask you to wait outside.”
“Sorry,” Darrin muttered, unable to take his eyes from the prisoner.
Larkensparkenbluertruerharken stood about four feet high with well-developed chest, shoulders, and arms. His thick torso transitioned into furred haunches. His knees bent forward as normal, but a couple of inches below each kneecap, there was another joint that skewed his calves backward. It reminded Darrin of a goat's leg. At the ankle, was a foot with a heel, but where the toes should be, was a split hoof. As Larkensparkenbluertruerharken shifted for the exam, his hooves clicked on the tile floor right after the soft slaps of his soles.
Dr. Bower examined Larkensparkenbluertruerharken from top to bottom. He took blood and tissue samples. On the back of the prisoner's head, buried deep in his wild hair, were three horn-like protrusions. The doctor mumbled as he explored the region.
“Do these hurt?” he asked.
“Why would they!” Larkensparkenbluertruerharken spit. “They belong to me noggin.”
“Indeed.” Bower patted the little man on the shoulder. “You can get dressed now.”
“Ye’ve been kind to me,” the scamp said. “I’ll not curse ye.”
“Well, that’s most generous of you,” the doctor said without a trace of sarcasm and withdrew from the room, his bag under one arm. The sheriff followed, locking the door behind him.
Stepping several feet down the hall, Sheriff Croft put his hand on the doctor's arm. “Well? What of him?”
“I don't know,” the doctor said. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I can't wait to get his blood under a microscope though. And DNA tests would be helpful, but who would pay for them? If he is just charged with vagrancy, as you say, there's not much call to run a DNA profile, is there?”
“Never mind that for now. What are your thoughts?” Sheriff Darrin Croft was uncomfortable and becoming more so by the minute, especially now that he had medical confirmation that his prisoner was something unique.
“He's a walking set of anomalies for sure. Birth defects would be my conclusion. Maybe exposure of his mother to some toxin or another during pregnancy.”
“So he's a freak,” Darrin said. “But human?”
“I don't like the word freak, Sheriff.” The doctor pulled his gray eyebrows into a frown. “Of course, he's human. What else could he be?”
Sheriff Darrin Croft was not the sort given to fantasy or exaggeration. He felt foolish even before the word was out of his mouth, but he couldn't stop it. “Troll.”
“Troll?” the doctor began walking toward the booking area. “I think you're tired, Darrin. Go home and get some sleep. I'll call you tomorrow as soon as I know anything. Don't put him in with the rest of the population.”
“I know my job, Doctor,” Darrin said in a clipped voice. “I'll see you out.”
After the doctor left, Darrin went back down the hall and checked on the troll. Larkensparkenbluertruerharken was speaking in a quiet, earnest voice to the wall. A nutcase then, Darrin thought. “Come over here to the door. I want to talk to you.”
The little man startled and then crept to the door. He placed his pointy ear against the metal.
“I am the sheriff. In case you don’t know what that means, I’ll tell you. I’m in charge of everything here. All the people you’ve seen so far, other than the doctor, work for me. I am the boss, the authority. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”
“No.”
“What I’m saying is everyone who’s questioned you up to this point is an underling, a subordinate. Maybe you got away with stonewalling them, but I’m a different kettle of tea.”
“Ah, they be mere subjects and ye be the lord.”
“Something like that, yes. Now I’m going to need some answers, and you’d best give them to me.”
“Mmmm.”
“Okay, good. Now where are you from?” the sheriff asked.
“I'll not say, thank ye kindly,” the troll responded.
“Where do you live now? Under the bridge where they found you? Tell me.”
“Not there,” came the whispered response. “But set me free and I'll not come round yer village again. Ye have me word.”
“I can't do that,” Sheriff Croft said, his voice tired. “Where were you born? At least tell me that? Did your mother have some sort of a
ccident that made you the way you are?”
“And what way is that?” the little man retorted. “I'm as everyone else is. No different.”
“You're different.”
“I'm not! Ye're daft!” There was pity in the troll's voice now. “Poor sod.”
“Move away from the door. I'm coming in,” the sheriff said.
He peered through the window to find Larkensparkenbluertruerharken had backed against the opposite wall, his odd eyes burning as he watched the sheriff.
“Look at me,” Sheriff Croft ordered. “We're not the same. Look at me.”
