"Jesus!" the roadie gasped. "I ain't seen any dope of that quality for a while. Gold, isn't it?"
Not sure what that meant, Robert nodded. Flooded with self confidence, he nudged the man's elbow. "Tell you what," he rasped. "I'll make a trade with you. Five minutes of speaker time for this lid."
"Hey? Sounds fair to me. What's the catch?"
Robert spilled out his plan behind a cupped hand.
"Far out!" the tee-shirted young man, laughed. "That's really far out! This is gonna be good, real good…!"
Not far away, mingling in the same crowd, Art stood with his feet slightly apart, his hands on his hips, surveying the woods around. Scornfully, he watched the young people spread out their sleeping bags and blankets, setting up for an afternoon of sunshine, music, and dope. Many of the young girls were already taking off their sweaters and blouses to lie in the sun in their tiny halters and bikini tops.
Art winced at the blaring sun and pulled the front bill of his golf hat down to protect his eyes. Somewhere he'd managed to loose his sunglasses last night. It had been a tough night – and all nighter. Three times he'd called home, expecting to hear Kathy's voice, tired and concerned. No answer. Twice he'd stopped by, but the house was just as she'd left it: no sign of struggle or protest. Everything was in its place. A puzzlement.
Art kicked at an ant hill on the ground and sent it flying, then wondered what had made him do such a thing. He shook his head, then bent over to pick up a bent stick, stripped the bark from it and threw it. A young girl winced, wondering who the stupid looking man was who was throwing sticks at her, finally surmising that it must be some kind of pervert out looking for little girls. There was always one of them in the crowd, if not, eight or ten. But Art didn't notice her scorn. His eyes were on the hill, on a dark looking shadow that looked like a cabin.
His eyes lit up! That must be it. They'd had reports that Lydia, who'd been followed for the past eighteen hours, had headed off the main path leading to the Olson's farm, supposedly on her way to a hide-out. Squinting to sharpen his focus, his head angled out from his shoulders, and his lips pooched out in concentration. Hot damn! He snapped his fingers. That had to be it.
Kathy, oh dear sweet Kathy! His chin fell to his chest and slowly shook his head back and forth. What had they done to her? Had they forced her to take some kind of dope? Had they threatened her with knives? Rape… oh my God, had they raped her? Who was in that cabin holding her hostage? These and a thousand other unanswerable questions flooded Art McGuire's mind as the first of the rock group bands warmed up for a "killer of a show". He gritted his teeth and raced off for the unmarked Dodge to get his bullhorn. It was time for attack.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Inside of the dust stuffy cabin, Jim, Lydia, and Mark were all growing impatient. They watched with envy the crowd filling the valley, wishing that they, too, could be down there listening to the music, drinking beer and smoking joints. They stared at each other and then back at Kathy.
Mark slumped against the wall, lifeless and worn; never having had a hangover before, he was convinced he was coming down with the flu. Gurgles and belches rumbled in his empty stomach and he took caution not to move too quickly, for fear last night's liquid dinner would become today's misery. He didn't have to stay, but he had his suspicions, especially after the way Jim had treated Robert, kicking him out like that. And it hadn't been fair, not a bit. After all the effort he'd gone through, he'd wait another couple of hours for his share of the dope.
"Well," sighed Lydia, with a grimace. "This is really a lot of fun, guys. We could sit and count each other's pubic hairs," she groaned with boredom.
"Hey, come on!" shot the blonde-haired leader. "You're the one who came in last night and pulled all your stunts, now just sit tight. If it's excitement you want, we still got a half lid of dope left. We could always give some to Mrs. McGuire here and watch her go crazy to fuck. Bet she'd like that…"
Kathy stiffened from her perch on the mattress. When would these children stop?
"We can't let her go until the connection is made," reasoned Jim, trying to placate his irascible girl friend. "Then, baby, it's fat city!"
"Yeah, well how long is that going to take?" pouted Lydia, sitting cross-legged drawing faces on the dusty floor with her index finger.
"Won't be long… here!" Jim threw her the plastic baggie half filled with dope. "Roll us a couple of numbers… it'll help pass the time."
Lydia obeyed, and handed a tightly rolled cigarette to Kathy who sat cowering in the corner. Kathy hesitated, then recalled the awful perversions of the night before, and accepted. It had not been so bad yesterday, she remembered; in fact the marijuana had had an alarmingly calming affect on her. Accepting it, Kathy inhaled deeply, letting the smoke swirl around her lungs as long as possible before blowing it out again; a strange feeling of peace and well-being came over her. She, oddly, was no longer frightened as she had been before, although it was obvious that she was in greater danger than ever. She was certain, though, through the drug she was taking, that nothing could touch her, nothing could harm her, and she was just as certain that, if she were threatened, she would have no desire to protect herself.
She was content simply to sit on the bed, staring at the mattress, counting the stripes that rippled across it. Even the music that filtered from the valley below took on a certain enjoyable rhythm, and she tapped her finger in time to it.
She heard her name called from somewhere outside, and although it was her husband, Art, it seemed to Kathy that it was the voice of the Angel Gabrielle, inviting her to enter a paradise here on earth. She noticed Lydia start at the sound of the voice; it seemed as loud to Kathy as a cannon shot – and then cup her hand to her ear as it was repeated. Kathy herself heard the words clearly, although they hardly registered. "Attention! Attention!" Art was bellowing. "You are surrounded by the police. We know that you are holding Kathy McGuire."
"What are we going to do?" spat Mark, with bloodshot eyes. A sinking feel, very real and very painful, welled in his stomach. He clasped his hand over his mouth, his cheeks reddening, and held his breath until the warmness subsided.
"Look!" hissed Jim, holding up his hand. "He has no idea who's in here holding his wife… it could be Chuck and his dealer friends, or a bunch of ladies at a lunch club. He's just guessing, he doesn't know. All we can do is fake him out. Just lay low," he gestured with his hands.
A delicate hand reached up to punch out the cardboard that held the glass pane in its ridged cell. In a low, gruff voice, Jim raised his head, just high enough to reach the hole. "Yes, we have Kathy McGuire in here as our hostage. She is unharmed and quite well." Hearing her name mentioned, Kathy grinned, smiled and nodded. "We will not let her go."
Art nodded. He felt slightly faint from the heat and the anxiety and the fear for Kathy that gnawed at him. All the thoughts that he'd had before came flooding back to his mind. Had she been forced to take dope by these wretched creatures, these dope dealers?
He had to get Kathy out of there… now!
He never thought it would come to this, but there was no choice. He would have to offer himself in exchange for Kathy; there was no other way. If he died, at least he would die knowing that Kathy realized how much he cared for her. Raising the bullhorn to his trembling lips, he boomed out his offer.
Jim, on the other side of the wall, grinned triumphantly. It worked! "Okay, here's what we do… when he comes in the door Lydia, you knock him over the head with that old lamp, and Mark, you tie up his hands. Got that?"