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Subject: {ASSM} The Innocent Fugitives Ch03 {Varkel} (MF oral inc caution)
Date: Thu,  8 Feb 2001 20:10:06 -0500
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The Innocent Fugitives
a Novel by Varkel
Copyright (C) 2001, Varkel



Chapter 3:  The Closing Trap



"You'll probably be there several hours, Ms. Collier," the 
policeman warned.  He was the same Sgt. Martin, along with his 
partner whose name she could not recall, standing in her living 
room.

"Heavens!  Am I under arrest?"

"No, ma'am.  Not yet.  But the inspector has a lot of questions 
for you."

"It's Saturday morning, officer!  I meant to plant my pansies."

"Yes, it is Saturday," the man agreed without the slightest 
sympathy.  "Please hurry, Ms. Collier.  The inspector wants you 
downtown at 9:30."

She obeyed, with misgivings at first, then encouraged by recalling 
that _she_ had nothing to hide!  In the back seat of the squad 
car, she called above the radio noise, "What could the inspector 
possibly want, Sgt. Martin?  I told him everything I know Thursday 
night."

"We have developed some more information since then," he answered.  
He would tell her nothing more.

At the police station she was ushered down a long hall and into a 
room with "Interrogation C" on the door.  She was not displeased 
to find Paul Lanning already seated at the metal table with two 
other men.  Paul's eyes widened at sight of her and he smiled 
briefly.

One of them stood up.  "I'm sure you remember me, Ms. Collier.  I 
am Lt. Calhoun.  Please take this seat beside your friend."  He 
pulled out the chair next to Paul.

"We only met Thursday night," she hastened to say.  "Good morning, 
ah, Mr. Lanning."

"Good morning to you, Ms. Collier."  Paul smiled.  "I thought of 
asking you out for coffee.  Maybe our good police lieutenant will 
give you some."

"Of course," said the lieutenant as she took the seat.  "Jeff, 
attend to it, will you?"

"Yes, sir," responded the uniformed policeman who had delivered 
her.  "Cream and sugar, ma'am?"

"Black, please."

"Me, too," Paul interjected.

"I'll have cream and sugar," said Calhoun.  He regarded Paul and 
Jenny together.  "Let me congratulate you.  Not even so much as a 
telephone call since Thursday night!"

"You mean you've been watching us?" Jenny demanded incredulously.  
"Whatever for?"

"We'll get to that."  He reached into a document pouch on the 
floor and pulled up a multipage computer printout.  Many lines 
were highlighted in yellow.

"But you called each other often enough _before_ Thursday night."  
His finger hovered near the bottom of the opened page.  "The last 
time in fact was 3:27 Thursday afternoon, four and a half hours 
before your spouses were murdered at eight p.m."

"What?" Jenny cried, eyes flashing.  "I tell you, Paul and I never 
spoke --"

"_Paul_, is it?" the inspector interrupted.

Paul answered for her.  "Obviously it was Beth and Mr. Collier who 
made all those calls, Jenny.  As for us using first names, if you 
bugged my car as you undoubtedly did, you know that I took Ms. 
Collier home Thursday night and we gave each other permission to 
use our first names."

"You don't have to tell us you were friendly," the policeman 
responded obliquely.  He took a well-scribbled notebook from the 
pouch.  "Ms. Collier, you told me Thursday night that you never 
saw your husband all day Thursday, that you came home from work at 
5:30 and stayed home until Sgt. Martin arrived and advised you of 
your husband's death.  Do you have anything you want to add to 
that?"

She regarded him wonderingly.  "There is nothing to add."

"Isn't there?"

"Well, such as?"

"Such as how well you knew Elizabeth Lanning."

"How well I _what_?  I tell you, I never laid eyes on the woman!  
I still haven't.  Her face was under a sheet at the morgue."

The lieutenant shook his head.  "I'm afraid you're mistaken, Ms. 
Collier."  He glanced at his scribbled notes.  "According to the 
shift records at Mercy Hospital, where you were employed at the 
time, Ms. Lanning was your patient on April fourth and fifth, 
1996, on the second nursing shift, while she recovered from a 
thyroidectomy.  Why do you wish to conceal this, Ms. Collier?"

