Death, and Other Assorted Mayhem

It might have been the hiss of the sliding glass door that woke her a few minutes past midnight, or perhaps the rustle of the curtains being pushed aside. She’d remembered to latch the door, but the brick terrace was at ground level and the lock flimsy and easily forced. Or, perhaps it was the squeak of footsteps on the hardwood bedroom floor that woke her.

Whatever the cause, by the time Lynna Worthington was awake enough think about what to do, he was already on top of her and it was far too late.

There was a gun in the nightstand, a compact Glock 27 loaded with nine .40 caliber 165-grain Speer Gold Dot jacketed hollow-point bullets. She’d laughed when Steve gave it to her, grumbled at the long ago afternoon spent at the range learning to use it, protested that she’d never need to use it. She’d protested that Steve was the cop, not her. But he’d insisted, and in the end she’d acquiesced, as she usually did when he wanted something badly enough to argue about it, which was rarely. But tonight, the one time she really didneed the pistol, it might as well have been a hundred miles away.

She’d gone to bed early that night. Steve was working, the house was empty, and she had a headache. A migraine, really, but she’d not called it that, not wanted Steve to worry about her. He was a good man, the kind to dote on his wife, and she could only bear so much doting. Besides, the last thing he needed was to be worrying about her instead of doing his job. So, she’d been careful not to use the word “migraine”, and she’d waited until after he’d left for work to take her painkillers and curl up in bed.

And now, she was wide awake in the dead of night, heart racing, wondering if she’d live to see morning.

“Don’t make a sound, bitch,” the intruder growled in her ear. The words were thick with menace, but they seemed somehow far away, as though she was hearing them through a long piece of pipe.

The task of breathing, suddenly far more difficult than normal, occupied the largest share of her attention. His full weight lay across her five foot, hundred and twelve pound frame, and a meaty hand that smelled of gasoline and sweat and nicotine covered her nose and mouth.

“Don’t make a sound,” he growled again. “I have a knife.”

Those last four words penetrated her panic with the swiftness of a rifle shot. She froze beneath him, a low whimper escaping from somewhere deep inside her. The blade of the knife settled against the hollow at the base of her throat, the steel seeming to burn her pale skin.

He chuckled, the sound echoing in the preternatural stillness. It was a hungry, needful sound, cold and predatory, and it scared her even more than the weapon. He shifted his body, lifting some of the weight from her chest, but she dared not move. He smiled; his teeth gleamed in the dark, a malevolent parody of the Cheshire Cat.

“I’m going to take my hand away now,” he whispered in her ear, his voice pitched low and soft. Fetid breath blew across her cheek, a perversely intimate sensation that sent a shiver of fear slithering down her spine. “If you make a sound, if you move, I’m going to kill you. Do you understand me?”

She nodded, the tiniest of nods, conscious still of the razor-sharp steel digging into her skin. She felt flesh yield slightly beneath the blade, felt a single drop of blood well up and ooze down the side of her neck. Apparently, the nod was big enough, though, for he rolled off of her and the smothering hand left her face.

She drew in a deep, shuddering breath, her frantic eyes darting around the room before settling on him. He was tall, perhaps nearly as tall as Steve’s six-foot frame, and equally as broad. But where Steve’s bulk came from lean muscle, her attacker’s weight was softer, less toned. He wore black jeans and turtleneck, black leather gloves, and a black hooded mask that obscured his face. A pair of coal-black eyes stared out from beneath the hood, gleaming in the moonlight.

“What time does your husband get home, Mrs. Worthington?”

He asked the question as though his visit was a simple social engagement, as though nothing could be more mundane and ordinary. As though knife-wielding and masked midnight visitors were an everyday occurrence. Lynna’s heart pounded in her chest, feeling as though it might leap through her skin at any moment.

“I – How do you know my name?” The words came out halfway between a croak and a sob. The masked figure chuckled again, and Lynna shivered, suddenly conscious as if for the first time that only a nightgown of filmy nylon covered her. She suddenly felt intensely, impossibly, unbearably exposed and vulnerable. Her desperate eyes flicked toward the nightstand. The masked figure noticed the movement.

