"Helen, this is Art… Is Bill there?"
"Hi, Bill, this is Art… yeah, just fine. Listen, what did Kathy have to say when you showed up with your shovel." He chuckled nervously, anxiously.
"She what?" Art's eyes widened, his lower jaw dropped to his chin. His cheeks flushed with anger. "You wouldn't be pulling my leg, now would you Bill…? This isn't a practical joke, is it…? A what?" Art pounded his forehead with his fist, his upper jaw worked against his lower one, and his face graduated from a deep red to a pale pink, and then snow white, and finally slate gray without ever once hitting its normal complexion. Arms swinging at his sides, he took yard-long steps back to the Dodge and slammed the door, never turning to stare at a bewildered Buddy who stepped on the accelerator. The squealed out of the parking lot.
When they reached the four-way stop at the intersection, Buddy turned to his partner. "What's eatin' ya?" He watched Art unroll a fresh pack of Rolaids and slip not one, but two into his mouth. "Jesus, Art, you look like you're about to faint. What the hell is it? We been pals a long time, if there's something…"
Art chomped on the chalky discs, his lips stained white with alkaline.
On a lighter note, Buddy chuckled, "How did Kathy like her garden?"
"Kathy never got her garden." Art stared straight ahead, his eyes squinting, his mind plotting, thinking.
"What?" They sped through the intersection.
"Talked to Bill," started Art, crossing his arms over his back of a motorcycle.
"That doesn't sound like Kathy to me!" Buddy paused, then rested his hand on Art's shoulder conjolingly. "Hey, pal. We gotta learn to expect that kinda stuff. You know, we spend a lot of time away from home… can't expect the little woman to sit home and watch TV all the time."
"Something's wrong, Buddy. Why, just last night she…" He couldn't talk about it. Oh, God, but with a young boy! How could he live it down? How long had she been cheating behind his back? No, that wasn't like Kathy; he knew better…
"Turn around, Buddy. We're going back to the station. Something's wrong with Kathy. I think she's been kidnapped."
"Kidnapped?" Buddy's forehead furrowed. "Why the hell would anybody want to kidnap Kathy?"
"I don't know, but somebody just did," Art's jaws worked up and down on the Rolaids, titillating, pulverizing. He swallowed dryly, gulped and pointed. "Back to the station we're going back to the station."
The blue unmarked Dodge made a hazardous U-turn in the middle of Elston where young people lined the streets, sitting on hoods of cars, cross-legged on stoops… anywhere that would accommodate them. The rock concert crowd had come to town for the weekend.
Art stared at them, cursing, muttering to himself. Kneading his fists, he slapped them into the padded dashboard, but he wasn't certain if he was cursing Kathy or his work. And he didn't know which hunch to follow. The ping-pong game going on his head could not determine a winner of his dilemma. Kathy… work… Kathy… work. Then it hit! Kathy… Kathy was the pigeon! "Take the heat off… a patsy…" That was it! Oh, Jesus!
Buddy wouldn't believe it, refused to. "Naw. She's probably just out for the afternoon. Wait a couple more hours… till one or two maybe. Then start worrying. And for Chrissakes, Art, put those Rolaids away!"
Art grunted and stuffed the wrapper into his shirt pocket. "Okay, but I want to head back to the office to see if they've picked up the trail on Jim's girl friend. What was her name again, Lydia?"
"Good thinkin', Art. I have a feeling she's going to lead us to the scene, all right."
The morning sun filtered through the pine boughs, creating shimmers of moving light on the mattress where Kathy slept. From a high bough a blue jay scolded. All lay in peaceful silence…
Then with an ear-drum shattering rumble, the valley below transformed into an electrified jungle of sound. Someone had plugged in the amplifiers that would turn the primeval setting of Olson's farm into a galvanized roar of activity. The rock concert was starting.
Kathy jumped to her feet, drawing the remnants of her nearly buttonless cotton sundress over her near naked body, and stepped over Lydia's recumbent form, her knees drawn up to her chest with her raven hair spilling over her shoulders. Kathy shuddered, remembering the night before, then pushing the dark memories aside, stumbled to the window, dirty and broken that overlooked the green valley below. Staring saucer-eyed, she watched mesmerically as waves of people, like pulsating, vibrating polka dots, drifted over the wooded hills. On the march, they might have been the Chosen People following Moses, so driftless and wandering did they appear.
"The rock concert. O dear Lord!" muttered Kathy to herself, squinting back the tears. Art would be down there somewhere… probably already was milling around in the crowd, and here she was so close, yet so distant. These children, these diabolic children… she winced, wondering what perverted and disgusting things they'd planned for her that day. It hadn't been so painful with only Jim to cope with and placate, but Lydia. My God, Lydia! Her vile games, her beautiful body, her sneers: what would that girl do next? She seemed to hold the cards, held the power to pull the punches. Even Jim, as militant and austere as he was, couldn't hold a fig to Lydia's immature and prurient imagination. Kathy swallowed dryly, remembering the horrifying scene last night: Jim's stubby young cock fucking in and out of Lydia's tight rectum! And Kathy knew that if she did not get out of that cabin soon, that would be her fate. She'd rather die!
Somehow she had to get out of their evil grip that feasted on her screams and groans. Turning to mentally measure the distance from where she stood to the door, Kathy's eyes locked with Jim's. A cold shiver raced down her spine. How long had he been watching her? What was he thinking? Oh Art…! Oh save me, Art!
Down below in the valley, invisible to Kathy's naked eye, Robert roamed the grounds, watching the strangers filter over the hills, coming in hordes, carrying blankets, sleeping bags, and coolers with them. He moved slowly, his head pounding from last night's overdose of marijuana and whiskey. The young boy gritted his teeth and shook a clenched fist, staring at the cabin. Fuck you, Jim, he thought. You really think you're hot shit, don't you? Well, little stupid Robert is gonna get back at you for your insults. I promise you that!
Seething, the fourteen year old picked a spot on the hillside to the left of the stage where ten-foot speakers were being set up on either side. He watched the roadies, the equipment managers, plugging in the amplifiers, splicing wires, and tacking down cords. A wry smile crossed Robert's lips as he glared up at the silent cabin on the hill, and he chuckled to himself as he chewed on a blade of grass. He could make darned good use of those speakers, and he wouldn't need a tuner or any of the other fancy equipment that rock 'n roll bands used. What he wouldn't give for just five minutes of amplified time.
He pulled himself to his feet and neared the stage, patting the bulging pocket of his short-sleeved shirt. Grinning, he approached a young man with long hair and a cigarette dangling from his mouth.
"Hi!" greeted the roadie, kneeling down to adjust a screw on the complex tuner. "Great day, huh?"
"Yeah…" Robert faltered, wondering if he should even suggest it. For a second he stood there feeling young and stupid, and drew in a deep breath.
The young man turned and whispered. "Hey, man you got a joint by any chance? Jesus, there are so fuckin' many cops around here I'm paranoid as hell to light one up. Spent all last night on the road, coming in from Chicago. Did a gig there…" His eyes popped as he watched the young boy, who didn't look a day over fourteen, judging from the fuzz on his upper lip, delve into his shirt pocket and draw out a baggie of deep, rich gold pot.