Critical Incident, Chapter One

~I~

Captain E. A. West III held up a glass of cabernet and viewed the wine’s ruby color, then put his nose in the bowl-shaped glass and took in the fruit-forward bouquet of black cherry and tobacco layered with earthy cedar. He took a sip of the liquid fermentation and tasted the berries, noting as he swallowed a long fruity finish that ended in dry, toasted oak.

He set the glass down on the sticky bar top and wondered just when he had turned into a wine snob. He realized in a moment of self pity that his life had spiraled downward in sadness until reaching the point where the only joy in his life came from a glass of wine. He didn’t wonder when the downward spiral had begun, however. He knew exactly when it had started. The pain of his loss had begun eleven months ago, and now a glass of wine was the only thing that took away the hurt and allowed him, just for a moment, to forget the tragedy. The red liquid in this small glass was now the only thing in life that he cared about. He understood how people in grief easily lost themselves in alcohol. It was an unhealthy addiction for any profession, but especially damaging in his line of work. But right now, he didn’t care.

Captain West was a pilot. Not just a private pilot, the kind who spends weekends flittering around the skies in a 1950’s Piper Warrior, no, Captain West was a pilot at the top of the flight ladder. He was an airline pilot, a captain at Liberty Air; the most successful airline in the United States. But his success wasn’t enough to soften the hard edge of his mood; it wasn’t enough to give him a reason to be happy.

He was tired. Tired of nights spent in endless sterile hotel rooms, where the walls only reflected his grieving sobs, never absorbing or assuaging his pain. He hated the hotels, with their lifeless rooms, their bland restaurants and their dark lounges with their sticky, wooden bar tops and leather stools that smelled of stale beer and smoke. Hotel bars were like a repository for all the pathetic, hopeless, and unreachable dreams of sad and lonely people. The top of the bar could never truly be cleaned of the lurid stickiness left by dreams that had been forever cast away.

The pilot ran a hand through his dark hair and exhaled a long sigh. He pondered this life he had chosen. People around him admired his lucrative profession while they knew nothing of the real airline life. They saw the life of an airline pilot as one of glamour, filled with exotic travel and beautiful women. He knew the truth: A life of being constantly on the road. The hotels were always the same: Disinfected cookie cutter rooms filled with two double beds and small TV’s with remotes that had their battery covers missing and never worked; tiny bathrooms with thin towels that smelled of bleach; restaurants off of every hotel lobby that served the same bland menu of buffalo wings, chicken Caesar salads, burgers; and of course, the dark smelly lounges showcasing their particular variation of the ever-present sticky wooden bar.

Airline pilots lived two lives, actually; one at home where the real living was done, and one on the road, where their real lives ceased, placed on hold in kind of a suspended animation until returning home. An airline pilot’s real life was at home. On the road, the layovers played out like scenes from the movie Groundhog Day, repeating the same way over and over again until the trip ended and the pilot returned to real life. And Captain West’s real life had been shattered.

The income, people would say of airline pilots. What a great income! They didn’t understand. What good was making two hundred thousand dollars a year when your wife was dead?

Captain West sipped the 1999 Franciscan Oakville Estate and swirled it in his mouth, feeling the velvet smoothness of the black cherries scented with wood and tobacco. The wine would do.

“So what’ll it be for dinner, gonna go with the steak?” the bartender asked as he approached. He was a portly fellow wearing a white shirt with a plain black tie that surrounded a thick neck that bulged too much to allow him to button the top button. His cheeks were ruddy and peeling, as if he’d sampled from more than a few liquor bottles late at night when the bar was closed. His name tag said Dominic.

“Yea, I’m gonna splurge tonight. Give me the prime Kansas City strip with grilled veggies and béarnaise on the side.”

“Good choice. Coming right up,” the bartender smiled woodenly, and turned to punch some keys on the register.

West turned on his stool and surveyed the bar with eyes the color of polished steel. It was early, only five thirty, and there was just a smattering of people inside. A sweaty businessman sat several stools down working on his third whiskey on the rocks, trying to forget another day of failed sales pitches. A young couple sat in a booth near the door trying to avoid the light as if they were on some hidden tryst, or maybe they were on their honeymoon and this place was all they could afford.

