The Predator had been stalking his prey for several months. He knew where she lived, where she worked and where she shopped. Covert surveillance of her home had given him a detailed pattern of her comings and goings. A discreet check of her trashcan had given him a bounty of personal information. With full name, address and date of birth, he’d been able to visit the courthouse and search through the list of registered voters to obtain her social security number. The rest was easy.
It was hot inside the battered Dodge van. The Predator took a long drink of his soda and wiped sweat from his brow with a shop towel, glancing toward the mobile home a few hundred yards distant and occasionally raising his binoculars for a closer look. He knew from past observation that his prey seldom rose before three PM, so he waited patiently, enduring the sweltering heat. A greasy blue notebook lay open on the seat beside him, crammed with notes, a copy of his prey’s divorcee decree; irreconcilable differences, her birth certificate; high school and college transcript, an honor student, a complete medical history and detailed credit report. He suspected he now knew more about her than she knew about herself. The idea of taking her made his cock swell inside his mechanic’s coveralls. It wouldn’t be long now.
The interior of her small trailer had surprised him. It had been easy to gain access through one window while she was at work. He’d spent several hours there going through her belongings, inspecting her closets, her video collection of mostly horror flicks, her rock and roll CDs and whatever else caught his eye, looking for insights into her personality.
Her furniture was unremarkable, her taste Early Yard Sale…probably all she could afford since the divorce he assumed. Most of the place was stringently clean. Her bedroom was the surprise-filled with books. Hundreds of books, hardcopy and paperback, on shelves and stacked on her dresser, the end tables, even the floor. Stephen King, Fred Saberhagen, Dean Koontz, and what looked to be the complete Anne Rice collection, The Vampire Chronicles, The Mayfair Witches, and an autographed framed 8×10 photo of Anne Rice on one wall. There were movie posters, too, “Blade” and “Queen of The Dammed.” Did she believe in vampires? Apparently she did, if the movie collection was any indication.
Oh, this was going to be such fun! To take her darkest fear (or was it a fantasy?) and bring it to life! He’d know soon enough either way. At 3:26 he heard the back door slam and the engine of his prey’s decrepit pickup grind to life. A few seconds later the old truck came jolting down the rutted driveway, windows down, blaring rock and roll. He lifted the binoculars and saw that today she wore a loose black skirt and a brilliant orange, hot pink and yellow tie dyed t-shirt with sunglasses. A leftover hippy? Maybe.
She was six years his senior. The orange clashed with her long auburn hair, carelessly scrunched into a ponytail. “You’ll look better when I dress you,” he said to himself. He started the van and pulled in behind her. It was busy at the feed store, few places to park. The Predator waited until his prey was inside before he pulled his van alongside her rattletrap pickup. No one noticed as he took a matchstick and carefully let most of the air out of her passenger side rear tire and stole the tire tool from the plastic milk crate stowed in back. If she followed her usual route home, the already threadbare tire would be flat in the middle of nowhere…exactly what he wanted. Five minutes later his prey returned, shouldering a 50 pound bag of fertilizer. He watched as she dumped it in back and then climbed into the cab, not noticing the low tire. She fiddled with the dial on the radio, found a station and drove away, so intent on the music she failed to notice the van as it followed. The tire lasted exactly eight miles. It gave out on a stretch of deserted road between houses and the Predator was elated; he couldn’t have chosen a more perfect spot for an abduction.
The prey eased her truck on to the side of the road and got out, shaking her head in disgust. She was fumbling with the jack when the van eased off onto the shoulder behind her, looking hot, tired, and ready to be pissed off. This was the tricky part. The Predator readied the hypodermic syringe as he left the van, pretending to be concerned. “Are you having trouble, ma’am?” he asked. Soft southern baritone, polite. He was careful to give her plenty of space, not wanting her to bolt. Most women were a little intimidated by a man his size, but she was five foot ten herself. “Just a flat tire, “she responded a touch defensively. “Nothing I can’t handle.” “Bitch, “he thought.”You’ll sing a different song when my cock is up your ass.” He held back, watched passively as she carried the jack to the rear of the truck and pushed it beneath the frame. Best to seem like a good ‘ole boy.