Jenny's eyes had grown larger.  "Conceal it!  My god, officer!  If 
you count that as knowing someone, I must know thousands of people 
that I wouldn't recognize again."

"You say that you don't remember her hospitalization?"

"Of course I don't remember!"

"We can't connect you with the victim any earlier than that, so 
perhaps it was the beginning of an association."

Jenny shook her head.  "Officer ..."

"Which you strengthened through your contacts at the Heavenly 
Boutique."

Jenny's lips parted involuntarily.

Paul asked, "Which boutique?  That's where Beth used to work."

"And where Ms. Collier often bought underclothing and what the 
women call 'notions.'"

Paul added, "Beth was a salesclerk there for a couple years."

"Exactly," said the lieutenant.  His tone became solicitous.  "Is 
it coming back to you now, Ms. Collier?"

Jenny drew a deep breath.  "Paul, was your wife a busty blonde?"

"Yes."

Jenny admitted heavily, "Then I've seen her.  I even remember an 
incident with her.  But I swear to you all that I never touched 
her and never spoke to her except on business.  I didn't even know 
her name."

"Tell us about the incident," the policeman suggested.

"Apparently she was selling ... vibrating dildos privately:  that 
is, from her purse unknown to management.  I happened to be in the 
changing room and overheard the manager fire her for it.  Some 
customer had complained."

Paul snorted.  "According to her, she quit because she was tired 
of dealing with so many women."

Jenny shrugged.

The officer turned to Paul.  "Let's consider your association with 
Baylor Collier, Mr. Lanning."

"My what?"  Paul chuckled.  "Don't tell me he was a member of my 
bowling league!"

"No, I won't tell you that.  But the computers tell us that you 
shared a flight to San Francisco with him in 1998.  He sat in Seat 
57D while you were in 56A.  Just a coincidence, Mr. Lanning?"

"Absolutely, Lt. Calhoun."

"He drunkenly exposed himself to a flight attendant in the 
aircraft galley, which she reported after the plane landed, and 
revealed to her that he was attending a gay pride rally if she 
cared to join him.  What was your business in that city, Mr. 
Lanning?"

"Well, you haven't told me the time of year, but you know I'm a 
hardware buyer.  It was most likely to attend a trade show."

"You weren't also attending a rally?"

"Not of homosexuals.  Absolutely not!"

"Do you drink, Mr. Lanning?"

"No.  That is, not much."

"Would you be willing to permit a blood sample?"

"To see if I've been drinking?"

"No.  For a DNA match."

"To what, lieutenant?"

The officer consulted his notes.  "You said that your relations 
with Ms. Lanning were ... 'strained,' is the word you used.  Did 
you regularly have sex?"

Paul's glance flicked to Jenny's very interested countenance.  He 
took a breath.  "Yes," he admitted in a low voice.

"Perhaps you'll save us the trouble of a DNA test.  We found semen 
in your wife's vagina.  The DNA results conclusively reveal it to 
derive from two separate men.  One of the men was Baylor Collier.  
The other has no allele pattern on record.  We know from other 
physiological factors that Mr. Collier's sample was deposited on 
or about the time of death, whereas the unknown sample was 
inserted about four hours earlier.  Do you have any idea about the 
source of that unknown sample?"

Paul took another deep breath.  "It was mine," he said without 
looking at Jenny.

"You admit it?"

"Yes, I admit it.  Jenny, I think we'd better call our lawyers."

The lieutenant immediately got to his feet.  "That won't be 
necessary, sir, not yet.  You are both free to go.  But don't 
leave town."

"B-but ..."  Jenny looked wide-eyed up to the big policeman.

Paul got to his feet also and took her under the arm.  "Come on," 
he urged.  "This place is getting unhealthy."

"You'll take her home?" asked the inspector.

Paul glared at the man.  "Have you bugged my car?"

"Why, no, Mr. Collier.  Not at all.  We don't yet have enough 
probable cause."