Captain West turned back to his glass of cab and watched in the mirror behind the bar as another Liberty flight crew checked in at the registration desk out in the lobby. It was Bob Hargrove, an older Captain West recognized from Dallas, and a female first officer he didn’t know. Then, something else caught his eye. A woman walked into the lounge, stopped, and surveyed the place. She approached and sat next to him at the bar.

“A glass of your house cabernet,” she said to Dominic.

Bold move, the pilot thought: Sitting down in a hotel bar next to a stranger.

She was attractive, West noted, wearing low cut jeans and a pink striped oxford shirt that was not tucked in. She looked comfortable in her casual attire, but exhibited a self-assured confidence that was absent in most of the flight attendants he worked with. Trey caught a whiff of Chanel No. 5. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, but didn’t seem to be trying to dress younger. West caught himself staring. “Try the Franciscan Oakville Estate,” he said with a smile, holding up his own glass. Then he turned back to look straight ahead. He suddenly felt stupid. He didn’t want her to think he was hitting on her.

“Thank you,” she smiled back, and nodded to the bartender who took down a glass from overhead and poured from the open bottle behind the bar.

Several minutes passed in silence.

“On business?” she suddenly asked, turning to West.

“Yea.” He didn’t want to be any more specific. He never volunteered his line of work while at the bar. People sometimes freaked out when they found an airline pilot drinking in the bar. For some reason, they immediately assumed he was going to be flying an aircraft in the next 30 minutes. They never understood that he had fourteen hours off before returning to duty. “And you?”

“Business,” she replied.

They both went back to their glasses and sat quietly for awhile. An NBA game was playing on the TV above the bar, but for some reason the sound was turned down.

The woman spoke again. “This is a nice cab,” she acknowledged, holding up her glass.

“I think so,” West replied. “I try not to be a wine snob, especially when California wine is so ridiculously expensive, but I like it when you can find a good one that’s not outrageously priced.”

“Six bucks a glass? I’d call that outrageous!”

Then she laughed, and he knew she was kidding with that last remark. He didn’t want to tell her that his glass was only two bucks; the Liberty Airline flight crew discount.

“Sarah Collins,” she introduced herself, extending her hand.

“Trey West.”

They shook.

The bartender had disappeared and now came out with a sizzling steak that he set in front of the pilot. He also set another plate in front of the woman; a large wedge of iceberg lettuce drizzled in Roquefort dressing and sprinkled with extra blue cheese.”

“Wow, that’s great service,” West laughed at her, acknowledging her salad. “I never even saw your order anything.”

“It’s easy for Dominic when I’m in here every week. He knows to bring me my usual.”

“I see. You’re here every week. What kind of business are you in?”

“Security. You?”

“Aviation.”

“Ah. You must be an airline pilot.”

He was shocked. “How did you know that?”

“I see it all the time. I know that the crews who fly for Liberty overnight here. So I’m guessing that’s who you’re with. Am I right?”

“Right on the money. You have me at a disadvantage, then. You’re in security? You must be a detective!”

She laughed. “I am, as a matter of fact. Well, I was, anyway. Precinct 3, Fort Worth Police Department. I’m on a sabbatical from that right now. I’m a FAM.”

“No kidding!” Trey knew the acronym right away. Federal Air Marshall. He had FAM’s flying regularly on his flights, but he could not recall having ever seen one this attractive. She was petite, probably no more than five four and a hundred and five pounds, but he guessed from her shapely and buff figure that she could kick some tail when she wanted to. Her dark auburn hair was thick, and though he guessed she wore it back in conservative fashion when on duty, now it was down and informal, framing her face quite pleasantly.

“So, do you carry your weapon with you all the time?”

“Better believe it,” she smiled, patting the small black handbag that lay on the bar. “But that’s a secret just between us, Trey, okay?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do you mind if I call you Trey?”

West smiled. “Not at all. Anything but ‘Captain’.”

They ate their meals in silence for a few minutes. Trey loved beef, and this prime cut was tender and flavorful, though he barely noticed, for his attention was totally on the woman next to him. Sarah spoke again.

“Where’s your first officer?” she wondered.

“Upstairs, playing his electric guitar.”

“What?”

“Yep. He brings this tiny guitar with him that plugs into a little amp, and he practices on his overnights. He just started taking lessons, and he’s working on his homework assignment.”

“I see. He sounds like a real winner.”