Larkensparkenbluertruerharken danced a little jig, snickered, and then clapped his hands. Darrin pulled back, expecting an attack that never came.
“Do ye like that little dance?” Larkensparkenbluertruerharken lightened his tone as if he were addressing a child. He grinned, exposing gnarly teeth. “I could teach it to ye. Or I could show ye some tricks!”
Baffled, Darrin shook his head. “Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot. And don’t try to evade the subject. You're different from me. And you're by god gonna admit it.” Darrin fumbled with his belt and dropped his pants. “See? Different.”
Larkensparkenbluertruerharken's smile faded as his eyes traveled over Darrin's lower half. Tears welled in his eyes and ran down his misshapen cheeks. “Oh,” he said. “I know the sort ye are now. Aye, I do. I’ve come across yer ilk before.”
Darrin pulled up his pants and refastened his belt. “As you can see, you can't deny it any longer. You're abnormal. Deformed. And I want to know why. I want to know your story, my friend. I can sit here all night if I have to, but you're gonna talk to me. You're gonna tell me all about yourself, or I'm gonna get mean. Believe me, you don't want that.” He towered over the smaller man, the harsh overhead light creating an ominous shadow. Darrin's threatening stance was intentional. Patience had gotten him nowhere. It was time to resort to intimidation. It was the best way to handle the little freak. Make him admit what he is, just a crooked ugly human with a nasty attitude, not some sinister creature out of a dark fairy tale or a bad dream. Nothing to be afraid of. Time to step up and show him who’s boss.
The sheriff leaned down with a hateful look on his face. “Well?”
Larkensparkenbluertruerharken shrunk and fell back onto the metal bed. He sat with his hoary hands clasped between his knees and looked up with a contrite expression on his homely face. “Ye win, ye giant. I'll talk. Come closer, for me throat is sore and 'tis hard to speak.”
Darrin nodded and knelt before his prisoner.
“A mite closer,” Larkensparkenbluertruerharken whispered, crooking his twisted finger.
Darrin leaned in. Larkensparkenbluertruerharken opened his mouth and instantly the orifice grew to an enormous gaping maw. Before surprise could register on the sheriff's face, Larkensparkenbluertruerharken sucked Darrin's head inside his mouth, bit down, and swallowed, gulping the round object down his gullet into his belly. Blood spurted from Darrin's neck as his body collapsed onto the floor.
Larkensparkenbluertruerharken rubbed his belly, then belched long and with great satisfaction. He turned to the wall behind him and spoke again to its blank face. A hole materialized in the concrete and the troll stepped inside and disappeared. The hole closed up with a loud snap, leaving behind a mystery that would never be solved by the Macksburg County Sheriff's office.
Larkensparkenbluertruerharken reappeared in a small village in England and took up residence under a bridge. It wasn’t long before the calls started coming in to the local constabulary and officers were sent to investigate…
Enjoy this excerpt from Betrayed, a novel of suspense by Wodke Hawkinson
That morning at breakfast, completely out of character, Clark had asked her to do him a favor. He wanted her to go to a bookstore on the south side of town. He said he had done some research and this was the only shop he could locate that carried a copy of a rare book his boss had mentioned. Clark wanted to surprise Harold with the book on his upcoming birthday. He had stressed several times that this was the only store in the state with a copy and he didn’t want to miss the opportunity to make the purchase. The book was being held under his name. She had watched him as he finished eating, took a final sip of coffee, and then began stuffing papers into his briefcase. He had seemed nervous, fidgety, but she couldn’t imagine why. Their usual morning conversation had been stilted and they had parted in the garage shortly after.
Brook assumed Clark hadn’t sent his assistant on this errand for fear Harold would hear about the book and the surprise would be ruined. Anxiety rose within her as she found herself amid abandoned stores intermingled with porn, tattoo, and head shops. Splashes of graffiti scarred the forsaken buildings. In a weed-choked lot, two groups of rough-looking youths sat atop parked cars and hollered lazy insults back and forth. Further ahead, posturing gang bangers strutted their colors, advertising their menace. A ragged homeless woman shuffled through the garbage-strewn streets.
