index


Message-ID: <29149asstr$983394605@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: kellis <kellis@dhp.com>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; charset=US-ASCII
Subject: {ASSM} The Innocent Fugitives Ch24 {Varkel} (MF oral bd ws)
Date: Wed, 28 Feb 2001 16:10:05 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

The Innocent Fugitives
a Novel by Varkel
Copyright (C) 2001, Varkel



Chapter 24: A Sudden Transfer



The uniformed sergeant entered the booth by the silent pneumatic 
back door.  He asked in a low voice, "Any luck, Cassie?"

"No," said the woman leaning over the turning tape cassette, chin 
in hand, watching the interrogation room through the one-way 
glass, "but something's going on.  The girl was tickled to see 
them when they came in.  The man asked her what she'd told us.  
She said, 'Nothing.'  The woman whispered something to her and 
they've been sitting with their arms around each other ever 
since.  They haven't said another word."

The sergeant shrugged.  "They've watched too much TV."  He handed 
her a paper.  "Take a look at this."

She glanced at it.  "Matched what images?"

"Look at them closely.  That's off the FBI computer.  The man and 
woman are wanted for questioning about a drug bust and a murder 
in Ohio, and their names aren't Smith."

"I agree, it sure looks like them.  And the same first names!"  
She grinned up at the sergeant.  "Not too bright, are they?"

"The question is, who is this girl they call Bobbie?  Look, I've 
talked to the lieutenant.  A couple of detectives are on the way 
over.  We can hold them on that Ohio warrant.  We'll put them in 
separate rooms and turn up the heat.  You take that girl back to 
the conference room and stay with her until the juvenile people 
come for her."

"I can try to get on her soft side."

"Why bother?  Everybody who's tried that says she's a very 
streetwise little tart.  She won't give us the time of day.  She 
even said her name was 'Jane Doe.'"

"That kind sometimes responds if you get a little rough."

"Don't do it, Cassie.  This is a high-profile case.  Hawker was 
well known at the university, too.  I think we got about all we 
need on him from the other kid -- not to speak of the load of 
stuff Hawker left in his computers.  Have you heard about that?"

"Yeah."  She grimaced distastefully.  "So the boy is talking 
freely?"

"Well, he _was_ till his mamma showed up with a lawyer.  Waverley 
made the mistake of charging both kids with Murder-Two before we 
got the M.E. results.  His lawyer clammed him right up and 
bundled him off to the juvenile people before we could get it 
straightened out.  But that's all right.  Not much mystery left 
in Hawker.  Now we'll find out about this twelve year old 
nymphomaniac."


* * *


Corley knocked perfunctorily and walked across the long, plush 
carpet to the little man at the brightly lit desk.  He managed to 
look worried and sympathetic at the same time.  "I'm sorry, 
Bernie.  It's another one, Big Donald this time.  He's heard from 
his guy at the station house, too."

Bernie pushed his keyboard back.  "What's going on, Corley?  I 
thought it was just the kid in trouble."

"I just got off the phone with Marley.  Jenny and Paul are being 
held now on that Ohio warrant.  All that will hit the papers, 
too.  Big Donald knows about it.  He'll talk to no one but you.  
Line Four."

The little man took a deep breath, punched his telephone and 
lifted the receiver.  "Bernie Nails," he declared.

Corley waited as the receiver squawked on and on.  After a bit 
Bernie said placatingly, "Yes, Donald, I know.  But just last 
week you thought she added a year to your father's life."

Wincing, he removed the receiver a few inches as it erupted 
loudly.  When it quieted, he said, "I can't do that, Donald, but 
I can get her out of town."

The instrument rattled more calmly.  "Don't worry, Donald.  I 
expect she'll go tomorrow.  Maybe even tonight...  Yeah, I'll let 
you know."

He dropped the receiver into its cradle and gave Corley a 
stricken look.  "What's the matter with them?  We fancy it up, 
but these girls are _whores_.  Who expects a whore to be a 
saint?"

Corley replied primly, "It's not that, sir.  You know what it is:  
the exposure.  In your idiom, 'the goddamn newspapers.'  And the 
television, of course.  They're all afraid she'll make some kind 
of deal with the cops, with the result that their names get 
smeared in the news.  Or their fathers'.  This may be Chicago, 
where anything goes, but not if you get caught!  And employing a 
prostitute is still a Class A Misdemeanor, even if you're a rich 
old man on his deathbed.  Prosecutors absolutely love the free 
advertising they get from a case like that."

"Very eloquent, Corley," Bernie conceded dryly.  He took a deep 
breath.  "I sure hate to do it, but it looks like I've got no 
choice."  He studied his deputy.  "Do you think this Calhoun is 
the same guy who's been mangling my people?"