“Well, he’s a little different. He’s got a corporate background; a wife and like eight kids, so he eats out of a food bag on his overnights to save money. He doesn’t drink either, so it’s just me down here tonight.”

“What about your three flight attendants?”

“Slam clicking, I guess.”

Her questioning look told Trey he needed to explain that slam clicking was the universal term for flight crews, who upon arriving at the hotel, went straight to their rooms, ordered room service, and stayed in.

“The term applies mostly to flight attendants,” he explained. “Pilots are cooped up all day in a tiny cockpit and we crave interaction with other humans when we get out. Flight attendants, on the other hand, spend their entire workday dealing with masses of people, and when they get off for the day, oftentimes they just wanted to be alone. In that case, when they get to the room, the door goes slam, click.”

“Wow that stinks,” Sarah noted. “I never realized it was like that.”

“It’s okay. You get used to it.” Trey turned back to his wine and was silent. Sarah noted a hint of sadness in him.

“You okay?”

“Sure. I’m fine.”

“Listen, if I’m interrupting or something, I understand. You seem a little down. If you want to be alone, just say the word.”

“Really, it’s okay. I am a little down, but it’s no big deal. So do you like being a FAM?”

“Nice changing of the subject, Trey! You don’t have to talk about it. Do I like being a FAM? Yeah, the money is pretty good, but it sure gets boring flying around the sky all day doing nothing. And the overnights are pretty weak.

“Tell me about it. So why did you leave the force to work as a FAM?”

“Oh, it was the whole 9/11 thing. I wanted to do my part to combat terrorism, and they needed volunteers for FAM’s, so I signed up. Plus, I was kind of frustrated with the detective thing. The Fort Worth Police Department wasn’t too keen on having a woman on the detective force. I think my selection for it was some affirmative action move to please someone higher up. They didn’t really take me seriously. That can really piss you off, you know?”

“I can imagine. I’ll bet you earned the detective job fair and square, though. Just look how you nailed me! But now you’ve given it all up for the luxurious life that the rest of us flight crews enjoy! Another evening in a lavish hotel!” His tone was condescending toward the place around him. He didn’t care if Dominic heard.

“Hey don’t knock it. At least you get put up here at the Radisson! Try staying across the street at the Hampton Inn!”

“You’re not staying here?”

“Are you kidding? Remember, I work for the government. I just come over here because there’s a bar and some food. Real food, not like the cereal and muffins in plastic they put out at breakfast across the street.”

“Well, at least your continental breakfast is free. Don’t let a pilot know that though, or you’ll have all of them over there trying to get free food!”

Sarah laughed to see Trey making fun of his fellow pilots and loosening up a bit. The ice broken, they ate and laughed and traded airline flight stories for almost an hour.

Trey was amazed when he realized how much time had passed.

“So, what about you?” Sarah’s emerald eyes were beginning to twinkle as she started on her second glass of wine.

“Me?”

“Yeah. Corporate background? Wife and like eight kids? I see that you’re not eating out of a food bag.” Sarah teased him by comparing him to the absent first officer while she playfully stabbed her fork at the last piece of steak on Trey’s plate. “And obviously you do drink.”

Trey laughed. “Yes, I do.”

He paused as if remembering back to a time that was now shrouded in fog. It seemed as if everything before his wife’s death was another lifetime ago.

“I was in the Air Force.”

“Oh really, what’d you fly?”

“Training mostly, T-37’s and T-38’s though I did get one tour in the F-15. That was cool. I did twelve years and then they kicked me out. Been at Liberty Air ever since.”

“F-15’s … pretty hot stuff.” Sarah motioned the bartender over. “Can we get a couple more glasses of that Franciscan?” The bartender began to pour.

“Put it on my tab,” Trey signaled to Dominic. Sarah began to protest, but relented when Trey told him of his airline discount.

“Wow, I wish the government gave me a perk like that.”

“Hey, you get to carry a gun when you fly.”

“Big deal. You can too, if you want to.”

“Oh, you mean the FFDO program?” Trey referred to the Federal Flight Deck Officer program, where airline pilots could go through training and then carry firearms and wear them in the cockpit when working a flight. “No thanks. That program is too much of a pain in the butt right now. If I could do biannual re-qualifying at home in San Antonio, I might do it, but right now you can’t and it’s just too much of a hassle. Besides, why do I need a gun when I’ve got you onboard?”