Adding to Brook’s discomfort, her shiny red car was drawing unwanted attention from watchers with desire written on their faces. With each passing block, her surroundings became more sinister. Low---riders cruised up and down the street, and men with low-hanging pants stood in small groups volleying banter and invective between them. They all stared at her car, some blatantly, others from beneath downcast eyes.
Brook peeked at the GPS display and checked it against the paper on which Clark had scribbled the address of the bookstore. She appeared to be in the right location. She scanned the names on the buildings and found Bill’s Bawdy Book Barn stuck between Fanny’s Massage Parlor and The Dragon’s Den tattoo shop. As she stared aghast, the GPS informed her she had reached her destination. Brook frowned, muttering in disbelief . This is the place? Oh, lord! To her right was a narrow parking lot, the cracked asphalt strewn with wind-blown debris. She pulled in and guided the car into an empty space.
She hesitated before stepping from the vehicle. Her eyes darted nervously from side to side and then to the rearview mirror. Why would Clark send her here? He couldn’t possibly have realized how bad this part of town was, or he surely would have taken care of this himself. Although Brook wasn’t easily intimidated, she also wasn’t usually exposed to this sort of living or the vibes of danger that radiated from the men on the street.
Brook gathered her courage and stepped from the car. She felt exposed and vulnerable. Holding her Bottega Veneta handbag close to her midriff, she walked briskly from the lot to the sidewalk. Turning the corner, she took perhaps half a dozen steps before she was accosted by a young man.
Shaggy brown hair hung in greasy strands around his face, and his clothes were torn and dirty. “Well, well, well. Whadda we got here?” He moved to block her way and Brook stopped, uncertain how to proceed. “Come to Bobby, baby,” the man said, rubbing his crotch suggestively. “Let me show you what a real man can do for you.”
Brook turned and hurried back to her car, her heels tapping a quick staccato on the pavement. Behind her, Bobby laughed derisively but made no move to follow. She pressed the keyless entry as she approached the car. She was intent on getting inside, locking the door, and getting away from this place. Anger flared within her, distracting her for a second or two. What had Clark been thinking? She didn’t belong here. He could send someone else or call and have the book delivered to the house, because she wouldn’t be picking it up for him. She chastised herself for not driving right past; never stopping.
As Brook slid into the car, she sensed a movement behind her and turned her head in time to see a fist rushing towards her face. She couldn’t even manage a small scream before the blow caught her on the side of the head. Brook fell, dazed, backwards into the car. Tears sprang to her eyes.
She heard a man’s gruff voice mumble, “Shit! People!”
He reached in and shoved her roughly across the console, gouging her back on the gearshift before unceremoniously pushing her legs across to clear the driver??
?s seat. “You say one fuckin’ word and I’ll kill you,” he snarled. “Get down on the floor. Now, bitch!”
Brook dropped to the floorboard, shaking in fear and confusion as tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks. Bewildered, she watched the man slide a key into the ignition; not her key, she still had wits enough to realize she held that in her hand. She opened her mouth and took a deep breath, prepared to scream bloody murder. Before she could even squeak, a gun was pressed to her temple. “Don’t do it, lady.” Brook clamped her mouth shut, obeying her captor. “Put your head down and cover it with your hands.”
Brook complied, heart trip-hammering against her chest. What’s happening? What does he want? Where is he taking me? Oh god, I’ve got to get away! These thoughts and more raced through her head as the car moved into the street and away, the sound of the tires on the road keeping pace with her rapidly beating heart.
“Don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me,” Brook pleaded through her tears. As she huddled on the floor, her words became a chant she could barely hear over the ringing in her ears. They had only gone a short distance when she felt the car bump and then rise up a ramp into darkness. She peeked up through her hair and tried to see where they were. The driver got out and her hopes rose. Maybe he’s leaving. Maybe he’s going away. She was reaching furtively for the door handle, heart slamming against her chest, when the door was jerked open and a hand grabbed her by the hair and pulled.
“Out, now,” her assailant’s voice demanded.
Brook cried out as pain ripped along her scalp. Her hand flew to her head and the key she had been holding fell unnoticed from her fingers. She stumbled from the car to a dirty surface, bruising her knee through her custom-designed slacks. Brook climbed unsteadily to her feet and turned toward the sound of voices. She gently probed her scalp. Relief flowed through her when she found her fingers free of blood. Examining her surroundings, she realized she was in the trailer of a dark and musty semi-truck. The only light came from the open loading door, its feeble glow barely enough to illuminate the three men who stood gawking at her. Even in her terror, Brook tried to record their faces into her memory. She wanted to be able to give accurate descriptions to the police when she got out of this mess. She stared openly.