Just a chewing Bubba native to this neck of the woods. She rummaged through the milk crate, searching for the tire tool. “Damn!” she exclaimed a moment later. “What’s wrong?” the Predator asked. He made no move to approach her, not wanting her to feel threatened. The closest house was a few hundred yards back but in the humid stillness, he knew sound would carry; best not to let her scream. “I’ve lost a lug wrench,” she replied. “I think I have one somewhere,” he offered.
He walked to the van and opened the driver’s door, rummaged beneath the seat, pretending to search. His prey approached the van, a little heartened by this seeming show of good will. She stood back as he opened the passenger side door and looked beneath that seat as well. Her wariness eased a little as he opened the sliding door and she spied the tire tool, leaning against a tool box pushed to the far side of the van wall.
She stepped forward to reach for it and an instant later was knocked flat onto the van’s carpeted floor as the Predator made his move, one huge hand around her throat, the other jamming the needle into her hip. He threw the syringe aside and punched her in the face hard enough to stun, then flipped her onto her back and secured her wrists behind her with handcuffs. Shackles bound her legs and he gagged her with one shop towel and blindfolded her with another. Another thirty seconds and she was bundled into the van, the door slammed shut and he made his way between the seats to check her, being certain she could breathe easily. A quick check of her pulse showed it to be strong and steady. She’d be unconscious in a few minutes and would stay that way for about six to eight hours. That was plenty of time to reach his lair. Ignoring the pickup, the Predator climbed into the driver’s seat, thumbed the ignition and pulled the van back onto the road. Three miles later he turned onto the freeway ramp and headed West, onto the interstate.
The Predator reached his lair at slightly before eight p.m. He clicked the remote button to activate the sliding garage door he’d recently installed in place of a barn door and drove the van into the barn, killed the motor and turned off the headlights. All was still except for the sound of crickets and the tick of the slowly cooling engine. He paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, looking over his shoulder at the woman he’d captured a few hours ago. She was still unconscious but he could see the rise and fall of her breathing. One good thing about living so far out in the country was the privacy. No nosey neighbors to hear screaming and call the police. Not that they’d find anything incriminating even if they showed up at his house with search warrants…his lair was beneath the barn, a storm cellar he’d converted into a cool, dark, completely soundproof dungeon.
He’d worked on it for some time, adding concrete floors, reinforcing the original fieldstone walls with a layer of concrete block. The ceiling was massive oak beams with a layer of R-30 insulation and a second layer of rough cut oak to further deaden sound. A nice 22×35 room in which to indulge himself. Not exactly what Grandpa had in mind when he built it, the Predator mused, but it worked out well. He got out of the van and stretched, turned on the lights and closed the sliding door. Sighing, he stripped off his mechanic’s coveralls, his shirt, his jeans and his work boots. The day had been one hot, miserable bitch and he was ready for a shower before getting down to business. The steps were cool beneath his bare feet as he descended to his lair, unlocked the steel door and stepped inside. He was immediately enveloped in a blast of cold air from the 18, 000 BTU air conditioner he’d left on. The sweat jelled on his body before he took three steps.
He liked the cold. The thermostat read fifty-eight degrees. Perfect, it was the same temperature as a cave.
After his shower he dried himself, had a cool drink and selected a few items he thought he might need for immediate use, then stuffed them into a bag and carried them back upstairs. As he opened the van’s side door he saw that his captive had awakened, had rolled onto her side and was rubbing her face against the floor of the van, trying to dislodge her blindfold. Reaching down, he slapped her sharply across the ass and commanded “Stop that!” In the close confines of the van’s interior, the sound of that slap was like the crack of a .22 rifle discharging. The struggling ceased. He roughly flipped his prey back onto her belly and dragged her toward him by the hips until her legs hung down over the running board, not quite touching the ground. One huge hand encircled the back of her neck, holding her face flush to the carpet while the other gripped the waistband of her skirt and ripped it down and off, tossing it aside. The panties followed and he marveled at how white her ass was, marred only by a single red handprint.