The Camp (20 page)

Alto had the girl on his lap and was examining her arms. “Drug addiction?”

The host expressed shock. “All our girls are clean. We may give them an oral relaxant just prior to transport, but that’s all.”

Alto stood and began to remove his slacks. “And compliant.”

The host stood and reaching out, pulled the girl to his side. “I must say no.” He held her out at arm’s length. “She is a virgin and will stay that way for the time being.”

Alto was red-faced and pulled up his pants, incensed. “I have managed to convince the buyers that, as you say, a tragic car accident ruined the first shipment of goods, and I assured them that you would make good. After all, you have their money. All it would take to dispel them of that notion is one word from me.”

The host clenched his jaw. “Is that right? He looked around. “And then what? This is not Brazil where men settle scores, guns blazing.” He noticed that his men were no longer lounging in front of the elevator. “I have taken all precautions to protect your girls.”

In truth, however, he was doing nothing different. Transportation was via a van up Interstate-5 just as he had always done before. Looking over at the bar, he snapped his fingers. Quickly, the little girl ran to the bar and helped the bartender with a tray of finger food and drinks. The host took a small keyboard and screen from the tray. “Completely untraceable. Routing is through multiple ISPs in five countries. You were instructed to bring a dial-in code. Your buyers will receive live feed, as though they were using Skype.”
 

The girl ran ahead of the bartender and ducked around behind the bar.
 

Alto couldn’t believe his ears. “You’re expecting further payment?”

The host leaned back in his chair and held his hands out at his sides. “Certainly not for these girls, but some additional compensation, yes. Something for our loss. Those twelve girls were conservatively valued at 18 million dollars, a loss we wouldn’t have suffered, but for your order.” He smiled and picked up one of the Greek dolmas then paused, holding it just in front of his lips. “Split the difference. Nine million?”

Alto reached under his coat and removed a cellphone. “ I must consult my buyers.”

The host stuffed the entire grape leaf and rice delicacy into his mouth, chewed for a minute, then swallowed. “But, of course.”

Alto went to speed dial and pressed the button that would bring this hideous affair to a halt.

The host took a sip of his lemon water. “Twelve girls, two hundred dollars a visit, say, five visits each day. Five days a week, fifty-two weeks a year—do the math, Mr. Alto. Your buyers are getting a bargain.”

Alto replaced his phone. “Not if they have to pay an additional nine million. But we may be able to strike a deal.”

The host set down his drink.
 

Alto took this as a sign to continue. “I understand that the girls will be held in a motel in the tiny town of Wolf Creek until the buyers accept your proposal to, how did you say it? ‘Split the difference.’”

The host was reaching for another dolma but stopped and sat bolt upright. “How could you know this?”

Alto smiled. He’d been counting in his head since he pressed the speed dial. His accent suddenly became thick and he stood and slowly made his way toward the bar. “In Brazil, we don’t always settle a score with guns blazing. We are actually known for our…mmm…forgive me my lack of words…It’s like your Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
 

Just then, the elevator hissed open, revealing four men, two slouched and unmoving. The two remaining men stepped quickly into the room, guns first.
 

The host rose from his seat, turned, and received a bullet between the eyes for his effort.

The men looked to their boss for instructions.
 

“Take the girl. Kill the bartender.”

One of the men holstered his gun, looked directly at the girl, and extended a hand. Meekly, she approached and placed her tiny fingers in his upturned palm. The other man marched around to the end of the bar and fired his silenced .22 caliber three times into the cringing blonde figure huddled behind the bar.

Chapter Thirty-one

Following Amy’s directions, they went directly to the Volkswagen in the campground. She staggered around to the back of the bus and reached into the tail pipe for the extra key.
 

Before leaving to look for the barn, Paul had folded the seats down into a bed. Rye pulled them back up to bench seats on either side of the little table, and patted one, but Amy was at the fridge.
 

“I’m starving. Can I make you a sandwich?”

Ever hungry, he just smiled and nodded.

“How do we know that daddy isn’t lying somewhere by the side of the road?”

