In the Welsh Hall bathroom he took off the VCU shirt, revealing the black wife beater below. He pulled his hoodie from the backpack and loaded his pockets with some of the smaller gear. The netbook went in the backpack, and the backpack got stashed in a trashcan a block from Mu Theta Pi house. Dean waited until the party was in full swing, judging by the holler and whooping. He would have a problem passing for a fraternity brother, but drug dealer he could manage. And drug dealers were always welcome.
He pulled the hoodie up and walked to the front door, cell phone in hand. A particular beefy frat held a hand up to his chest as he came inside. “Private party, bro.”
“Got a text,” Dean winked casually
“Who from?”
“Jay,” Dean guessed. If there wasn’t a Jay, he could pass it off for John or Joe, but the frat at the door looked like he stopped caring and nodded him in.
He weaved through the crowd of drunks until he found Dawley, waiting his turn to play Guitar Hero at a TV. Dean grabbed a beer and positioned himself near a trio of girls. He had his back to Dawley but made sure he was within earshot. Dean didn’t want Dawley recognizing him if they crossed paths again.
“Oh, man, you hear?” Dean started, matching his volume and obnoxiousness to the crowd. “They found that girl!”
One of the girls took the bite. “Which one?”
“That girl. The one that was missing. They finally found her.”
“Is she OK?”
“The police are working on it now.” Dean hedged his bets on whether she was alive or not. Either way, Dawley bolted. Dean turned to see him and another man head to the front door. Dean tore away from the girls and headed out the back door.
He rushed around a keg line and came back around the front through a side gate. Dawley and the other man were rushing down the street, arguing in hushed tones Dean couldn’t quite make out. Dean ran at a crouch behind cars on the other side of the street. The two got in a jeep two blocks from the frat house. Dean darted across the street as it pulled out of the spot. He crossed behind the jeep as it sped up, tossing a small metal box that stuck to the bumper. A GPS tracking device with a magnet on the frame. The placement wasn’t good, but he hoped he’d only need it for the night.
Dean ran to the trashcan where he had stashed his backpack and retrieved his netbook. The GPS could be tracked via the manufacturer’s website, through an account Dean had opened under a false name with a prepaid debit card. They advertised it as being real time, but the location was only updated every fifteen minutes.
Dean called a cab and ran five blocks to a coffee shop to meet it. By the time the cab arrived, Dean had tracked the jeep to a freeway headed to the suburbs.
“Where to?”
“Wilson Heights. I’m waiting for my friend to text me directions from there.”
“All right, but the meter’s running.”
On the move, Dean kept hitting refresh on his browser. The tracker was moving into the outskirts of Wilson Heights, where graveyards of half-built developments stood empty or unfinished. He lost his wifi connection and couldn’t find another open one. He had the driver drop him off at an apartment block nearest the last location he had and paid him with most of the rest of his cash. He would need to find a different way home.
At the apartments, he ducked between two cars and tried again for a wifi connection. There were several at the apartments, and he tried passwords like 12345 and admin, or the same as the network name. He got in with cutekitty92 and checked the GPS. It was at the far end of an empty development, down a short unnamed dead-end road a half mile away. Dean took in the map for a solid minute, memorizing the street layout and various routes.
Dean jogged the distance, on the lookout for car headlights. He cut from the sidewalk to a backyard when a pair of lights started to turn towards him several blocks ahead. He couldn’t tell if it was the jeep. The development was sparsely populated. Sun-worn “For Sale” signs littered the front yards. The outskirts of VC were littered with such developments, built during the real estate bubble, and left languishing after the housing market collapsed and the developers went bankrupt.
As he came up to his destination, he cut through an overgrown field instead of approaching by the street. The house was a small two-story. Overgrown lawn, no yard furniture aside from a single chair by the back door. The paint still looked okay. Like its neighbors, Dean guessed it was never sold or rented. No vehicle in the driveway, but a couple of interior lights were on. The jeep likely double backed while he ran through backyards.
Bleeding Skull pulled a thin surgical mask from his jean cuffs and slipped it over his face. The hood came up. He slipped through the backyard and checked the windows. No sound, no movement. Inside there was little furniture. A couple of cheap chairs in the living room, a TV on a crate on the floor. No kitchen fixtures, some pizza boxes and bags of chips.