“Don’t try for the gun,” he said. “You’re not half fast enough.” He reached out a hand, grabbed a fistful of her hair in his fist. Strands of hair, honeyed blond and fine as cornsilk, spilled across the black leather and gleamed in the moonlight. He yanked them, tearing a whimper from her lips. “Now, when does Steve get home? Which shift is he working tonight?”

“He – ” She moistened her lips. “Ten to six.” The intruder could not have been aware of the toll that those few words took on her. When she was done speaking, she slumped back on the pillow, exhausted by the effort.

The intruder nodded. “Good, good. He and I have some – business– to conduct.” He’s going to kill Steve. She wasn’t sure where the
knowledge came from, but as soon as the words popped into her head, she knew she was right. The knowledge triggered another thought in Lynna Worthington’s mind: I need to warn Steve, and I need to survive. Whatever it takes. The intruder talked on, something about debts and obligations (he wants to kill my husband!), oblivious to the realization that had dawned in his captive’s mind.

“So we’re going to wait right here until Steve gets home.” Her attention returned to her captor’s voice. His eyes had gone shiny –with anticipation, she realized. “But don’t worry,” he said, reaching out a gloved hand to caress her cheek. “You and I can have a nice time while we’re waiting.” His hand moved lower, peeling back the blankets, coming to rest on the firm swell of her breast. “Nice for me, anyway.”

Her stomach heaved and the terror crashed through her, adding to the migraine which had come back with a vengeance. Bile rose in her throat, and tears welled up in the corners of her green eyes. She gulped air desperately, but the nausea was not appeased. In the next moment, she threw up, partially digested meatloaf and corn spraying her nightgown, her bedclothes, and him.

“Fuck!” He bellowed the epithet, recoiling from her. “You bitch!” He nearly fell off of her bed with the sudden movement. “Gawd-damn!”

She lay there, oblivious to the stream of profanity, oblivious to anything but the roiling of her stomach. When at last her heaves subsided, he was sitting on the edge of her bed. He’d wiped himself off with a towel from her bathroom, she saw, which now lay in a heap on the bed. Even through the mask, she could see the scowl on his face. “Sorry,” she choked out. “Migraine…nauseous…sorry.”

He grunted, muttered “fucking bitch” under his breath several times and, with a closed fist, struck three agonizing blows to her abdomen before his anger was spent. She gagged on pain and terror, struggling not to throw up again. He leaned forward, pressing his body against hers. She could feel his taut muscles and the strength in his massive frame.

“So,” he asked, his voice again becoming incongruously conversational, “whatever shall we do with you until your dear Steven arrives home?” His head was close enough to her face that she could feel the stubble on his cheeks. His gaze was fixed, with laser intensity, on the rise of her chest, which heaved with each gasping breath of air. “Whatever shall we do with you, Lynna?” he asked again. He knows my name. How does he know my name?

A single, sudden movement sent the bedclothes cascading to the floor. She made an inarticulate sound, but he was on her once more before she’d finished the breath. The ordinary sound of a rasping zipper split the air, and in that moment, Lynna knew with terrible certainty exactly what was about to happen to her.

On TV and in the movies, rape is often portrayed as something almost romantic, sensual, sexy. Sometimes, rape is even portrayed as the stuff of fantasies. But nobody who’s endured the real thing would ever describe it that way. The next hours held nothing even remotely sexy for Lynna – nothing at all, in fact, save choking fear and unbearable pain and the sickening sensation of his filth coating her body and, oh God, he was going to kill her and Steve…

Steve. That was her talisman, the lifeline she clung to. Steve, her husband. The love of her life. And this man, when he was done destroying her, wanted to destroy Steve. She had to stop him. But to do that, she had to survive. She had to bide her time, until the right moment, until she could do something to save Steve…and herself.

* * * * *

Her chance came close to dawn, when the first rays of sun were flickering over the horizon. Once again, her assailant was atop her. She’d lost track of how many times he’d brutalized her, lost track of everything but the sea of pain and the stink of him on her skin and the ethereal image of Steve that wavered and flickered in her mind while she struggled to cling to her sanity.