"I don't know, sir.  But he's the only one we know who wants her.  
Perhaps he is the killer's agent, even if unawares."

"Even what?"

"Giving Calhoun the benefit of the doubt as a police lieutenant, 
perhaps he is the killer's dupe.  The killer expects to take her 
from him."

"And what will happen to her?"

"I don't know, sir.  But the man wants her very badly indeed!"

Bernie sighed.  "Lanning, too."

"Yes, sir, but we don't really care about Lanning.  Unfortunately 
it's too late to give away only the one."

"Yes, it is.  Okay, Corley, go make your call."

"Yes, sir."


* * *


"Well, Lanning," said the plain-clothes detective, leaning back 
in his chair, "might as well be friendly.  We'll keep calling you 
Smith if that's your preference."

Paul sat with his arms crossed on his chest behind a scarred 
table in another room with "Interrogation" on the door and a 
large, rather dull mirror on the wall.  The main difference was 
the uniformed cop standing against the wall, the grinning fellow 
across the table and the notable absence of the only two people 
in the world who mattered.  "What do you want?" he asked.

"Just a few answers," said the man.  He looked at a form in his 
hand.  "They read you your rights, didn't they?"

"Yes."  Paul added dryly.  "They even let me wipe off most of the 
ink."

The detective shrugged.  "Taking fingerprints and photograph is 
just routine, part of being booked.  You do know, don't you, that 
you're not charged with anything in Chicago?"

Paul nodded.  "So the sergeant told me.  Is that why you haven't 
let me call a lawyer?"

"Why do you want a lawyer?  You'll need one of them when you get 
to Ohio."

"If you're going to ask questions, I ought to have a lawyer."

The man laughed sourly.  "Damn the TV!  That's the only reason 
you think so; you saw it on _Law and Order_.  Look, I'm not going 
to ask you any _probative_ questions: you know, like did you kill 
anybody or sell any drugs.  I just want to ask a few _status_ 
questions.  You don't need a lawyer for them."

Paul shook his head.  "Status?  You've matched my fingerprints 
with the FBI by now.  You know all about me.  What's to ask?"

"Well, like this girl, Bobbie.  She can hardly be your daughter.  
Neither you nor Ms. Collier has any kids.  Who is she really?"

Paul stared.  After a bit he said, "You think that's just a 
status question?"

"Sure.  That's all!"

"Well, I don't agree.  My answer is, ask her."

"Maybe I will.  When did she take up with you?"

"Ask her."

"The better question is _where_ did she take up with you?"

"Ask her."

"I'm asking _you_, Lanning!  Do you know about the doctrine of 
assumed liability?  If you supported that girl, gave her a home 
and claimed her as your daughter -- which you have done, at least 
at Pilgrim Hill -- then unless you kidnapped her you are 
responsible under the law the same as if she _was_ your daughter.  
If you knowingly let her engage in sex, for example, I can charge 
you with Child Endangerment, Delinquency Contribution and a list 
of stuff long as your arm, a list that won't look good to a jury, 
believe me!"

Paul took a deep, shaky breath.  "I believe you.  But I'm not 
telling you anything else.  I --"

"I think you have a guilty conscience, Mr. Henry Paul Lanning-
Smith.  You fucked her, too, by god!"

Paul's face turned paper-white.

The detective laughed.  "Talk about a telling shot!  Why don't 
you come clean, Lanning?  Get it off your chest."

"I want a lawyer," Paul declared in a low, flat voice.

"Yeah, you're going to need one, and a good one, too!"


* * *


Calhoun raised up on his arms and smiled fondly down at the dazed 
woman.  Her breasts, glistening with perspiration, tossed with 
panting.  Only the whites of her eyes showed.  Slowly her pupils 
rolled forward and focused on him.

He declared, "A good one, Ruthie!"

"Oh, god, John!" she responded weakly.  "I ... didn't know life 
allowed such sweetness."

He chuckled.  "I don't think it does for most people.  Instead of 
killing and thieving they would do more of this."

She smiled wanly.  "In its own way ... this kills, too."

"Want to quit it, then?"

Her eyes widened dramatically.  "Never say that, John!  It kills 
the way my mother wanted to die.  It transports me straight to 
heaven.  You realize that I am becoming your slave?"

He chuckled again.  "Hardly that, Ruthie."

"Oh, but I am!  That magic wand of yours charms me out of my 
senses.  Lay beside me, will you, dear?"

"Whatever you say, slave."  Smiling, he withdrew from her and 
rolled on his side.

She raised up.  Her hand lifted him.  She said dreamily, 
"Absolutely charming, John!  How I hate for it to leave me."  She 
bent forward and took it into her mouth.