The back door was unlocked. Bleeding Skull turned the knob silently and slipped into the kitchen. He crept with practiced silence through the bottom level. Nobody there. A few DVDs by the TV, a game console, empty cigarette packets, a bong. He crept up the carpeted stairs to check the upstairs rooms. Only one door was closed. He stuck his head into the open doors first. No furnishings aside from a couple sleeping bags and air mattresses. He approached the closed door and lowered himself to the floor. He held his breath and listened. Some sniffling, a little gulping. Bleeding Skull cracked his neck, ready for movement. He turned the knob silently and opened it into the room.
The sounds came from the far corner. Soft gasping. Crying. And some buzzing. Bleeding Skull’s eyes grew accustomed to the dark, and from the light creeping around the window blinds, he made out a shape quivering in the corner. He stood straight and felt the wall for a light switch.
He saw the girl first. Naked in the corner, on her knees, a chain coming a hole in the wall to a metal loop around her neck. Her hands were in front, in prayer possession. She didn’t react much to the light. Bleeding Skull quickly took in the room. An air mattress on the floor with a single sheet. Some condoms and wrappers. Torn stockings, tubes of lubrication, beer cans, whiskey bottles. Stains on the carpet, though at least not blood, he thought.
Bleeding Skull grabbed up the sheet and approached the girl. She curled in a bit but kept her pose. “I said I was sorry,” she yelled through her tears, an edge in her voice. “I don’t have a fucking bathroom, what do you expect me to do?” Bleeding Skull came up to her and laid the sheet over her back. It was then that he noticed that she was in a prayer position over some feces. The buzzing was flies.
The girl flinched when the sheet came over her. Bleeding Skull made an effort not to touch her. “I’m not one of them. I’m getting you out of here. You’re going home.”
She turned her head, but recoiled when she saw the mask and hood.
“What the fuck are you supposed to be?”
She was not Alana Favors. “Someone who doesn’t like to see a woman in chains. Let’s get you out of here.” She had police style handcuffs on her wrists. She pulled the sheet closed in her front as Bleeding Skull led her away from the corner into the middle of the room. “Relax, I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, as he undid his belt. The girl became alarmed, until Bleeding Skull pulled the belt up and used the prong to pick the cuffs. He put his belt back on and examined the neck shackles. It was attached to a thick chain by a padlock. The chain led to a whole punched in the wall, and locked again in a loop around a thick supporting beam. “Do you know where the keys are?”
The girl sniffled and had problems catching her breath. “I don’t know. They don’t take it off.”
“We’ll figure it out. Do you have clothes here?”
“Yeah. I think they’re in the closet.”
Bleeding Skull went to a walk-in closet. There were some clothes, a purse, and a selection of lingerie on the floor. He scooped it all up and laid it in front of the girl. “Here, get dressed. I’ll find the key and get you out of here.”
She started sorting through the pile of clothes on the floor. “OK, OK, just hurry. They were just here, and I think they were just going to get some beer. I think they’re coming back.”
Bleeding Skull went into the adjoining bathroom and rummaged through the drawers. Some toilet paper, condom boxes, no keys. He started downstairs to check for tools in the garage when headlights shone through the front windows.
Bleeding Skull slipped down the stairs silently and backed up to the end of the living room. He started running when he heard the key in the door. It was ajar about a foot when he slammed into it with a flying shoulder tackle. He heard skull bounce off wood. Bleeding Skull snapped to his feet, cut off the porch lights, and swung open the door. There were three shapes on the dark porch. He kicked the middle one in the chest, knocking him back over the stairs and spilling the other two like bowling pins.
The one on the right got a snap kick to the groin. He doubled over, and Bleeding Skull wrapped his forearm around his throat in a headlock. Bleeding Skull kicked his feet forward and the two fell backwards, driving the top of the man’s skull against the door frame.
The one on the left made a blind punch in his direction. Bleeding Skull side stepped it, caught the arm, and locked in his shoulder. His knee came up into his solar plexus, then met his face. As he fell, Bleeding Skull swung him through the open doorway.
The one on the right started to stand. Bleeding Skull slammed an elbow into the back of his head, smacking his face against the door jamb again. Bleeding Skull grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled him into the house as well.
The last one still lied on his back in the front yard. Bleeding Skull’s eyes had adjusted to the dark. This one was Dawley. His legs slid around beneath him, and he didn’t look like he could exhale. Bleeding Skull left him for a minute and came back to the two inside the house.