Her attacker’s massive weight bore down on her hips until she was sure the bones would snap beneath the onslaught, when she heard something metallic hit the floor. She couldn’t see what he’d dropped –his knife?- but the man cursed and reached for it. The weight atop her pelvis eased for just a moment. A moment was all she needed.

As he stood back up with the knife in his hand, she squirmed, coiling her legs up close to her body. The shift in position gave her the leverage she needed. As he climbed back onto the bed, she thrust her legs out, kicking with all the force she could manage. The kick caught him squarely between his legs, and he tumbled to the floor, groaning and cursing.

She flew from the bed, sprinted down the hall, heedless of the fact that she was naked, heedless of anything but her own desperation. With trembling hands she snatched up the cordless phone in the kitchen, dialed 9-1-1 with shaking fingers.

“Jefferson County Sheriff’s dispatch, what is the nature of your emergency?”

“This is. Lynna Worthington.” The words were punctuated by frantic gasping breaths. “My husband is. Lieutenant Steven. Worthington. There’s a man in my –”

The blow struck her in the midsection, knocking her to the floor and sending the phone tumbling into the kitchen sink, where it landed halfway inside the garbage disposal chute. The masked man recovered from the tackle before she did, and pinned her to the floor with his knees. “You fucking bitch!” he screamed in her face, flecks of spittle spattering across her cheeks.

His hand rose, gaining impetus for the blow he landed across her left cheek. The force of it slammed her head into the floor, setting off a chorus of ringing in her ears. Again and again he hit her – first one side of her face, then the other – open-handed strikes that made her head spin and her stomach heave.

Sometime after the sixth blow, when Lynna hurt enough to wonder if perhaps death wouldn’t be a blessing after all, she felt the cold steel of the knife settle against her throat once more. She froze instantly, wary eyes watching her attacker, fighting to stay conscious, drawing upon a reserve of strength she hadn’t until that moment known she possessed.

“You fucking bitch, I’m going to make you pay for that little stunt.” Though she could hear the fury behind the words, his voice was frighteningly calm, frighteningly even. Those soft, measured words scared her far more than had the screamed obscenities. Lynna said a silent prayer, hoping that help would come before the masked man killed her.

“Where should I cut you first?” the man hissed. “Your arm? Your pretty face? Your tits?” He moved the knife as he talked, touching each part of her body in turn with the cold steel of the blade. Please, Steve, she thought. Please get here soon.She held his image in her mind, fixed it there and clung to it as though it could save her from drowning in the boundless sea of pain.

At last, he hauled her to her feet, using a fat handful of her hair to lift her. She screamed, but her attacker only laughed again. He set the knife down out of her reach and unzipped his pants once more. “Maybe you want some more of this, instead,” he said, rubbing himself against bruised and battered skin. The motion brought tears to her eyes and sent new flashes of pain through her body.

Summoning the last reserves of her strength, she twisted away from him. As she ran, back down the hallway, she heard his outraged bellow, and somehow she knew with desperate certainty that if he caught her again he’d kill her.

A hand clawed at her, fingers actually brushing against her skin but failing to find purchase. She ran, aware that her attacker was close – too close. She reached the bedroom five seconds ahead of him, had just enough time to snatch the pistol from the drawer and level it before he burst through it.

“Don’t move,” she said, her voice ragged but clear.

To her surprise, he laughed. “Are you really that stupid, bitch?” He leered at her through the mask. He took a step closer to her. “Go ahead. Shoot me.”

The gun wavered slightly in her hands, steadied again. She pulled the trigger. CLICK. Nothing. She pulled it again and again. CLICK. CLICK. CLICK. He chuckled, pointed to the floor. She saw pistol cartridges scattered around the bed. A sickening sensation settled in the pit of her stomach. Unless you do something, that inner voice told her, Steve will come home to find you dead. But what could she do?

Meanwhile, he was still laughing. “You can’t shoot me with an unloaded gun, bitch,” he said. “Now I guess it’s time to teach you a lesson.” He took a second step toward her, then a third. A few more feet and he’d have her.

