F. T. Hemmingway
The kidnapped couple
CHAPTER ONE
Stan Brewster studied the rear-view mirror of the pickup camper he was driving. There was a cluster of four motorcycles following him up the long grade. A couple of times, the lead motorcyclist had tried to pass him, but the twisting, narrow road, the stream of approaching traffic and Stan's reluctance to pull into one of the turnouts, had prevented them from passing his laboring truck. He listened, critically, to the engine and swore under his breath. There were a couple of fouled spark plugs, which caused the motor to run roughly, reducing its power and his speed. Then, he saw that behind the motorcycles there was a building tail of other vehicles, including another camper and a couple of cars pulling light vacation trailers. He'd have to pull over pretty soon to allow them to pass, but there were no turnouts along this stretch of the road.
This was the third day of his vacation. He'd been looking forward to it for months, but so far there had been nothing but trouble. On their first day away from home a radiator hose had broken, which delayed them for two hours for repairs; as a result they had been forced to stay overnight in a commercial trailer camp. Yesterday, he'd replaced the water pump… and now, today, it was fouled spark plugs.
A frown spread across his handsomely rugged face, and his deep, brown eyes glowered at the images in the rear-view mirror then studied the road ahead for space to pull over. The heavily loaded truck ground slowly up the steep grade in second gear, the punished engine whining its protest.
Angrily, Stan stomped down hard on the already fully opened accelerator and growled, "Come on… let's go… God damn it!"
Sitting beside her husband, Lois Brewster studied his profile through wide, clear blue eyes. She knew he was angry. The first two days of their vacation hadn't been very pleasant. The extra expense and the delays for repairs had made him increasingly exasperated. Her knowledge of machines was limited, but even to her unpracticed ear, the sounds of the laboring engine told her there was something wrong.
"What seems to be wrong with the motor, Stan?" she asked, finally, breaking a long, silence.
"Couple of dirty spark plugs!" He didn't turn his head to answer her question.
She, also, could see the long string of motorcycles, cars and campers behind them. Since their camper was the first in the line, it was their vehicle that was holding back the traffic.
"Shouldn't we pull over… and let those other people pass us…?"
Stan snapped back, "Sure! Hell yes… I should… but there are no turn-outs!"
"You passed a couple of them… back there…"
"You want to drive this rig?" he shot back.
"No… but…"
"Then… shut up… and get the hell off my back!"
For perhaps the thousandth time, it seemed to Lois, she turned silently away, her deep blue eyes brimming with glistening tears. Their vacation, too, was turning sour… just as everything about their marriage seemed to be falling apart. She had promised herself that these two weeks away from the cares of day-to-day living and home-making chores would be happy ones; days that would heal some of the wounds, solve some of their differences… and draw them closer together… perhaps, even, regenerate their feelings of tenderness for each other… and rejuvenate the sexual side of their lives. She sighed with self-pity and a nostalgic longing for things as they had been… when they were first married; of course, even then there had been some problems, but she and Stan had been younger then. They had been full of hope and optimism, but now… She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue and looked out at the mountain landscape, the forested slopes seeming to offer a serenity she didn't feel.
The sudden roar of a motor close beside the camper caused her to turn her head, quickly, to look with startled eyes at the lead motorcyclist, who was then drawn abreast of the cab. She saw a black beard, long black hair whipping in the wind, a pair of dark eyes flashing, angrily, and an open mouth that roared, obscenely, the words partially snatched away by the wind.
"… of-a-bitch! Get… fucking… off the road!"
With a roar, the motorcycle swept by them. A second figure, smaller and definitely feminine, clung behind the driver. She, too, was shouting, although it was difficult to understand what she was saying.
A straight stretch of road lay ahead of them for about seventy-five yards, devoid of approaching cars, which was the reason the group of four motorcyclists chose to pass, right then. As the leader swept by, he shook a threatening fist, then flipped his middle finger up in the age-old signal of derision. Then, Lois' sensibilities were injured. The auburn-haired, pixie-faced girl, on the back of the motorcycle, looked back at them and made the self-same sign.
Then, in quick succession, the other three motorcyclists thundered by the slow-moving camper, each hooting a string of obscenities and following the example of the leader, flipped the lewd hand-sign at Stan and Lois.
Stan's temper boiled over, instantly, and he was shouting back, "Well… fuck you, too… you bastards!"
"Please… Stan… do you have to be like them…?" Lois chided. She didn't like to hear him use those words. It always seemed so unnecessary.
"God damn it!" he flared back at her. "I'll say what I like… and right now I'm good and mad! Plug your ears up… if you don't want to hear it!"
The fourth and last cyclist had just passed him, when a low-slung sports car came snarling around a curve toward them. Lois was sure there would be a collision, but the motorcycle rider ducked to his side of the road, at the last instant, with only inches to spare.
"Why… you stupid bastard!" Stan roared, visibly shaken by the close call… the possibility of being involved in the smash-up, had the sports car and the motorcycle crashed together.
Just around the next curve, a highway sign warned of a turnout ahead, and Stan heaved a sigh of relief, as he studied the rear-view mirror, again, to see that there were ten or more cars strung out behind his camper. He pulled off the road into the cleared space, trying to ignore the grim faces of the drivers who swept by on the road. Some of the people were outright angry. He could see their mouths move, cursing him, insultingly… But, Christ! He rationalized. I can't help it if the damned engine's acting up…!
He consulted a California highway map. "There's a little town up ahead… maybe fifteen miles or so…" he observed. "I can get a set of new spark plugs there… then it's only about sixty miles to that State Park…"
Lois wasn't really listening. She agreed, absently, "That's good…" then added, "maybe… we can get to bed earlier, tonight… and…"
"Yeah and get a good night's sleep, for a change so we can get on the road earlier…"
"I wasn't thinking… just about sleep…" Lois murmured.
"Oh, you mean something else, like sex…? Well it's according to how tired I am. Okay?"
"I guess it'll have to be… all right…" she sighed with resignation, hoping against hope that he wouldn't be too tired, too busy… too drunk… or too something. It seemed, lately, that was the story of their married sex-life. She decided to change the subject.
"Did you notice what that girl… on the back of the motorcycle did?"
"No… what did she do?" Stan responded, looking back down the road to see that the traffic had cleared. He put the truck in gear and eased out onto the narrow highway.
"She made that awful sign… with her hand, too!"
"Oh, that! Just consider the source! They're just a bunch of worthless motorcycle bums! They probably belong to one of those clubs or gangs!"
"She seemed to be the only girl… and there were four men…"
"I wouldn't know!" He dismissed the subject. "Who can tell the difference… with their long hair?"
"The difference… is the shape…"
Stan was listening to the truck's motor. It was running even more roughly, as it labored up the long grade.