He recognized one as Dawley’s companion from the frat house, still conscious, but looking like he couldn’t see. Bleeding Skull yanked a handful of cables from behind the TV set, pushed the man to the floor, and tied his hands behind his back. “Don’t get up,” he hissed.
Bleeding Skull turned his attention to the other man. College aged like the others. A comic book t-shirt and belly. He was starting to cry. Bleeding Skull grabbed some more power cords and turned him over. “Don’t, don’t,” he gasped.
“Shut up and don’t move.” Bleeding Skull quickly bound his wrists and turned his attention back outside. Dawley was at his feet, but stumbling. His face had more anger and less fear than his friends.
“You from another clan?” he sneered between snatched breaths.
Bleeding Skull played along. “I’m here for the girl.”
Dawley stood up straight, a fire lighting in his eyes. “Get your own brood sow! You want mine, you challenge me for it, coward!”
Something more is going on. Dawley sized him up. No glasses, no squinting, but telltale marks on the bridge of his nose. An Affliction knock off shirt and new designer jeans but a cheap haircut. Some muscles at the bicep but skinny legs. An outcast in high school, trying to get with the cool kids in college. Just started lifting weights and thinks he’s tougher than he is. Bleeding Skull would have chalked him up as harmless if he didn’t keep women chained up.
He would play his game for now. “Consider yourself challenged.”
Dawley started “I’ll name the…”
“Right now, you fat fuck,” Bleeding Skull taunted. He cocked his head to the side, put his hands behind his back.
The fire in Dawley’s eyes flared. “I’m not fat!” He telegraphed a right hook. Bleeding Skull leaned out of its way without trying. He didn’t like fair fights. He wasn’t very good at them. But he hoped a sound humiliation would dowse that fire and get Dawley in the mood to answer some questions. Dawley turned and swung again before he was even in range. Bleeding Skull giggled softly. “I will vanquish your faggot ass!” Dawley screamed, his voice cracking. He tried a front kick.
Bleeding Skull decided it was time to take control again. He grabbed the ankle and twisted, while kicking Dawley’s other leg out from under him. He fell on his face, and before he could get up Bleeding Skull had his ankle trapped in the crook of his knee. He bent it up behind his back. Dawley felt the pull in his leg as an elbow crooked at his head and pulled his neck back. Pain popped around his stomach, knees, ankle, and neck.
“I submit,” he managed, flailing his arms.
“The keys,” Bleeding Skull hissed. Dawley pulled a single padlock key from his pocket. Bleeding Skull didn’t have anything to tie him up with. Fucking shame. He stood up and football kicked Dawley in the jaw.
Bleeding Skull started back up the porch, running when he heard a voice. The companion from the frat house was talking into a phone lying on the floor, arms still tied behind him. Must have been in his back pocket. Bleeding Skull snatched it up and turned it off.
“The rest of us are coming,” he taunted. “It was stupid for you to come alone.”
Bleeding Skull took a USB stick from his pocket and stuck it in the phone. He took his captive’s car keys, pulled out his wallet, and memorized his name: Michael Bailey. He checked the other man’s pockets. The software wouldn’t work on this one’s smart phone. The name on his debit card: Cody Bianca.
Bleeding Skull retrieved the USB stick and tossed the phone to other side of the room. He had no time for questions, and he wasn’t willing to bet this woman’s life that the police would get there before whoever was on their way. He ran up the stairs and knocked on the open door in case she wasn’t ready.
“We have to go. More are coming,” he said, showing her the key. She started to kneel, then stopped herself and just turned to allow Bleeding Skull access to the lock. The padlock and shackle slipped off.
The woman grabbed a handful of chain and struck Bleeding Skull across the forehead. She ran out the door, high heels in one hand, purse in the other. He shook it off and went downstairs. He wasn’t going to chase her. She had every right to run.
Downstairs she was kneeling over Bianca, smacking him in the face with a sharp heel. “Where’s my phone, mother fucker!” She saw Bleeding Skull descend the stairs. She pointed a heel at him. “Get the fuck away from me!”
Bleeding Skull held his hands up in submission and stopped. “Tell the lady where her phone is,” he suggested to Bianca.
“We threw it in the river,” he blubbered, tears mixing with rivulets of blood from his forehead. She stood up and gave him a quick kick in the midsection before rushing out the front door. Bleeding Skull followed her outside at a respectful distance.