At that moment the door opened.  A policeman entered, bearing a 
tray of paper coffee cups that he nearly spilled as Paul and Jenny 
pushed past him.  "Darn!" he called to their backs.  "It's fresh 
brewed, too!"

The lieutenant lifted the cup with the creamy color.  "It won't go 
to waste, Jeff."


* * *


Paul noticed that Jenny was particularly sullen as they walked 
from the police station toward his car.  She would not look at him 
and sought to push ahead, although he kept pace with her.

"What's the matter?" he demanded, pulling her to a stop, 
confronting her.

"I don't understand you men!" she almost shouted, her face flushed 
with anger.  "Bud forced himself upon me, raped me, but you had 
sex with that woman -- Beth -- even though she humiliated you at 
every opportunity."

"She was my wife, Jenny, and she was a very good looking woman.  
She was eager for me even though I could never satisfy her."

"But why did you put up with it?  Why did you debase yourself?"

Paul put his two hands gently on the woman's shoulders and sought 
to look into her face, but she turned away.

"Don't touch me!" she yelled and shook him off.

"We're making a scene here.  Let's get into the car," he 
suggested.

Jenny complied and they climbed into Paul's old Chevvy, where the 
woman clutched her hands together and intently stared at them in 
her lap.

"I just don't understand," she murmured.  "You men are like 
animals."

"Is it so unusual that a man would make love with his wife?" Paul 
demanded indignantly.

"Love!  You say it was love?  Bud raped me the night before he was 
killed, but you say you made love with Beth only an hour or two 
before she went with another man?"

"Jenny, you just don't understand," Paul responded lamely.

"I certainly don't!" she fumed and looked up into his face.  
"Don't you have any self respect?"

"You're beginning to sound like her, you know," Paul sneered.  
"She berated the size of my member, and now you're questioning my 
honor.  I think she was less cruel."

Jenny looked away with a snort, but her voice was quieter when she 
spoke again.  "Paul, I guess I don't understand you or any man, 
but I think you are a good person.  I'm sorry if you think I've 
insulted you, because I don't mean that.  Let's not talk about it 
any more."

"I'm afraid this is something we must discuss, Jenny," he replied 
and placed his hand on one of hers.

"Don't touch me!"

"I'm sorry," he apologized and withdrew his hand.  "You say you 
don't understand men.  Let's talk about that."

"What's to discuss?" she sniffled, tears brimming.

"It's all about sex, of course.  Let's talk about sex."

Jenny sat slumped in her seat and said nothing.

"Jenny," Paul said softly, raising a hand to pet the woman's wet 
cheek but then pulling back abruptly.  "When did you first have a 
sexual feeling?"

She glared up at him immediately.  "You're a disgusting voyeur," 
she snarled.

"Do you think I'm disgusting?  Do you really?" he protested.  "I 
just want to understand you.  We have to find some common ground, 
because I fear we're in trouble together and we need each other's 
support."

"Support!  And your first question is about sex!  You men are all 
alike."

"Of course men are different from woman.  Perhaps we think more 
about sex than you.  But we have to start somewhere.  I truly want 
to understand you, and what seems to be the barrier that separates 
us is the matter of sex."

Jenny looked up into the man's face, her lips curled in an ugly 
fashion.  "So you want to know about my sex life, do you?  Well, 
I've been raped, raped and raped."  She added with a sullen glare, 
"What more do you need to know?"

"I would never rape you, Jenny.  I would rather die than do that 
to you or any other woman.  But we need to talk about this."

"And just why is that, Paul?  Why do we have to discuss sex?"

"Because we've been thrown together, damn it!" Paul exploded 
vehemently, "and you seem to be obsessed by the subject."

"Obsessed!" Jenny retorted.  "You're the man here, the stud, the 
hunk who can never get enough.  I could spend the rest of my life 
without the thought of it."

"You never touch yourself?" Paul suggested slyly.

"You disgusting pervert!  I think I've made my case."

"Perhaps, but you do touch yourself, and the fact that you have 
not left this automobile and walked away suggests that you want to 
tell me about it."

She slumped in defeat and almost leaned against the man, but then 
restrained herself.