For a while he stroked her bobbing back before suggesting, "Don't 
knock yourself out, sweet Ruthie.  It's all yours these days, 
even if I do have to go to work occasionally."

Her mouth released him as she turned her eyes up.  "But you work 
such irregular hours, John!  Why does a lieutenant need to do 
that?"

"You know I'm not a man who just sits at a desk.  In fact right 
now I need to check my voice mail.  It's almost eleven."

"Yes, master," she said ironically.  Rising from the bed, she 
retrieved her cordless telephone and passed it to him.

"Thank you."  He cocked an eyebrow.  "Who said slavery was so 
bad?"

He dialed the number and his password.  The receiver began to 
rattle.  She crouched at his midsection and resumed her gentle 
suckling of the shrinking organ while one hand stroked his hard, 
ribbed belly.  Suddenly she felt his body tense.

"Oh, ho!" he called, rising up in the bed.  He twisted lithely 
away from her and stood beside the chair containing his britches, 
from which he extracted his wallet.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I need to call Chicago.  Don't worry; I'll use my card."

"You know I don't care about the bill," she protested.

He ignored her, punching numbers into the telephone.  She 
wondered, not for the first time, if his insistence on using the 
calling card was not mainly in order to keep his correspondents' 
numbers off her telephone bill, but dismissed it, also not for 
the first time, as an unworthy suspicion.

"This is Lt. John Calhoun," he said into the phone, "of the 
Bering, Ohio, police.  I understand you are holding Paul Lanning 
and Jenny Collier.  Is that on my fugitive warrant? ...  Okay, 
I'll wait."

She raised her eyebrows.  "They caught them?"

He nodded.  "According to the informant."

"My god, John," she murmured admiringly, "have you got yourself 
an ear in the Chicago police?"

"Not quite," he replied with a grin that vanished suddenly.  
"What's that -- Child Abandonment?  Are you referring to Bobbie 
Gentry?"

The receiver rattled.  Calhoun continued, "Right: age twelve, 
blonde hair, blue eyes, four-foot-seven, about 95 pounds.  Her 
full name is Bobbie Marie Gentry and you'll find her birth 
certificate in the Michigan registry...  That's up to you.  I 
don't have anything on her.  When can you release the two 
adults?"

His expression showed frustration.  "Fighting extradition?  
When's the hearing? ...  All right, thanks for the confirmation.  
Keep me informed, will you?"

He stood naked beside the chair, letting the telephone dangle 
from his hand, a distant expression on his face.  Ruth lay on the 
bed, raised on an elbow, body still tingling from their recent 
lovemaking.  She had hoped to renew that tingle, but now she 
despaired, even before he spoke.

"I've got to make tracks, Ruthie.  With any luck I can get them 
out before dawn."


* * *


"I was beginning to wonder if you were asleep back there."

The turnkey grimaced.  "Take it easy, sarge.  I was in the john."

"Well, I got to get these people over to Plimpton before I can 
stop for breakfast, and I'm hungry.  Shake them up, will you?"

"People?  Where's your paper?"

The big man passed across a long court document, blank on one 
side, on the other the splotchy gray common since Xerox: the 
umpteenth copy of a copy.  Only the prisoners' names, the origin 
and destination prisons, the judge's and clerk's signatures and 
the court seal imprint appeared in fresh ink.  "Note down here: 
you're to put shackles and cuffs on them."

"Cuffs is okay, but I ain't got but one set of leg irons.  Can I 
chain them together?"

"If you'll write and sign a change on the order.  I wouldn't want 
Plimpton to think I lost a leg iron."

The jailer chuckled.  "No, guess not.  You want to help me fetch 
them or wait here?"

"You need help?"

"Not really.  These two are pussies.  And that's funny.  Who is 
it thinks they need to be bumped up to Plimpton?"

Calhoun shrugged.  "Maybe an old record showed up.  All I know 
is, somebody convinced a judge they need better security.  If 
it's all the same to you, I'll just wait here.  It's been a long 
night."

"Yeah, it has.  I'll be back in a few minutes."

As the turnkey vanished behind his barred desk, the big man took 
a seat in one of the straight chairs provided in the corner and 
leaned his head back against the wall.  His eyes sank nearly 
closed and he drowsed for ten minutes until the clank of metal 
beyond the bars announced the jailer's return with company.  He 
sprang to his feet and shook the sleep from his eyes.

"Wait here," the turnkey told the sullen faced man and woman 
behind him, still in their own clothing including overcoats.  He 
came to his desk, bearing two large manila envelopes, and 
presented them to Calhoun.  To each was stapled a card with 
names, photographs, descriptions and fingerprints.  Calhoun 
glanced at them and laid them aside.  He passed the transfer 
order across in exchange.  "Fill in something about the leg-irons 
and go make your copy."