Sarah responded by holding up her glass in a toast. “Touché!”

Trey responded with a laugh. “Actually, Sarah, I used to be in law enforcement just like you. I was in the FBI.”

Sarah almost spit out her wine from laughing so hard.

“Seriously, I was! I was in the FBI.” They were both laughing now. “I know, I don’t seem like a law enforcement officer. I know you guys can pick each other out of a crowd. I really was in the FBI, but I wasn’t actually an agent. It was years ago. I was a pilot for the Bureau, but I jumped at the chance to go to Air Force pilot training.”

“Well, here’s from one cop to another,” Sarah saluted, and they both swallowed the last of their second glasses.

“Are you married?”

The question seemed to return Trey to his somber mood. His gray eyes turned dark.

“No. I was, but my wife died.”

“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“That’s okay.”

“How long ago did she die? I’m sorry; it’s none of my business. If you don’t want to talk about it—”

“It’s okay,” Trey stopped her, and put his hand on her forearm. “She died in a rollover a year ago coming home from work. I was out on a trip when it happened.”

“My god. That must have been horrible. I am so sorry.” Sarah stopped, waiting to see if Trey wanted to talk anymore about it.

She was greeted with silence. She decided not to ask anymore.

Bob Hargrove, the older, white haired Captain Trey had seen earlier signing in at the desk, walked into the bar. Tanned and leathery from life on a ranch, he was wearing a western shirt with pearl snaps over a gut that had seen way too many beers. His horse hair belt and rodeo buckle held up double knit polyester western slacks over black boots that were as pointy as an Indian spearhead. Trey laughed at the odor of freshly applied Old Spice. Good old Bob.

“Howdy, Trey. Sorry to hear about yer wife. You doin’ okay?” They hadn’t seen each other since the accident.

“Fine Bob. How about a drink.”

“Great. I’m ‘bout as parched as a buzzard in the Red Desert.” Bob’s east Texas accent hadn’t changed a bit. “I’m thirsty for one of their finest dollar beers,” he said in a loud voice.

Sarah looked puzzled until Trey explained. “Dollar beer. It’s our airline discount. Bud or Bud Light on draft for a buck. Oh, I’m sorry,” Trey quickly turned back to Bob. “Bob, this is Sarah Collins. Sarah, Bob Hargrove.”

“Nice to meet you, Bob.”

“The pleasure’s all mine little lady,” he said. “Where you based?”

Sarah blushed.

“She’s not a flight attendant, Bob. She’s actually an Air Marshall.”

“Well bust my britches, darlin’. Yer ‘bout the purdiest FAM I ever laid eyes on!”

“Thanks Bob. You must be from East Texas.” Before he could be hurt by her remark, she added, “I live in Forth Worth.”

“Gawl darn accent agin, ain’t it?”

They all laughed.

“Bob, where’s your FO?”

“She’s slam clicking. I think she’s on the—” It was his turn to blush. “Sorry Sarah. I didn’t mean it to come out like that.”

“Quite alright, Bob. I’m in law enforcement, remember. I’m used to that kind of talk. Pretty good with acronyms too, but I don’t know FO. What’s that for?”

“Sorry, Sarah,” Trey answered. “It’s always the same with us pilots; always using acronyms. FO is short for First Officer.”

“Got it. It’s the same way in law enforcement. Not to worry. I’ll get your lingo down!”

Trey laughed.

The three of them talked for another hour. Sarah and Trey watched as Bob consumed about five dollar beers to their one glass of wine.

“How ‘bout I buy you both a round?” Bob offered.

“Thanks, Bob, but I’ll have to pass,” Trey said with a weak smile as he held up his third glass. “I have a pretty early go tomorrow, and two is usually my limit. I probably need to hit the hay.”

“Me, too,” Sarah chimed in unexpectedly. “Bob, it was nice meeting you.”

“Suit yerselves, lightweights!”

Trey threw forty dollars on the bar, enough to cover his and Sarah’s tabs for dinner and drinks. “My treat,” he told her.

She started to protest again, but knew she was fighting a losing battle.

“Thanks.”

The two of them said goodnight to Bob and walked out of the lounge into the hotel lobby. Trey suddenly felt awkward. He didn’t know how to say goodbye, and realized he didn’t want to. Sarah saved him the trouble of initiating it.