"I was ten, when I did it for the first time," she murmured in a 
low voice, her clasped hands held tightly between her knees.  "I 
was in the bathtub, and the water was losing its warmth.  I had a 
yellow rubber ducky which I pushed up and down my leg, my thigh.  
It felt good somehow, and I pressed it against my sex, you know, 
my crack.  It was so wonderful.  Is that what you want to hear?"  
Her voice grew harsh.  "Do you want the complete details of my 
first masturbation?

"No, no.  That enough," Paul replied with embarrassment.  After a 
long pause he added, "I didn't do it until I was twelve."

"Do you want to tell me about it?"  Her voice betrayed her sudden 
interest.

"You know that boys develop later than girls.  You would have 
found it very difficult to entice a ten year-old boy to have sex."

"I never enticed a boy," Jenny retorted heatedly.  "When I was 
eleven my cousin Jack, who was fourteen, raped me.  It was a 
horrid experience."

"When I was twelve," Paul responded, "I was raped by a man.  He 
didn't bugger me, but he sucked my cock and I experienced my first 
orgasm in his mouth.  It was not a horrid experience for me, 
although I recall it with some distaste.  I relished the pleasure, 
but the guy was repulsive."

Jenny looked intently at Paul. "Yes," she said.  "We do have 
something in common."


* * *


"I have a new video for you," Slim said as he closed the self-
locking door.

"Have you!"  The woman clicked off the television and sat forward 
in her chair.  "Well, give me a kiss first and let's look at it."

He strolled to her, leaned down and kissed her chastely on the 
lips while patting her shoulder.

She took the tape from him and examined its label.  She read 
aloud, "Surgical Experience in Sex Reassignment."  She looked up 
wide-eyed.

"Is this what I think it is?  How'd you get it?"

With a sly grin he handed her a brown wrapper.

"Hoo!  So you're a doctor now!"

"For some purposes," he admitted.  "Want me to pop it in the VCR?"

"Yeah, and go slip on your robe.  I know you're tired."

He hung his dark clothing in her closet and entered her small 
bathroom to wash face, hands and genitals.  In the main room he 
paused to swill a beer reflective, ignoring the tinkle of surgical 
instruments and the low-voiced comments, laced with Latin, that 
emerged from the television to fill the room.  At last he came to 
stand by her recliner and stroke her cheek.  The screen displayed 
mostly red meat.  Hands covered with bloody latex poked and 
prodded, some bearing bent silvery tubes that noisily sucked up 
liquid.

The woman explained, "They've pried up the belly and now they're 
tucking the new cunt under it.  I can't belief it'll work.  But 
look, look!  They're packing it full of cotton."

He said with a sniff, "At least it's the right color."

"Not really.  That was the _outside_ of the dick."

"Hey?"

She laughed.  "This is a great show, son.  Thanks a lot.  Do you 
know what they did first?"  Her hand parted his robe and lifted 
the flaccid manhood.  "Bend over and look."  When he had obeyed, 
she traced a path with her fingertip.  "They cut it like this, 
from right under the pee-hole all the way up to the base.  God, 
you should've seen the blood!  Then they peeled the skin right off 
the ... I guess you'd call it the dick meat, making a sheet but 
leaving the end still hooked on.  Next they peeled the dick meat 
off the pee tube and cut the meat away.  That's bloody stuff.  I 
bet it would taste good fried."

He argued, "I think you like it raw."

She chuckled.  "Never chewed one in that shape!  Next they trimmed 
the pee tube down to a little stub about matching what was left of 
the dick meat, and they cut a couple of slits in the sheet of dick 
skin.  They put the stub of dick meat through the top slit and the 
stub of pee tube through the bottom one, about right here --"  Her 
finger touched near the top base of the stirring penis.  "Then 
they sewed up the dick skin lengthwise, just the way they had cut 
it open and left it hanging out."  Her hand gently pinched the 
bottom skin of his organ.  "I thought, 'Wait a minute, what good 
is that?'

"Then they cut the balls open, just like this --"  Her finger 
traced a vertical path between his testicles.  "And sliced a lot 
of greasy-looking crap out of the sack."  She squeezed him gently.  
"Yeah, they are full of it, aren't they?"