The man struck through part of the shackle order and wrote an 
amendment, then signed his name.  "Not much point in a copy.  You 
can hardly read this one!"

"Better follow procedure," Calhoun advised.

"It'll take ten minutes for the copier to warm up.  Shackled, 
they're not going anywhere you don't want them to.  Here.  Sign 
the custody sheet."

Calhoun leaned in and signed voluminously but illegibly in two 
places.  The jailer shook his head but withheld comment as he 
passed the shackle keys to Calhoun.  The door buzzed.  "All 
right, you two.  Go with the sergeant."

With the manila folders under one arm, Calhoun reached past the 
swinging bars and clutched Paul's handcuff.  He turned around and 
led the two stumbling prisoners out of the room and up the 
staircase to the cold night air.  Paul's left ankle was chained 
to Jenny's right.

A civilian vehicle was parked in the visitor's slot with its 
engine running.  Calhoun pushed his prisoners into the backseat.  
As he did so, Jenny's eyes widened in the bright light above the 
prison door.

"You!"

She stared at Calhoun, who ignored her exclamation as he 
handcuffed the chain between her handcuffs to a hole in a 
seatbelt receiver.  He backed out of the car, slammed the door 
and went around to open the trunk.

"Didn't you recognize him?" asked Jenny.

"Yeah," Paul answered with little interest.  "He's that damned 
lieutenant from Bering who's been after us so long."

"Yes, but what's he doing in a Chicago sergeant's uniform?"

"Huh?"

"You have to pay attention, Paul.  Didn't that lawyer say we 
couldn't be taken to Ohio until the extradition hearing?"

"Yeah, but after all these new charges because of Bobbie, I think 
we'd better take our chances in Ohio."

"But ... but ...  You may be right, but still, what happened to 
the extradition hearing?"

Paul shrugged.  "I guess they didn't need it after all."

The driver's door opened and the car rocked as Calhoun settled 
into the seat.  The dome light turned off with the closing door, 
but not before both prisoner's saw the silver lieutenant's bars 
gracing the big man's shoulders.  He turned around to back the 
car out of its slot.

"Promoted again so soon?" asked Paul whimsically.

Calhoun grinned at him.  "A big frog in a small pond is often a 
small frog in a big one."

"You don't mean --"

"A reciprocal agreement between Chicago and Bering.  Makes for 
good relations, cross training, all sorts of advantages.  Lots of 
cities do it."  He turned the car out into a dark street and 
increased speed.  The first false light was showing in the east.  
"Did that turnkey let you use your toilets before he hustled you 
out?"

"No!" both prisoners declared in heated tones.

"I haven't either.  Hang on and I'll stop as soon as we cross 
into Indiana, another 45 minutes."

Jenny asked tremulously, "Wh-what's going to happen to us, 
lieutenant?"

"You'll be incarcerated in Bering until we can schedule a bail 
hearing, though I warn you, you've already run once.  Judges 
don't like to grant bail to runners.  Your Chicago lawyer won't 
be any good in Ohio.  Do you have one in Ohio?"

"Never needed one before," Paul noted sorrowfully.

"Well, I'll see that the court appoints you one until you find 
one of your own."

"We're innocent, you know," said Jenny as an afterthought.

"Yes, I know."

He must be tired, she thought.  He didn't sound at all sarcastic.


* * *


"What are you listening to?"

Cassie reached out and punched "Stop" on the tape player.  She 
and the detective removed their earphones.  The detective 
answered, "A tape found in the search of Bobbie Gentry's place.  
We need to get somebody from the prosecutor's office down here to 
listen, too, captain.  This is hot and if it keeps on the way it 
started, we'll have the goods on that pair."

"Lanning and Collier?  What goods?"

"Yeah.  Lanning's voice is on here.  He's asking the kid 
questions and you ought hear her answers!  She's telling him 
everybody she ever had sex with, beginning about age nine.  She 
even came to Chicago once to pop naked out of a cake for some 
kind of doctors' party.  If we can tie down all the references, 
we'll nail people in at least three states.  The feds will go 
nuts."

The man with the captain's bars leaned over the desk and punched 
"Eject" on the player, then examined the cassette.  It was 
labeled in felt tip: "Bobbie's Confession, 12/7."  He directed, 
"Get technical services to make three copies of this and lock the 
original in the evidence room.  Cassie, you'll be the only one to 
carry a key.  Also tell the techies to make a transcription of 
it.  Are there any other voices on it?"