“Trey, it was great to meet you.” Sarah extended her hand.

“Nice meeting you, too. Seriously, thanks for the conversation. You turned an otherwise boring evening into a lot of fun.”

“I enjoyed it as well. Maybe we’ll fly together some time.”

“That would be great. Listen; do you want me to walk you back over to the Hampster?”

“The what?”

“The Hampton Inn. We airline people call it the Hampster. There’s one in Oakland where a lot of commuters stay. It’s like a zoo, or maybe a cage.”

Sarah laughed. “I see. No, you don’t have to do that. Thanks for the offer, but I can manage. I do have protection, you know.” She patted her little black purse.

“Oh yeah, I forgot about that.”

They walked through the lobby together until the front door. “Goodnight Sarah.”

“You have a great night,” she answered, and squeezed his arm.

“Bye.” Trey watched her pass through the revolving doors and out into the night. In seconds, she was gone.

As he walked back to his room, Trey thought of her dark hair and bright eyes. He still felt her touch on his arm. He was surprised to find himself attracted to another woman. It was a feeling that had been totally absent for the last eleven months. The Chanel perfume lingered in his nostrils for a long time.

After a shower, Trey settled into bed under a big down comforter. He was glad the hotels were going to the more comfortable pillow-top beds. He felt weary, as if unloading a little bit about his wife’s death had drained all his strength. He heard female voices out in the hall. They were the p.m. crewmembers, just getting to the hotel. He closed his eyes. He was surprised that instead of his wife’s face, his last thoughts were for a petite, dark haired FAM with a twinkle in her eye.

Trey slept, and never heard the activity out in the hall, where hours later, a flight attendant returning from the bar found a very inebriated girl sitting on the floor in the third floor hallway. The flight attendant helped the drunkenly incoherent girl into her own room with a plan of calling down to the front desk for assistance. It was the last mistake the flight attendant ever made.

Critical Incident, Prologue

~Prologue~

Corinne West pulled away from the Starbucks drive-up window with her sugar-free vanilla latte and turned westward, away from Interstate 35. Rather than continue on the crowded Interstate through San Marcos to the Texas State Capitol, at this point in her daily routine she always left the freeway for the winding back roads of the Texas Hill Country. She liked the way the rural journey relaxed her in preparation for another grueling day of investment banking at Evans and White, the small Austin firm where she worked.

Though it happened rarely, today Corinne was wondering if giving up her cushy flight attendant job for a finance career had been the right move. Slinging drinks as a sky goddess took a lot less brain power and produced a lot less stress than trying to save a dying dot-com corporation. But, she admitted, she liked the prestige that came with being a thirty year-old female power-broker in the male dominated world of high finance. That prestige hadn’t come from her striking good looks, however—she was just plain good at it. The only thing she missed from the airline job was the travel, and that wasn’t really gone—her husband was still in the business; an airline pilot with Liberty Air. She had all the free travel she wanted.

Corinne raced west down the winding Rural Route 12 in her Solstice convertible, slowed through the tiny hamlet of Wimberley, and then resumed her course northward. Her auburn hair jostled in the cool spring breeze that swirled around the open car. She loved the rush of the wind and for the thousandth time thanked her husband Trey out loud for giving her the convertible for her 30th birthday. She hugged the curves as the sun began peeking over the live oaks along the east side of the road. The brightening sky began to reveal reds and blues in the fields of Bluebonnets and Indian paintbrush that splashed the roadside. Corinne took in a deep breath and savored the cool, fragrant air. She couldn’t help but smile. She loved mornings like this.

Fifteen miles north of Wimberley, rounding another curve on a road that saw sparse traffic this early in the morning, Corinne was a little startled to see a petite young woman in a white blouse and flowered skirt standing in the middle of the road trying to flag her down. Corinne downshifted and slowed as she took in the scene. Off to the side of the road was the woman’s beat up gold Chrysler, hood up, steam pouring out from the radiator. The woman was obviously in trouble. Corinne never usually stopped for hitchhikers, but this was different; the woman was alone and in trouble. Corinne could imagine herself in a similar situation. She pulled over and watched in her left side mirror as the woman ran up to her car.