"Easy, Ma."

"But they left the sack split open.  That's when they stuck a lot 
of spreaders into his groin and opened a hell of a hole.  Would 
you believe they poked that hanging dick skin right into the hole?  
They turned it inside out!"

"Inside out?"

"You got it -- right into the hole.  The outside dick skin is now 
the inside cunt skin.  They didn't cut it away on the sides and 
bottom, so they didn't have to sew anything.  What you see them 
sewing now is the halves of the ball sack.  By god, they're making 
cunt lips out of it!"

The woman fell silent, avidly watching the agile needlework.  Her 
hand gently stroked the now turgid member thrusting from his robe.  
The scene changed to show the patient's appearance at the 
completion of the operation, with all the blood washed away.  A 
latex covered finger pushed one more cotton swab between the 
wrinkled lips.

"Would you look at that!" she cried.  "That was his first poke as 
a woman.  Wonder if it was a doctor or a nurse.  What do you think, 
son:  will that cunt work?"

"Your opinion is better than mine, Ma."

"What'd he say?  'Fully orgasmic in six weeks?'  You believe 
that?"

"Well, somebody's paying them a bale of money to know what they're 
talking about."

A white-gowned talking head appeared and Latin polysyllables 
spouted profusely.  The woman's attention wandered to the thing in 
her hand.  "This one would make a hell of a deep cunt."

"If it's all the same to you, Ma, I'd just as soon keep it right-
side out."

"Oh, it's too bad we can't trade for an hour or two."

Another face appeared on the screen and a deep bass voice emerged.  
"Our next subject presented a special difficulty.  Half of the 
penis had been _bitten off_ by an irate lover, leading to a severe 
opportunistic staph infection, probably deriving form the biter's 
saliva.  Note how adequate pseudovaginal depth is nevertheless 
obtained by adroit substitution of excess testicular epidermis."

The scene changed to show a stub of red meat with whitish streaks.

The woman tugged on the unattenuated sample in her hand.  "Lie 
down on the floor like you used to when you were a kid."

He chuckled.  "You'll never lift my hips now, Mamma."

"Maybe not, but I can still watch TV with your dick in my mouth.  
I wonder what it's like to bite one half off."

"Jesus Christ, Ma!"

"I might've done it to your goddam father if he hadn't croaked so 
fast.  That son of a bitch!  Every time I think of him --"

"Okay, Mamma, take it easy.  Don't forget your heart condition.  
I'll get down there."

In a moment he sagged to his back on the floor, robe and legs 
spread well apart, head toward the television, on which a gloved 
hand was holding a dark remainder of penile shaft back under a 
poised scalpel.

She came out of the chair onto her knees.  Her eyes were rounded.  
"How do you know I won't bite it off?"

He took a deep breath.  "When you look like that I don't.  I guess 
if you can do without it, then bite."

"You're too cool, son!"  She sank forward with her elbows on his 
thighs.  "Lucky for you it's too much to eat at one time."  She 
pulled the slightly softened organ towards her and popped the 
bulbous head into her mouth as her eyes turned up to the screen, 
now showing spurting blood while the announcer explained smugly 
how the penile shaft had been so distorted that the scalpel had 
inadvertently sliced an intracavernosal artery.  The woman's head 
began to bob slowly, but her fascinated eyes never left the 
screen.


* * *


"Emergency Services Central.  What is the reason for your call?"

"A tip for the cops."

"You sound pretty hoarse.  Would you repeat that?"

"I said, 'A tip for the cops.'  And don't try to tie me up on this 
pay phone."

"This is 911 emergency.  Do you want the police information 
number?"

"Look, I'll say this just one time.  I'm risking my life to tell 
it even once.  Bud Collier took the money but didn't deliver the 
stuff.  His wife hid both in the shed behind his house."

Click!

"Excuse me, sir, would you repeat ...  Sgt. Avery!  Sgt. Avery!"


* * *


"Paul, this is Jenny."