Cassie answered, "No, sir.  Just Lanning and the girl so far."

The captain thought a moment.  "Is she telling her story in more-
or-less chronological order?"
"I believe so."

He handed her the cassette.  "Then skip ahead and see if she 
implicates Lanning as a molester."

"Before I take it to be copied?"

"Right away.  The prisoners have had breakfast by now.  I'll get 
Lanning up here immediately for more interrogation, mention this 
tape and let him stew until you give me the word.  Better notify 
his lawyer."

"Yes, sir, but there's enough on here already to prove 
endangerment and criminal neglect."

"Good.  That will soften him up.  And we can make Collier testify 
against him.  He can't claim spousal privilege."

As the woman restored the cassette to the player, the captain 
picked up a telephone receiver and punched a few buttons.  In a 
moment he said, "This is Captain Villiers.  I want the prisoner 
Paul Lanning brought up to eye-three right away.  Send a guard to 
stay with him.  You got it? ...  What problem?"

His eyes widened.  "They what?"  The receiver rattled.  "Who 
authorized that? ...  What do you mean, you don't know?  Read it 
off the copy of the transfer order...  Hello? ...  Well, find 
that order, damn it, and call me back."

He slammed down the telephone and glowered at his two 
subordinates, by now displaying their most innocent expressions 
in response to his anger.  He grated, "Lanning and Collier have 
been transferred to Plimpton."

The detective blinked.  "Whatever for?"

"Yeah, that's the question, all right.  I suppose their lawyer 
must have arranged it, though what he hopes to accomplish is 
anybody's guess."  He sighed.  "I'll set my admin to tracking 
this down and get that pair back over here.  Meanwhile you have 
your orders for the tape."


* * *


"Bobbie, I am Bessie Harrod from the Child Protection Division."

The girl, still wearing yesterday's school uniform, had looked up 
at the middle-aged woman's entrance to the conference room.  She 
glowered at the newcomer and said with a sneer, "Then how about 
protecting me out of here?"

The woman nodded, taking a seat across the table.  "Getting you 
out of this police station is exactly why I'm here.  It has no 
proper facilities to hold children.  The question is, Bobbie, 
just where do you need to go?"

"How about letting me go back to my parents?"

"Your parents?"

"Paul and Jenny Smith."

"And where are they located, Bobbie?"

The girl shrugged.  "Last night they were a few doors down the 
hall.  I don't know where you guys put them since."

"I see.  You mean Paul Lanning and Jenny Collier, do you?"

The girl only stared.

The woman sighed.  "They are not your parents, Bobbie."

"I say they are."

The woman studied her thoughtfully.  "Do you really want that, 
Bobbie?  We have incontrovertible evidence of how they molested 
you."

"Incont-cont --"

"Evidence they can't deny."

"Who says?"

"_You_ did, as a matter of fact.  We have your voluntary 
confession on tape."

"Oh, that!"  The girl smiled slyly.  "That was all a crock, you 
know."

"No, it wasn't, Bobbie.  We have already started checking it out.  
Your Uncle Kenny, Kenneth Peter Gentry, is your only relative of 
record.  That is, he was."

"He's dead?"

"Yes, Bobbie.  He was shot dead in a drunken quarrel last month.  
The Michigan police are still investigating.  I'm sorry."

The girl tilted her head back.  "I told you:  Paul and Jenny are 
my parents."

The woman shook her head.  "Well, you couldn't go with them even 
if in fact they were.  So I'd like to ask you a few general 
questions about yourself, Bobbie.  These are very important 
questions.  Your answers will determine where you spend the next 
several weeks."

Bobbie's eyes showed interest.  "What's the choices?"

"If you don't mind, I'll tell you that after you answer my 
questions."  She took pen and pad from her purse.  "Would you 
like to visit a bathroom first?"

"No."

"Want something to drink?"

"No."

"All right.  Here's the first question.  "What do you like the 
best in the world?"

The girl sniffed.  "I don't have to answer your questions."

"Yes, you do, Bobbie.  I'll tell you why.  I don't have the power 
to hurt you, to do anything to you except recommend a place of 
residency for the next few weeks.  But if you won't talk to me, 
then you'll have to go before a man who _can_ hurt you: a 
juvenile court judge!  He has the power to put you in solitary 
confinement until you're eighteen...  So the real first question 
is, had you rather talk to me or to him?"

The girl studied the woman.  At last she took a deep breath and 
said, "Dick."

"What?"

"Dick is what I like best in the world."


* * *


Calhoun leaned into the car and unlocked the shackles on their 
ankles.  Leaving Jenny chained to the seat, he took Paul's arm 
and helped him to rise.  Paul stretched as well as he could 
despite the handcuffs.