“Thanks for stopping,” the stranded motorist panted, a little out of breath. “Daddy’s gonna be mad if I don’t get home soon with these groceries!”

The girl had short dark curls and was in her mid-twenties. She was wearing sandals, several gaudy necklaces and hemp string bracelets, and had rings on all fingers. She had a purse on her right shoulder that looked like it had been made from an old pair of jeans. Corinne thought the white peasant shirt made the girl look like one of those tree hugging granola types. She was probably a student at Texas State.

“My car overheated on the way back from picking up some stuff at the store. Could give me a lift? I live just a few miles up the road. Please?”

“Sure, I’m headed that way. Hop in.” Corinne leaned over and opened the passenger door as the woman ran back to her car, and then returned with a bag of groceries that she threw on the floorboards as she hopped in. As soon as the girl had her seat belt on, Corinne headed out.

“I can’t thank you enough,” the girl gushed with relief. “There’s not a lot of traffic on the road this early, and even less chance of seeing a woman driver. I didn’t want to have to ride with a strange man, but I wasn’t sure I’d have a choice. I’m so glad you stopped! By the way, I’m Summer. Summer Wayne.”

The girl smiled as she spoke, and then reached out and patted Corinne’s arm. Corinne couldn’t help but smile. She relaxed a little. The poor girl was so innocent!

“Corinne West.” Corinne offered her hand, but the girl just looked out the right side of the car and didn’t take it. Corinne turned to concentrate on the shadowy road.

“Gosh, I just can’t thank you enough,” Summer blurted out again. “This is so gonna help me out.” She had a distant look in her eye and a half-smile on her smooth face, as is she was thinking about something else.

“I’m just glad I could help.” Corinne thought the girl looked as if she had been smoking pot in the last few hours. She seemed a little out of it. “If I had been you, though,” Corinne added, “I probably would have just stayed in my car and used my cell phone to call for help.”

“Oh, I don’t own a cell phone.”

Corinne couldn’t think of anyone who didn’t own a cell phone. She guessed the woman to be pretty financially strapped, and her suspicion was confirmed when, about ten miles after picking the girl up, the girl directed Corinne to turn left down a two-track dirt road where, a few hundred yards from the road, lay what looked like an abandoned trailer.

“Here we are,” the girl said happily.

The house didn’t even look lived in. Live oak limbs hung low over the dilapidated structure, and the rusty metal roof was covered in leaves and debris. One of the windows in the trailer was broken out, and the grass surrounding the place was mostly weeds, very overgrown. If not for the late model F-250 parked by the trailer, Corinne would have guessed the place to be deserted.

“Thanks again for the ride,” Summer gushed. “Let me pay you for your trouble.” She fumbled for some money in her denim purse.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. I’m just glad to have been able to help—”

Corinne was staring down the barrel of a large caliber handgun that had come from the girl’s purse.

“Turn the fuckin’ car off and get out. Slowly.”

“Okay, sure, anything you say. I’ve got money, whatever you want, just take it.” Corinne felt a knot in her stomach, felt the saliva disappear from her mouth. She was scared.

“Get out of the car,” the girl said again. “Do it slowly. Don’t try to run. My daddy has a high-powered rifle aimed at you from inside the trailer, so if you try to run you’re dead meat.” Summer’s voice sounded cold, calculated. All trace of innocence was gone. “Get out,” she screamed, and waved the gun toward the driver’s door.

“Okay, okay, take it easy.” Corinne slowly got out while staring at the broken window in the trailer. She didn’t see anyone in the darkness behind the jagged glass, but she couldn’t take any chances. She tried to swallow, but her mouth felt filled with cotton. This girl probably just wants my money, Corinne thought, trying to reassure herself. She tried to calm down as the girl came around from the other side of the Solstice.

“Now head for the trailer.”

Corinne felt the gun pointed at her back as she walked quickly to the dilapidated shack. Her mind was racing. She thought briefly about turning on the girl, but the hippie was hanging back just far enough so that Corinne would never reach the gun before the first shot went off. Corinne chose to obey the girl for now.

“Don’t shoot, Daddy,” Summer shouted toward the window. “We’re comin’ in.”

The door to the trailer was unlocked. Corinne opened the door and stepped inside. The gloom, rot and stench almost overpowered her.

“Keep moving,” the girl snarled behind her.