The voice on the phone was already familiar to him; she did not 
have to identify herself.  She continued, "I hope you're not too 
angry with me, but I have a problem that affects both of us.  I 
need to see you."

"Can't you just tell me?" Paul replied a bit tersely, not wanting 
to visit the frigid woman despite his grudging appreciation of her 
physical desirability.

"No, no.  You know our lines are bugged.  Could you come over?"

"Perhaps tomorrow, Jenny.  I'm planning to take a shower and go to 
bed early."

"No!  You must come over here now.  It's very important."  She 
seemed almost to sob.

Paul, always a sucker for a woman's tears, groaned inwardly.  He 
had anticipated a leisurely bout of slippery masturbation in the 
shower.  He was tempted to tell her about it just to embarrass or 
anger her.  "I'll be right over," he conceded instead, unable to 
prevent a surly tone though in fact he wanted again to see her 
pretty face and body, however off limits they were to him.

It was after ten.  A recent drizzle had left the pavement wet and 
glistening in the glare of the street lights.  He drove sullenly 
toward Jenny's small house, upbraiding himself for his attraction 
to a woman so sexually void that she was not even a lesbian.  But 
on further reflection he rued his insensitivity.  The woman's 
sexual experience had been just one horror after another, though 
the admission of this brought him no comfort or relief.  No matter 
how gently or considerately he handled the pretty woman, she would 
likely be always out of reach, always offended by his least touch.

Her house was dark except for a light in the shed out back.  After 
parking his car at the curb he hurried to the light, assuming 
correctly that she awaited him there.

"What is it?  What's the matter?" he exclaimed as Jenny emerged 
toward him obviously distraught.

"Come look at this," she urged, pulling on his sleeve.

Paul allowed himself to be led into to the shed, a small structure 
that would usually house lawn tools and chemicals.

"I came in her to get a plunger to fix my toilet," she said 
excitedly, pushing him into the small crowded space of the shed.  
"And look what I found!"

She pointed at a rather large, black valise, tucked behind a home-
made work bench, that gaped open.  Paul did not have to lean down 
to see that it was filled with money.

"What is this?" he asked angrily, feeling himself somehow trapped 
in a threatening situation.  "Who put this here?"

"It worse than it looks, Paul," Jenny replied, actually leaning 
against the man.  "There are packets of drugs further back under 
that bench, heroin, I suspect.  I never saw this stuff before, 
although I was in the shed this morning to get the lawn mower."

"Don't you keep this shed locked?" he asked, staring from the 
valise to the woman.

"That was the first thing I noticed.  The padlock was missing, 
gone!"

"Somebody must have cut it.  We're being set up!  We have to get 
rid of this."  Paul looked about desperately, expecting the police 
to arrive momentarily.

She responded in a squeaky, panicky voice.  "I have the key to my 
neighbor's house.  She's on vacation and I'm looking after her 
plants."

"Yes!  Quickly!  Let's hide the stuff there."

Jenny fetched out a plastic bag containing many smaller bags of 
white powder from the rear of the bench, stuffed it into and 
closed the valise.  She raised it off the dirt floor and darted 
out with Paul closing the shed behind her.

The two of them were just nearing the neighbor's back door when 
three police cars pulled up silently in front of Jenny's house.  
She fumbled with the key ring, dropping it onto the floor of the 
porch as Paul shuffled anxiously from one foot to the other.

Finally inside and with the door closed they peered from the 
neighbor's kitchen window and observed six or seven men, most of 
them in uniform, swarm inside and around the shed.

"If we open this backdoor ...  It turns that way.  Put your ear 
under mine and listen."

"Oh, god, Paul, I'm so scared!"

"Sh-h-h.  Listen!"

One man was grumbling quietly to another.  "The lieutenant's wrong 
this time, Greg, even if the judge did leave the time blank on the 
search warrant."

"Shut up, Harv.  We don't know anything about that, remember?  
What's the matter, Corporal?  Coming up blank?"

"Looks like it.  Nothing here.  Think the sarge will still want to 
search her house?"

"Sure, he --  Uh, oh!  Look at Martin!  What's he waving?"

"They've found something!" Jenny whispered in alarm as they 
watched one of the cops emerge from the shed waving a small box.