"Wait here," Calhoun said to Jenny with a smug grin, leading Paul 
away and into the hulking building.

That morning the lieutenant had entered the first truck stop they 
encountered in Indiana, let them use the relief facilities, 
brought them breakfast, then parked in the back of the truck stop 
where he proceeded to fall asleep in the reclined front seat.  As 
a result of his nap and two additional stops they had arrived in 
Bering just after nightfall.

Jenny looked around in puzzlement.  Now he had parked in what 
appeared to be a run-down industrial district, before a huge dark 
building hardly lit at all by lights on distant street corners.  
She watched him unlock a small door beside an empty loading dock 
and lead Paul inside.  How curious!  No light was on inside the 
building, either.

She squinted at the high brick front.  At one time a business 
name had been painted there, but something had worn it nearly 
away.  Somebody's "Warehouse," maybe?  What kind of jail was 
this?

She repeated that question aloud when Calhoun returned to free 
her from the car.  He grinned at her cheerfully.  "You didn't 
hear about the Grange Street fire?  Ought to keep up with things 
in your home town."

"What fire?" she asked, stumbling after him as he slammed the car 
door.

"Burned down the city jail last month.  This is a temporary 
facility, one of several.  Don't worry.  I don't think you'll be 
here too long."

"Was anyone ... hurt?"

"No.  Heroic police work saved all the prisoners.  We take care 
of our own, Mrs. Collier.  You can count on it.  Now, follow 
close behind me.  The electrical system in here has a problem.  
We have to climb a set of stairs in the dark."

He led her into pitch blackness.  She tried to pull back.  "Wait 
a minute!  Just what is going on here?"

"I know this is strange," he said placatingly, "but come on 
around this corner and we'll start to get some light.  I've got 
to check you in on the second floor."

He tugged on her handcuff chain and reluctantly she allowed 
herself to be drawn forward.  A chill was gathering on her scalp.  
She shivered.

He felt it.  "Take it easy, Mrs. Collier.  See the light up at 
the top?  Come on, now, and watch your step.  We had a drunk fall 
down these stairs last week and crack his skull."

At the top of the stairs she could see a door with a very dim 
light over it.  At least she was able to make out the stair 
treads, metal ones that rang with their footsteps, between cinder 
block walls.  Her nose was filled with the odor of old concrete 
and rust and the man's spicy perspiration.  The cuffs hurt her 
wrists.  She tried to follow closer.

When they reached the top, she saw that the landing admitted to 
two doors.  He opened the one to the left of the light and led 
her through it into a brightly lit room.  She had an impression 
of furniture, a couch, table, drapery-hung walls -- and Paul 
standing in a recessed alcove, hands stretched over his head.

Paul's unmistakable voice rose in a shout that hardly 
reverberated against the drapes.  "Run, Jenny!"

Before she could react, Calhoun, a foot taller than she, already 
grasping the 12-inch chain between her handcuffs, thrust his hand 
and arm fully above his own head.  As a result she was lifted off 
her feet.  Gaping in astonishment, she screamed, but the sound 
fell flat as Paul's shout.  She was swept quickly forward into 
the alcove beside her man.  Calhoun clicked another handcuff 
dangling there around one of her wrists.  When he released her 
chain, she found herself still elevated by the one arm, though 
now her toes could touch the tile floor.  Calhoun stood back, 
getting something from his pocket.

Jenny demanded hysterically, "Wh-what are you doing to us?"

His face was intent.  Ignoring her question, he grabbed her other 
wrist, unlocked the handcuff applied that morning in Chicago and 
forced the wrist up into the twin of the one dangling from a 
chain in the ceiling.  Maintaining his rapid pace, he removed the 
original handcuffs completely, bent to her feet and snapped 
another set of manacles, chained to rings in the floor, to her 
ankles.

The fact that her new set of manacles, both for wrists and 
ankles, was felt-lined did not appease Jenny in the slightest.  
She snarled, "You bastard!  What kind of a cop are you?"

He smiled at her and took the time to gather both hers and 
presumably Paul's Chicago handcuffs, slipping them into his 
lieutenant's coat pocket, before answering.  "That should be 
obvious to you, Mrs. Collier: a _rogue_ one!  Do you know the 
concept?"

"A _rogue_ cop?  What does that mean?"

"One with no regard whatsoever for the law in his private 
affairs."

"Good god!" she declared, eyes widening in horror.

"Perhaps not so good, eh?"  He took off his coat, laid it over a 
couch, and went to a small box mounted on the wall.  "72 in here.  
That will soon be uncomfortably cool for you."  He touched the 
box.  "Let's raise it up to 78."