Arguing with her attacker was a tall, skinny man whose straight, medium-brown hair fell over one eye and most of the other. He had a mustache and small beard. Brook noted his bad teeth when he bared them in a snarl at the first man. “Damn it all to hell, Benny. What the hell is this?” He gestured towards Brook who regarded them with an expression of fear.
Ok, Benny! Benny’s the one who attacked me. Watch him. Remember him!
Benny glared at her from deep-set, dark eyes. He was of medium height and build. His face was long, tapering to a pointed chin with a scraggly thin beard. Sparse whiskers grew over his lip and down the sides of his face. His hair was over-the-collar length, neatly combed and swept across to one side, barely missing an eye. His clothing was more like that of a business man and totally inconsistent with his actions, she thought, as she noted his khakis, button-up shirt, tan sports jacket, and loafers. She filed her impressions away for future reference.
“She came back to the car too soon, Pete. Fuck! She wasn’t supposed to be there. It wasn’t part of the plan. And then there were too many people around. I couldn’t just dump her out in the parking lot without being seen.” Benny shrugged as he gave Brook the once-over. “Anyway, look at her. She’s kinda cute.”
“Kind of cute? Are you for real? Kind of cute, my ass!” Pete shook his head.
Pete! The guy with bad teeth is Pete. Brook made a mental note. Benny abducted me and Pete is his accomplice.
The third guy was a trucker through and through. Jeans, button-up shirt open over a wife-beater t-shirt, and tennis shoes. His belly hung over a large belt buckle shaped like Texas. Graying on top, he wore a crew cut and was clean-shaven. He spat to one side as he said, “I don’t give a flying fuck about none of this. Ya all need to get the hell out of my truck. I need to move this merchandise and don’t want no part of whatever trouble this little lady is gonna bring.” He pointed to Brook when he made this statement. Her heart squeezed painfully in her chest as all three looked her way.
Benny said, “Mind your own fucking business, asshole.” Oblivious to the flash of anger on the trucker’s face, he turned to the tall guy. “We’ll just have to take her with us, Pete. Come on, let’s move.”
“Man, Benny! Jase is gonna be pissed,” Pete proclaimed.
“Fuck Jase,” Benny spat angrily, but Brook detected a hint of concern behind his bravado.
As the two argued, Brook saw a chance to get away. She started backing towards the open loading door. Slow and easy, shaking badly, she put one foot at a time behind her and moved backwards, keeping an eye on the men the entire time. She reached the door, turned and ran awkwardly down the ramp, her heels slowing her. Behind her, she heard the trucker laugh and say, “Your little woman is leavin’.”
“Shit!” Pete yelled.
Brooklyn ran for her life down a deserted alley. She heard a thump as someone leapt to the ground behind her. She needed to lose the heels but knew she couldn’t take the time to stop and remove them. Keeping her eyes straight ahead and gasping for breath, she screamed, “Help! HELP!” She could see no one, and there was no response to her yells.
Brook didn’t make it far before she was tackled from behind and knocked off her feet. Her face hit the pavement and bounced back off, abrading her cheek as she scattered a pile of rubbish from an overturned trash can. The sleeves of her beautiful jacket were stained with rotted garbage, the odor stinging her nostrils. She cried out in pain and fear as the weight of her assailant held her down.
“You stupid bitch,” Benny, lying across her, growled. “Why do you want to be this way? You’re just making this whole thing harder than it has to be.”
Brook heard the screech of tires, and hoped against hope that it was someone coming to rescue her. She tried to raise her head to call for help again, but her call was cut off when Benny crawled off her and yanked her to her feet. An SUV skidded to a stop beside them, its deep green paint sparkling in the sunlight. The windows were so dark Brook couldn’t see the driver. Benny opened the rear door and flung her inside before he crawled in behind her. He shoved her head down into the seat.
”Go,” he growled to the driver.
Enjoy this excerpt from Zeke, a novel of sexual obsession and psychological suspense by Wodke Hawkinson