In desperation, she drew her arm back and threw the pistol, flinging the weapon at him with all the force her aching body could muster. The steel slide of the gun struck her assailant squarely above the eye; she thought she heard the sound of bone cracking. He took a single stumbling step, but his foot came down on one of the scattered .40 caliber cartridges. It wasn’t much, a hunk of brass and lead, less than half an inch in diameter, but it was enough to upset his already precarious balance.

These things happened seemingly at the same moment: Her assailant fell to the floor, striking his skull a bone-cracking blow on the steel corner of the bed; the front door of the house exploded inward with a flood of uniformed police officers who stormed, guns drawn, down the hall; and Lynna’s last reserves of energy were finally exhausted.

As the sea of cops, led by Lieutenant Steven Worthington, poured into the bedroom, Lynna Worthington collapsed onto the floor in a dead faint.

* * * * *

When she awoke, she was wrapped in a dressing gown and a heavy quilt. Steve sat next to her, holding her hand and stroking her hair, while someone in a dark blue jumpsuit wrapped a bandage around her head. The man who’d terrorized and brutalized her was nowhere to be found, and for the first time since the attack began, Lynna felt safe. She smiled weakly at her husband, who looked as close to crying as she’d ever seen him.

“Did you get him?” Her voice was soft enough that she had to repeat the question a second time before he heard it. When he did, though, he nodded. “Oh, yeah, we got him,” he replied with grim satisfaction. Then he wrapped his arms tight around his wife. She grimaced and made a small pained sound, and he eased the bear hug considerably.

“Steve, he – will he – am I – ”

“Shh.” He knew what she was asking, and he held her gaze as he replied, even though the wounded look in her eyes tore him to pieces. “He’ll be spending a long time in jail,” he told her. “He won’t be able to hurt you any more.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks. “What he did…I thought I…I thought he was going to kill me,” she sobbed, the tears flowing freely now and soaking her husband’s shoulder. He held her close and let her cry.

Later, after the forensic team and paramedics and cops had left, after the hospital, where a white-coated nurse collected the forensic evidence that would seal the case against her attacker, when they were alone for the first time, she finally found the courage to ask the question Steve had been waiting for and dreading. “Who was he? Why did he do this?”

He took her hand in both of his, held it gently. “Are you sure you want to know?” he asked. His voice had a strange edge to it, one Lynna had never seen before. She wasn’t sure what it meant. Do I want to know?she asked herself. Do I, really? No, I don’t want to, but I have to. I have to know why.She nodded at Steve, who hesitated before speaking.

“His name is Jason Fitzhume,” he told her. “His brother Michael used to be a cop.”

Her eyes betrayed her surprise. “Why did he – ?”

“I had to arrest Michael,” Steve said softly, “three weeks ago. He was dirty. Stealing drugs and guns from the evidence room. Arresting pretty young women on made-up traffic charges and trading sex for freedom. Nasty stuff. Apparently, Jason was very close to his brother. When Michael went down, Jason blamed me.”

“So, he did all this to –”

“He said he wanted to hurt me as badly as I’d hurt him and his brother.” Still Steve’s voice was gentle, but she could hear the hard edge of anger roiling just below the surface. “I took what mattered most to him, and he wanted to take what mattered most to me.”

He studied her. “He didn’t, though, did he?” he asked after a moment.

She managed a wan smile through bruised and cracked lips. “No,” she said after a moment. “He –” She drew in a deep breath. “I’m battered, but not broken. And bruises can heal.” I can be whole again, she thought to herself, and in that moment the unspoken words became a promise she knew she could – and would – keep.

He squeezed her hand and she clung to him, the tears flowing again.

“Can we – ?” she asked at last.

“Hmm?”

“After the bandages come off, can we go to the range again?” Her voice was soft, tentative, and faintly ironic. “Next time I’d like to be able to do something more useful than throwing the gun.”

In spite of himself, he laughed. “You’ve got a deal.” He kissed her softly on the cheek to seal the deal. “You did good, sweetheart,” he whispered. “You did real good.” She squeezed his hand once more and he held her in his arms until she drifted off into restless sleep.

“You did real good,” he whispered again, and prayed she believed it.