 From the thermostat he turned to the drawer of a small table, 
took out an implement and again stood before his prisoners.  
"These are simply a sharp pair of dress-maker's shears."

Indeed they were sharp.  He stooped at Paul's feet, pulled the 
slack out of a pants leg and began to cut swiftly up the cloth of 
the leg.  "God damn it!" Paul implored and kicked out with that 
shoe, succeeding in striking Calhoun's chest before reaching the 
limit of the chain.  The big man fell over onto his backside.

He looked up into Paul's glower.  "I guess I can't blame you for 
that.  I can only blame myself for carelessness."  He got to his 
feet and returned to the little table at the side of the room.  
Paul saw that it was in fact a control desk, studied with 
electrical buttons.  Calhoun punched a few and somewhere in the 
floor a motor began to hum.  Clanking, the chains attached to his 
ankles were drawn into their metal-rimmed hawseholes.  When the 
man's feet were pulled against the metal, Calhoun punched 
additional buttons and stopped the motors.  Paul stood now, 
barely flatfooted on the floor, arms held fully aloft, wincing 
from the pressure on his ankles.

Calhoun returned to his cutting.  The shears slashed and ripped.  
Only belt, shoes and socks came away from Paul's body without 
being destroyed.  In a very few minutes he stood stark naked.  
His rings and wristwatch had been taken from him in Chicago.  The 
removed tatters, including his overcoat, filled two grocery bags.

"That should be a little more comfortable," Calhoun suggested 
with a grin.  "At least you'll be able to appreciate the ambiance 
here."  He returned to the control table.  The motors whined 
again and chain links played out of the holes in the floor, but 
only a few inches worth.  "And that should be a bit easier on 
your ankles.  But I warn you: those motors are powerful.  If you 
succeed in kicking me again, I shall let one run until it 
separates that foot completely."

He turned to Jenny and looked her up and down with a smile, 
clearly savoring his expectations.  "Interesting how a little 
desperation modifies attitudes, isn't it, my dear?"

"I am not your dear!" she averred forcefully.

"Oh, but you are!  You have no idea how dear."  He took a breath.  
"You're intelligent, near the top of your class at nursing 
school, so perhaps you'll understand the implications of what I'm 
about to say.  Bud told me often how you refused him, how you 
hated sex of any kind, particularly oral or anal.  Now look at 
how you have changed, my dear!  I have a copy of your video from 
Kentucky, servicing three men at once with commendable 
enthusiasm.  And I have talked to some of your clients in 
Chicago.  Such empathy for aged and incompetent penises!  Yet you 
are still as lovely as the woman who refused her husband -- at 
least in your clothing.  Let's see if it all still matches."

He knelt before her to remove her shoes.  His shears began to rip 
up the legs of her pants suit.  She made no attempt to kick him.  
Instead she asked, "You actually _knew_ my husband?"

"My dear," he responded with a leer, "I'd bet I fucked him more 
times than you did."

"You damned queer!" Paul grated as the man ripped Jenny's blouse 
away.  "You did her husband, who did my wife.  Is that the way it 
was?"

"Oh, no, Mr. Lanning."  Calhoun made but a moment's work of the 
brassiere.  "I fucked both of them, of course, your pretty wife 
the more often, I'm sure: she did beg for it so!  I am a man of 
superior appetite, as you will soon discover, and men's bodies 
can be almost as satisfactory as women's."

He paused to fondle the exposed breasts, squeezing them until 
Jenny winced.  "Nothing exceptional, but not bad.  At least they 
retain enough flesh not to hollow above the nipple -- but then, 
you are still a young woman, aren't you, my dear?"  Her breasts 
exhibited red splotches when the shears attacked her coat 
sleeves.

Jenny asked in a strained voice, "Then you must know who killed 
our spouses."

His eyes widened almost comically.  "Come, come, my dear.  You 
can certainly tell me now.  Didn't you and your new lover do it?"

She blinked.  "My who?"

He tilted his head toward the glowering Paul.  "This fine fellow 
whom you had never laid eyes on before you met me, and whose 
masculinity you have verified many times since.  Do you deny it?"

She shook her head violently.  "I deny killing anyone.  And 
neither did Paul."

"Are you sure?  We can even make a case that you two killed that 
couple from Oregon.  Lanning's cuff-links and some of your 
jewelry were found scattered at the scene."

"What?" demanded Paul.  "But they stole --"

"Hush, Paul," interrupted the woman, staring fixedly at her 
grinning tormentor.  "He's playing with us.  _You_ killed them 
all, didn't you!"

The man's smile faded.  "Do you think so, Mrs. Collier?  Then 
think about this: those were cold blooded, vicious killings, so 
they say.  I suggest you keep that fact in mind during the coming 
days."