When he saw her head sag and shoulders shiver, he awkwardly slid out of the little seat, laid an arm around her shoulders and walked her back to the table. He sat across and watched her for a full minute. She was exhausted, dehydrated, and near the edge of her limit for emotional stress.

“Amy, look at me.”

Taking several jagged breaths, she raised her head from where it had been resting on her crossed arms. “What?”
 

“Your father knew where we left the Fiat. I think Claire is going to drive up here any minute now with your father riding shotgun.”

He got up once again. “How about tuna?”

With half-open lids she shook her head. “Sorry, I’m not hungry.” Everything was catching up to her.

He turned and opened the fridge, took a minute to examine the contents, then turned back and found that she had curled up on the bench seat and was sound asleep.

He checked the clock above the little table, reached up, turned out the light, and tried to get comfortable. Consulted his watch and groaned. “3:45.” Then he allowed his eyes to close. Knowing that he’d be asleep in minutes, his final thought came in the form of a question: where’s Claire? She should have been here by now.

A pair of eyes peered through the side window and scanned the two occupants of the aging VW bus, then looked the length of the vehicle through the windshield.

Rye’s eyes snapped open. It was still dark and he could just make out the hands of his watch. 4:00 AM. He’d only dozed. Amy was still asleep.

Somebody was moving around the bus. He froze, held his breath, and could hear the crunch of feet on gravel. In one swift move, he pulled the handle, rolled the sliding door open to its stops, and leapt out.

“Jeez, you scared the shit out of me.” He looked around the campsite. “Where’s the Fiat?”

Claire climbed in saw Amy curled up asleep and stepped back out. “I think Paul took it. But he left a message and a trail.”

He motioned her away from the bus. “A message? What kind of trail?”

She joined him as he squatted at the foot of a large redwood. “Two words. ‘Following vans.’ The trail was tread print.”

Rye shook his head angrily. “What the hell was he thinking?”

She reached out and touched his arm. “I’ve been running for the past hour and had a lot of time to think.” He gave her a ‘keep talking’ nod.

“If he saw the vans come and go, he must have thought Amy might be in one and somehow reached the Fiat in time to follow them.”
 

Rye locked eyes with his wife and was on his feet. “What the God-damn-hell does he think he can do? No! This time he’s on his own. Amy is exhausted and dehydrated and we need to get her home.”

Claire pushed to her feet and grabbed his arm in a vice-like grip. “I’d be willing to wager he found my Smith and Wesson. She gave his arm a shake. He’s your best friend and he needs your help.”
 

She released his arm and walked back toward the bus. He followed her to the cab, climbed silently into the passenger side.

She remembered driving with Paul and pumped the gas pedal several times before turning the key. With a slight rumble, the engine came to life. She shifted into reverse and gunned it, but the engine died.
 

“I think you need to let it warm up, just a little.”

She looked up into the rearview mirror. “How long you been awake?”

“Just a couple minutes, since you fired up the bus. Want me to get it going?”

Rye was already unbelted and moving to the rear of the VW. “I think your Aunt Claire can handle it. How you feeling?”

She looked sheepishly at her Uncle who was staring at her with a look of surprise. “Hope I didn’t overstep my bounds,” Amy said. “Daddy lets me drive sometimes.” He laughed. “I should have known.”

“I’m feeling beat up and tired, but awake.”

The two collapsed the table, pulled out the extra pads, and made up the bed.

Rye tried to catch his wife’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “How you holding up?”

“I’m wide awake. If you two want to crash, I’ll wake you when I reach the gas station and the message.”

They needed no coaxing. Rye curled around a mini beanbag chair in the back. Amy crawled up into the passenger seat with a pillow, pulled her knees into her chest, and slept.

Claire eased the bus into first and guided it out of the campground and onto the road in the direction of Agness, at about five miles an hour.

An hour later she was able to gain speed when the quality of the road improved. When she passed the little store, it was dark and she didn’t bother slowing but guided the bus up next to a puddle of oil just behind the gas station where she’d left the Fiat.
 

Amy was already awake and stretching when Claire shut off the engine and Rye was making his way forward.

“I wanted you to see this.” The three piled out of the cab.