"Shit!" exclaimed the corporal's voice.  "I checked that.  It's 
just weed poison."

"Yeah, that's what it says, all right, but have a taste!  This is 
the pure stuff.  Let's go wake her up."

"Oh, Christ!" Paul exclaimed and slumped to the floor, his back to 
the wall.  His elbow pushed the door shut.

"Maybe we should go out there and explain things to them," Jenny 
suggested meekly.

"Don't be an idiot!" Paul growled.  "They're out to get us for 
some reason.  We have to get away."

"I'm not an idiot!" Jenny fumed.  "You have no right to talk to me 
like that!"

"I'm sorry.  Of course you aren't!  It's just that I can't 
understand what's happening."

He reached out from where he was sitting on the floor and placed 
his hand on the woman's ankle.  She stepped back but did not utter 
a protest.

"Where could we possibly go?" she sniffled, on the verge of tears.

"I have no idea, but we can't stay here."

Paul got to his feet and looked again out the window.  The cops 
were away from the shed, three of them on the back porch of 
Jenny's house banging loudly on the door.  The others were most 
likely at the front door.

"We'll have to stay here until things quiet down, but I know 
you'll have cops at your house all night.  Where's your car?"

"In the shop -- at a garage a couple of streets over."  The woman 
whined as though she were somehow at fault for that.

"Do you have the keys with you?

"Yes, they're here on my key ring."

"Well, we'll just have to wait for a few hours and then go for 
your car."

Paul began to relax slightly as he plotted their flight and 
realized they had a slight chance to escape.


* * *


It was shortly before three in the morning when they slipped from 
the back porch of the neighbor's house and hurried into the brush 
and trees that separated that property from the adjacent ones.  
Fortunately they encountered no fence.

"Stop!  Who's there!" a loud masculine voice boomed from somewhere 
well behind them.

"Bobby, somebody over here!" it called out.

Paul clutched the large valise in his left hand, and with his 
right he grasped Jenny's wrist, pulling her along because she 
seemed to falter.

"Stop or we'll shoot," another voice sounded in the utter 
blackness of the moonless night.

Suddenly the tone changed.  A man's voice wailed in despair, "Oh, 
Christ, Bobby!  Oh, Jesus!  I've been skunked!"

Even the two fugitives caught a hint of the powerful stench behind 
them.  They raced quickly forward through the underbrush toward 
the street ahead.  Following Jenny's directions Paul pulled her 
across that street and into the back yards of the houses facing it 
until they reached yet another street.

"It's just up ahead," she announced breathlessly.

They heard sirens approaching as they reached the rear of a gas 
station and circled to the front of it.

"It's in there," Jenny whispered, "in one of the bays.  I brought 
it in for a tune up."

Paul, fearful but taking advantage of the loud sirens, slammed the 
valise against the glass of the gas station's front door, smashing 
it.  In an instant the two of them were inside the modest 
structure redolent of gasoline, oil and a sour uncleanness.  A 
police car sped past, lights flashing, followed by another, sirens 
now ominously silent.

A street light outside provided a dim illumination for the 
interior of the service station, but Paul needed to light a match 
to find what he wanted among the work orders pinned to a cork 
board.

"Please, Paul, come on!" Jenny begged, pulling on him.

"Ah! Here it is."  He tore a sheet from the board.  "It has your 
license number on it," he explained.  "This might buy us some time 
until their computers identify your car."

"It's not my car, Paul, at least not yet.  I just bought it from 
my cousin, but we haven't gotten around to transferring the 
title."

"Even more time, then."

Paul raised the bay door as Jenny scampered into the car.  He was 
soon beside her, sitting behind the steering wheel, the valise in 
the back seat.  Slowly he eased the car from the building, 
stopping only to pull down the bay door, careful to put his 
handkerchief between handle and betraying finger whorls.  Back in 
the driver's seat he headed sedately in the direction of the 
nearby interstate.



NEXT:  Chapter 4: Flight and Convergence
Varangian:  ludmax11@hotmail.com
Kellis:     kellis@dhp.com

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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