As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, Corinne saw that they were in a living room. The place was a mess. The furniture looked twenty years old, mildewed and rotted, and it looked like wild animals were nesting in the stuffing. There was trash and filth everywhere. She didn’t see the girl’s daddy.

“Left, down the hall,” Summer motioned with the barrel of the gun.

Corinne walked slowly down the hall, past a small bathroom that reeked of sewage. Glancing in, she saw that something had stained the toilet brown, and the vinyl floor was curling up in all the corners. A shower curtain covered with gray mildew hung halfway off of a plastic rod.

When Corinne entered the bedroom, her heart stopped. It was no bedroom. There was a bed in it, but it was obviously not used for sleeping. Apparently, the woman behind her had no intention of letting her go unharmed. The bed was just a dirty mattress, but there were restraints at all four corners. On the floor along one wall was a leather satchel that had been unrolled to reveal knives and tools that Corinne guessed were for things that could only result in pain and death. Corinne had walked into a torture chamber.

“Keep moving,” the girl ordered, and jabbed Corinne in the back with the tip of her weapon.

Corinne moved further into the bedroom, and began to understand what was in store for her. Her eyes began to tear up. “Please. Take the car. Take everything. Just don’t do this.” Corinne feared for her very life.

“Lie down on the bed on your back, and spread your arms and legs out toward the four corners. DO IT!”

Corinne turned to crawl up on the bed. She saw at its foot a strange dildo-like instrument that was mounted at the end of a shortened broom stick. Corinne’s mind formed a desperate plan. Even if it worked, she would still have to get past the man lurking somewhere in the trailer, but she was determined to go down fighting. Her hands shook with fear, but she knew she was going to die anyway, so it was now or never.

As she turned to sit on the bed, her right hand grasped the dildo apparatus and she whipped around and slashed at the girl’s hand holding the gun. The gun fired wildly as it flew out of the girl’s hand, slamming against the wall of the room and bouncing down somewhere on the floor.
Summer Wayne screamed in anger and pain. She started, just for a second, to go for the gun, but then stopped, realizing that she was going to have to fight her captive to keep her from escaping the room. She started shouting for her daddy, and her moment of inaction allowed Corinne another blow.

The broomstick cracked hard against the side of the girl’s head, and she staggered back in the direction the gun had gone. Corinne dropped the stick as she raced out of the room and down the hall to the front door of the trailer. She couldn’t breathe, expecting at any minute now to run squarely into the arms of the girl’s father. She reached the door unhindered, flung the door open and ran outside, screaming in the hopes that someone would hear her. She flew to her car, waiting for the high-powered rifle shot. It didn’t come, and she began to think that the hippie girl had lied about her dad being in the trailer.

She didn’t even stop to open the door, just vaulted into the driver’s seat of the convertible. Oh God. Corinne didn’t have her car keys; Summer must have taken them from the car.

Corinne was functioning on pure adrenaline. She shoved open the driver’s door and rolled out onto the ground beside the car and, in the blink of an eye, pulled out the hide-a-key that was stuck to the frame underneath. She watched the door to the trailer as she fumbled to get the key out of the metal box. Summer didn’t appear. Maybe I killed her, Corinne thought as she got the spare key out, tossed the metal box aside, opened the door to her Solstice and dove in. She frantically tried to get the key into the ignition. She couldn’t get it; her hands were shaking violently. She breathed for what felt like the first time as the car finally roared to life. Then her heart froze. Summer came staggering out of the trailer with the gun, blood running down the side of her head.

“Stop, you bitch!”

Corinne stomped the gas pedal and spun the wheel, and the car pulled a hard one-eighty, spitting dirt and grass as it roared around and headed back toward the highway. Corinne heard one shot from the pistol, but nothing hit the car. As she tore down the path, she saw in her rearview mirror her captor going for the pickup parked at the trailer. Before Corinne could round the curve she saw the pickup racing after her.

Out onto RR 12 she raced, and without thinking, turned right, toward home. Had she gone left, ten miles down the road she’d have reached Dripping Springs. But, her rush of adrenaline was wearing off, and she couldn’t think straight. She began to scream, driving with reckless abandon. She peeled down the asphalt, the pickup right on her bumper. She heard no more shots, and for a second, wondered why. She raced down the highway, her heart beating as fast as her car was going. She couldn’t see ahead because of the blinding glare of the sun as it rose over the trees. She realized then that Summer probably couldn’t see well enough to shoot at her because of the glare.