She looked around the front lawn, deciding her next move. Bleeding Skull pulled out Bailey’s car keys and pushed the remote to unlock the door. The jeep’s flashing lights in the driveway got her attention. “It would probably be better to drive.” She turned and glared at him. He tossed her the keys. She caught them and stood for a moment, weighing her options. “I wouldn’t blame me if you wanted to leave alone, but seeing as how the rest of them are coming to kick my ass for what I did to their friends, I could really use a ride.” Bleeding Skull’s voice softened as he talked to the woman.
“What’s with the fucking mask?”
“What I’m doing isn’t exactly legal. I’m on my fifth felony tonight, by my count.”
She nodded to herself, then tossed the keys back. “Better if you drive, I’m kind of fucked up.”
Bleeding Skull caught them and tossed them back. “Better if you drive. I’m still a little dizzy,” he said, pointing to his forehead.
She took the driver’s side. Bleeding Skull pulled his magnet mounted GPS device off the back bumper and popped it in a more discrete place under the car before getting into the back seat.
“Sorry, I thought you were one of them, and you were fighting over me.” She started the jeep. “How do we get out of here?” Bleeding Skull directed her away from the freeway to a back road behind the development to avoid crossing paths with anyone on the way out that may recognize the vehicle. He produced an old flip phone and dialed 911. He reported screaming and gunshots at the house, then hung up. Bleeding Skull doubted that the police would be able to make any arrests without the women’s cooperation, but he wanted to cause some trouble. The chains might open an investigation on the police’s end, or at least generate an incident report that he could get some names out of.
“So if you’re not with them, and you’re not with the cops… what’s the fucking deal with the mask, dude?”
“May I know your name,” he asked gently, going through the items in the back of the jeep. He focused on a laptop.
“Sintalia.” Her stripper name, which matches the heels and surely fed her abusers disrespect. “What’s yours?”
“The Bleeding Skull.” She snickered at that. “And when the police asked who broke into the house, let you loose, and kicked the asses of those three pieces of shit, what will you tell them?”
She giggled despite herself. “Some crazy fucker in a hoodie and skull mask. Fair enough. I’m just glad somebody was looking for me.”
“I’m sorry to say I wasn’t looking for you. There’s another girl. Alana Favors.”
“Fucking figures,” she mumbled under her breath. Then it came out. “I sat there and did everything they wanted me to, and all I could think about was who was going to help me, and I couldn’t think of anybody who would even know I needed them.”
Bleeding Skull opened the laptop and found that it was still turned on and logged in. He produced his USB stick and stuck it in a slot. “I’m sorry I didn’t know about you. Ms. Favors is a friend of a friend, and that’s why I knew about her. But I’m glad I found you, and I’m glad you’re out of there. Head over towards those houses.” Bleeding Skull was steering her back into a different development.
“I’m sorry I’m being such a bitch. It’s not like I don’t disappear for days anyway, I shouldn’t be surprised. I think I was only there for two or three days anyway. It just seemed like forever.”
“You’re not being a bitch, Sintalia. Nobody should go through what you must have gone through. Nobody has the right to do that to another person. I’m sorry for what happened to you.”
Sintalia smiled and looked at Bleeding Skull through the rear view mirror. “Thanks. Thanks for that, crazy skull face, dude, whatever. Where are we going?”
They were moving closer to the freeway, houses and apartment block giving way to convenience and grocery stores. “That’s up to you. I don’t tell you what to do. The police or the hospital would be my suggestion, but that’s up to you.” He tore a page out of a comic book lying in the back seat and started writing with a sharpie from his bag. “Here is the address you were at, and the names of those three men.” He tore another page. “Here is an IM address. If you don’t want to go to the police, I can understand, but you may be able to help me. If you feel up to talking, message me. And If you‘re not reporting it, I‘d ditch the car if I were you.” He produced a digital voice recorder and felt around the plastic interior moulding for a suitable cavity.
She stopped at a red light. “Are you going to be able to get where you need to go?” Bleeding Skull asked.
She looked out the front window. “That sounds really deep the way you said that,” she sniffed. “But if you mean am I good to drive, yes. I can take you..”
The light turned green. “I’ll miss my bus. I hope to hear from you.” Dean Mason pulled his mask off as he got out of the car and stepped onto the sidewalk.