Claire squatted down and pointed at the tire tracks. “This is where I left the Fiat. Someone made this puddle of oil right in front of the tire. I’m betting it was Paul.”

Amy let out a squeal and clapped her hands. “Daddy.”

Rye looked over at the fifteen-year-old. “How do you know?”

She kneeled down next to Claire. “The Case of the Hellfire Conspiracy. Daddy made me watch all these old Sherlock Holmes movies. He said it would teach me about deduction. The bad guys drove out of a paint factory just before Holmes arrived. But they were able to track the car because it drove through some spilled paint.”

Rye smiled as the two women stood. “Elementary, my dear Amy.”

Both women groaned.

Chapter Thirty-two

The footbridge that crossed the Rogue River was halfway between the country store and the lodge.

Billy hung onto her hair and stared across the span. It had taken forever to drag her this far. He didn’t understand why he had to go all the way to the barn.

He kicked her in the butt. “You first, bitch.”

Pain from the incessant pulling on her hair brought her around. She was sure her bare feet were bleeding and the area around her vagina was on fire.

She walked across the bridge, only vaguely aware of how narrow it was.

The sheriff had to pass a hippie bus. At this hour, it was probably sneaking out of the lodge’s campground to avoid paying. He parked in front of the barn and had just turned off the engine when he saw Billy and the young girl coming up the road between the cabins.

He checked the clip in his Glock-24, his throw down was untraceable, and climbed out of the cruiser.

The girl was sobbing and he could hear Billy mumbling something he was sure he didn’t want to hear.
 

“So, here I am. What’s the big fucking deal…?”

Elmore untethered his pistol, leaving it in the holster and nervously fingered his badge without thinking about it. “Hey, shut up. Jane wants me to take you to a campsite in the woods.”

Without a backward glance, Elmore cut between two trees where an animal trail opened up.

“Girl, I’m going to rip you a new asshole, and then make you beg for more. I’m gonna…”

He stopped his threats when the barrel of the sheriff’s pistol poked him in the eye.

“If you want to make it to the camp with the ability to do all those things, Shut-The-Fuck-Up.”

He looked over at the girl and realized that she wasn’t drugged. Christ, that changed everything. Billy deserved a bullet, but he’d expected the girl to be stoned to the max.

They walked the last quarter mile in silence. Elmore could only hope that Billy would kill the girl with his lust. But as they walked along, images of the physical carnage she’d go through before dying haunted him. No. He couldn’t let it happen that way.

When the lean-to came into view, Billy broke from the trail at a run, towing his victim by the hair.

Elmore still hadn’t decided what he was going to do.

Billy pulled, tugged, and finally pushed the girl into the shelter, then began fumbling with his pants.

Inside, light leaked through layers of branches. Exhausted, Ellen fell to her knees, glad to get off her cut and bruised feet, but terrified of what was to come. There was only one way in or out. She scanned the tiny space for anything she might use as a weapon. Nothing. On top of a pile of stones there was a small notebook and pen pushed down into the top of a strange looking hat, nothing more.

Elmore watched the scene unfold with a morbid fascination. Billy, pants down around his ankles, obviously excited, duck walked into the tiny shelter. He pulled his gun out and checked the clip again.

Billy charged in like a raging bull and pushed her onto her back, knocked her legs apart, and was reaching for her underwear when she struck.
 

Holding the pen like a knife so the end came out the bottom of her fist, Ellen slammed it into his left cheek. She was aiming for his temple. The tip punctured his skin, entering his mouth just forward of his rear molar. With a roar, he reached up to grab her hand but she had already released her grip.
 

With a scream, she pushed Billy onto his side, climbed over him, and lurched out of the shelter.

Elmore was suddenly alert and raised his gun, sighting on the girl. Then Billy emerged, wild-eyed, blood streaming from his mouth.
 

Without a thought, Elmore shifted his weight, adjusted the angle, and pulled the trigger three times. Then he cautiously approached his victim. He nudged Billy with the toe of his boot, then bent down, and reached for a pulse. Dead. When he stood up, the girl had vanished into the woods.