He gathered up the shreds of her clothing and stuffed it in 
another pair of bags.  Like Paul, she stood naked as the day of 
her birth, except for the long auburn hair that cascaded behind 
her shoulders.  Her pubes had been shaved the day before but 
could be detected now only by a finger.

Again Calhoun looked her up and down.  "Very shapely, indeed, 
Mrs. Collier.  I am certain that your late husband, if he could 
be here now, would declare your beauty intact."  He smirked.  
"From your exploits in Kentucky and Chicago, I gather that you 
have thoroughly investigated all modes of sexual pleasure since 
your departure with our Mr. Lanning.  The number of spermatozoa 
your body has absorbed in these few months must be astronomical.  
Wouldn't you agree you've fucked more with far more partners 
since August than during your entire previous life?  I presume 
you've been taking your contraceptives regularly."  He chuckled 
ominously.  "At least you'll no longer need to worry about 
conception."

She stared at him with frightened eyes.

"Sir and madam, Please observe a few points of your new 
environment.  The chains to your ankles and wrists can all be 
lengthened and shortened.  When I finish this session, I intend 
to lengthen them so much that you can move off the tile onto the 
carpet, which can make a comfortable bed.  You may even console 
each other, if you so desire.  Most of the time you will be 
allowed such lattitude.

"Since I am personally the delivery boy, you will get only one 
meal a day.  It will vary in quality but will be adequate in 
quantity.

"Notice the drain hole in the center of the tile.  That is for 
urine or vomit.  You may deposit feces near it.  Someone will 
hose you down at least every night.  And now, to demonstrate its 
use ..."

He opened his fly and pulled out a penis, sizeable even if 
flaccid.  Standing in front of Jenny, he arched a yellow stream 
upon her belly.  "Oh, god!" she wailed, trying to flinch back, 
succeeding only in transferring her weight painfully to her 
wrists.  The man raised his organ higher, increasing his bladder 
pressure, and painted her sighing face.  "Gah!" she cried, 
spitting.

He laughed, held his water and waddled across the tile to Paul, 
where he repeated the demonstration, playing the stream 
particularly upon the prisoner's shrunken organ.  A man always 
has two or three final squirts to be expelled from the lengthy 
pathway between prostate and orifice.  Calhoun fired these into 
Paul's face.

"God damn you!" Paul muttered, also spitting, blinking an eye 
rapidly.

Calhoun chuckled while rezipping his fly.  "You're a bit late 
with that curse, my friend.  The damning occurred long ago.  
Let's see.  Your last piss was about five hours back.  Both your 
bladders should be full as mine.  Please cut loose.  The sooner 
you get accustomed to the informal methods here, the better for 
you."

He waited.  Both stared at him stonily, adding nothing to the 
urine dripping from their chins and from breasts and penis.  He 
shrugged.  "Suit yourself.  Notice, please, Mr. Lanning, that if 
you try you can send your stream beyond the tile to the edge of 
the carpet.  But if you do that, sir, it is you who will have to 
endure the odor all the next day.  Now for a bath!  Don't you 
think you need a bath?"

He went to a cabinet set into the side wall, opened it and 
uncoiled a rubber hose.  As he brought it forward, he declared, 
"This water will be rather cold, I fear.  If it ran long enough 
it would become tepid, but we shall hardly need --"

Both prisoners' glaring eyes turned to a click behind him.  He 
whirled and smiled at the person standing in a side door.  "Ah, 
awakened from your nap, have you?  Are you feeling well tonight?"

"A bit hungry."  It was a middle-aged woman, gray of hair, 
dressed in a long, flowing housecoat partly buttoned in front.  
She stared at the prisoners.  "What have we here?"

"Subjects, very special subjects for your evaluation."

"Special?  What's so special about them?"

"Until this morning, these people were incarcerated in a holding 
facility in Chicago, awaiting trial.  Now they have vanished, 
transferred to another prison.  They picked the wrong alias, you 
see: Smith, much too common!  It turns out that the prison to 
which they were supposedly transferred already has two people in 
it named Paul and Jenny Smith.  This Paul and Jenny before us are 
lost in the impenetrable Chicago bureaucracy -- which means they 
have vanished off the face of the Earth."

"My god, you mean ... They belong to us?"

"Body and soul, my dear.  And they are special for an even 
stronger reason.  Mrs. Amy Earnest Calhoun, my mother, may I 
present the innocent fugitives, Mr. Paul Lanning and Mrs. Jenny 
Collier?"



NEXT:  Chapter 25: Prisoners All
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.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository |
|<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations.         |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+