“Oh, God,” she prayed, “please help me. Let me see Trey again.” She tried to shield the sun’s glare with one hand and ended up in the gravel on the shoulder of the road. Lurching back on the roadway, she changed her prayer, hoping to see another car, any car, from which she might be able to get help. Behind her, the crazy hippie woman was right on her tail in the beat up 4x4.

A car!

Corinne began to feel she might be saved, and then her hope was overcome by terror. The car she had spotted and started to slow down for was the gold Chrysler belonging to Summer Wayne. Its hood was still up, but the steam that the girl had conjured up to fake car trouble had long since dissipated.

Corinne had already started to pull over before realizing whose car it was. When she recognized it, she panicked. She jerked the wheel away from the disabled car that had originally lured her into this deadly trap. Corinne looked back and saw that her pursuer was as close as ever. Corinne thought she could see the woman laughing. She guessed the woman had recognized Corinne’s attempt to get help from the abandoned Chrysler. Corinne was mortified by the pure evil in the woman chasing her. She forgot to look where she was going.

There was a sudden thump under Corinne’s car. It was a reflector pole the Solstice took out as it missed the left hand curve and ran off the right side edge of the road. Several more thumps came in the next instant as Corinne fought to regain control of the car. She jerked the wheel back to the left, and the front tires clawed at the pavement while the rear tires began to slip on the gravel edge. The car was sliding sideways!

In the next instant, Corinne found her mind clear, and a single thought was present. Trey had always teased her that a convertible was not safe to drive; but God how she loved this car.
As that thought lingered, the car flipped, and rolled six times before coming to rest upside down in the middle of the road. Corinne wasn’t under it; she had been thrown from the car and now lay in the road about ninety feet back from where the car came to rest.

Summer Wayne slowed when she saw the car going over, and now braked as she pulled up alongside the broken body of her prey. She saw the impossibly twisted neck and the blood and brain matter. “Please don’t be mad, Daddy,” she cried aloud, “I didn’t mean for her to get away.” Her look of unhappiness changed into a wicked grin as she focused on the crumpled woman in the road. “You should be happy,” she cried at her victim as she passed, “you died a lot quicker than if I’d gotten my way with you.”

She started to spit on the girl, and then stopped herself. “Nah, nah, nah, you won’t get me to leave evidence that easily.” The girl sped up, steered around the overturned Solstice that sat smoldering and steaming as fluids ran onto the blacktop, and then accelerated off into the sunrise, toward Wimberley.

“It’s okay Daddy,” Summer laughed out loud as she pulled off the short brown wig and stuffed it into the glove box. “There’ll be plenty more girls for you to have your way with.” And she was gone.

Sword and Sorcery

Under a steaming pile of entrails a body moved. Battered and bloodied, it was all but obscured by the rotting carcasses until it shoved off the refuse of the dead and struggled to stand.

One soldier had escaped the slaughter. Rising, the hired mercenary batted away the buzzards that sought to feast on the dead flesh piled around him. Looking out over the battlefield, the soldier saw naught but stillness; nothing but dust and corpses, capped by shimmering waves of heat on the brown stained sands. A putrid sweetness touched his nostrils. The soldier realized he had been left for dead.

Hired to slay the reptilian Grieve, he had been betrayed by the human commanders that had employed him. It was time for payback. The tall, dark-haired warrior brushed bits of blood and bone from his sweaty brow and turned steel-grey eyes westward toward the setting sun. "You will rue the day you left Eldaraan upon the field," he muttered, his voice low and sinister. He picked up his hand-and-a-half sword along with a discarded enemy axe that went on his belt, and set off to follow the tracks of the horses that had fled the killing fields. Stepping over the bodies of the reptilian enemy that had died in the fight, he left their corpses in the sand and began tracking his new enemy, the humans who had abandoned him.

They were the Midlorians.

They had won a great battle, vanquishing their life-long enemy the Grieve. Yet in doing so, they had unknowingly made an even greater enemy, one whose wrath would equal that of the Gods themselves. The wrath of Eldaraan was about to fall upon them, and they would come to rue the day they had betrayed and abandoned the greatest mercenary of Landsward.