The Octopus Hook Murders

THE OCTOPUS HOOK MURDERS

By

Terry Rich Hartley

Copyright 2013 Terry Rich Hartley

All rights reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to Jerry, Paul, and Willie, three good men who served their country honorably.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

If three characters in this novel, Moe Bybee, Raol Corvo, and Dr. Janice Conway seem familiar, it is because the first two appeared in my Whisper stories, and the third in The Ditchrider's Daughter. My thanks to MindWings.com founder Mary Gould for providing a venue for short fiction and for her openness to newer talent.

Chapter 1

I’d as soon hear a fat man fart as a pretty woman whistle, the man said.

The kid laughed. Sort of. It was a nervous laugh; three short coughs. The man had picked him up at the kid’s disabled car, which was one link in a chain of coincidences. Who would have thought that a new tire would blow out, its inner sidewall ripped away, or that the trunk compartment for the donut spare tire would be empty, or that a perfectly good cell phone battery would be dead as a month old corpse? And then there was the fact that a big round man who’d volunteered as an umpire for practice baseball games a couple times during August came along to offer a ride. To think that all these things occurred in the span of twenty minutes—weird!

You can’t really know what that means can you? the man said more than asked.

Uh . . . guess not.

’Course not. It’s jailhouse slang. The man sucked on his upper lip like he’d said something important. Means that either sound directs you to a nice place and you don’t care which one. Place that is.

Might be a sicko looking for teenagers, the kid thought, mentally kicking himself for climbing into the Dodge minivan. His mom had drilled into him to never accept a ride from anyone he didn’t know and know well. That should go for every kid, she’d say, but especially her kid. Sorry, but who your mom is means you have to be even more on your toes than other kids, she’d explained. And now, here he was, in a vehicle traveling at fifty on a back highway with a two-eighty, three-hundred pound man sporting biceps the size of thighs, a shaved head, a fake pearl earring, and a weird grin on his face.

Jail? Uh, I thought coach said you’d played football at Missouri.

Yep, center. Then the man chortled. Hey, Bobby, I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just messin’ around. Sorry, man.

Bobby’s stomach unknotted. I knew that, he said. Turn left at the next intersection and then right after two blocks. Oh, and would ya tell me about college football. I still don’t know whether to choose that or the diamond. Both coaches say I’ll get offers for college scholarships.

Glad to, but after I pull behind that building and take a leak. ‘Bout ready to bust a kidney. With a meaty, wide open hand the man palmed the steering wheel left and aimed the van across weed splotched blacktop toward a single story cinderblock building with a vandalized neon sign spelling F U FF ‘n MU F, an old girly club that drew the ire of county officials one time too many. A fading Closed by order of— poster was still taped to the front door.

The kid’s stomach spasmed again and he quietly slipped his right hand over the door latch. That fat ass could never outrun a star outfielder and wide receiver, he told himself while gently gripping the handle.

Go ahead, the big man said when the van rounded the west corner of the derelict building.

Go ahead, what? the kid asked.

No answer. The hulk was quiet as he steered the van into the back parking lot, which was little more than an alley between the building and a mature cornfield. The only wide spot, which was once used for employee parking, was blocked by two beat up, graffiti covered dumpsters. Go ahead and jerk the handle. The kid did. And then again. It jiggled freely like it wasn’t connected to anything. Fear burned across the kid’s face. His mouth tasted like rust from a rain gutter and he smelled the fat man’s days old sweat. Now, the man said, how ‘bout a kiss. And put some tongue in it.

Twenty minutes later the van pulled down the long paved drive of a rural ranch-style house with a combination garage/shop connected to the house on the left side by an enclosed breezeway. The garage sported one fourteen foot overhead door tall enough for motorhome entry and a standard garage door to its right. The big man steered to the tall door as he’d been directed, waited for it to rise, then pulled forward and stopped in front of a steel grate framed into the concrete floor. A half inch steel cable hung six feet over the grate and ran up through a block and tackle fixed to a steel I-beam that ran the width of the building. The cable disappeared into a three by three foot steel box that housed an electric winch. A leather strap in the shape of a loop was fastened to the free end of the cable with a quick snap eye hook. Unseen from more than a few feet, a second line, this one ten pound test monofilament fishing line, was strung a yard away from the cable, a tiny brass snap ring tied to its free end. A bearded man dressed in casual gray slacks and a yellow, short sleeved golf shirt, and holding what appeared to be a shaving kit, glanced through the passenger window and then glided around the front to meet the round guy. The scratches on your face suggest a struggle.

I’d say! Cute little bitch fought like a wildcat once he figured out I was kidnapping him. Stepping toward the back of the van, he added, If it wasn’t for me promising you otherwise, I’d a busted his cherry right there in a pussy club parking lot. Goddamn I got hot and bothered wrestling him down! The small tent in Fat Man’s sweat pants and a quarter sized wet spot added poignancy to his statement.

Yes, it’s important to keep your promises, the bearded man said, secretly amused that the great white whale actually prided himself for integrity. After all, pride wasn’t a necessary element. Friederich Nietzsche said it well: Fear is the Mother of Morality. And Beard Man knew that this bipedal version of Moby Dick feared him. The fear wasn’t a physical thing, it was a conditioned thing, the way a bull dreads an electric fence it could easily trample.

Around back, Fat Man reached in and tugged at a lump under the canvas tarp he’d taken along for just this reason. Hog tied the sweet thing and covered him up just like you said. Jeez, though, he’s not moving. Hope he didn’t smother or somethin’ Tossing back the tarp revealed the kid lying there head toward the rear, sweaty and wet, but still as death. When Fat Man leaned in to check his breathing, there was a loud smacking sound as the kid head butted him on the chin. Fat Man bolted upright and smacked the back of his head on the hatch door. You dirty little fuck! he screamed. I ought’a—

Settle, Beard Man commanded. He said it only once and the huge guy stepped back and went passive like a well trained dog.

The kid struggled furiously, obviously trying to spin around and use his feet for weapons, but, with his hands duct taped in back and the tarp entangling him, effort was futile. Now, said Beard Man, If you’ll please open your mouth. Simultaneously, he set the shaving kit on the floor by the kid’s face and withdrew a size 7/0 fish hook with an extra large gap between its shank and tip, and known specifically as an octopus hook. The ferocious looking hardware was attached to several feet of monofilament line. The kid’s eyes went Orphan Annie and the muscles in his jaws drew up like overwrought cables.

Want I should pry his jaws? Fat Man asked.

No need for force, Beard Man calmly said, reaching down with his left hand and pinching the boy’s nostrils. In about eight seconds the kid opened his mouth and gasped. In another half second Beard Man pressed the business end of the hook into the roof of the kid’s mouth with his right hand and slid his left one off the kid’s nose and along the line, pulling it firm. Now, Bobby, you’ll do precisely as I say. If you understand, blink once; if you don’t, I’ll simply apply more pressure until you do. Understand?

The kid blinked once.

Fat Man pulled the tarp free, and then spun the kid until his feet were off the back end dangling over the van’s bumper. Guiding him with the hook Beard Man had the kid stand, then steered him to the middle of the floor grate, where he reached up and clipped the short strand of fishing line to the one running up through a pulley. The line was taught enough to force the kid to stand soldier straight. I calculated that perfectly, Beard Man said, smiling. He was obviously someone who enjoyed thoughtful planning.

Even in his state of horror, the silly term, liver lips, crossed the kid’s mind. He’d heard somewhere that kids over at Bishop Kelly High School used that name for a wood shop teacher with thick, liver colored lips which seemed to dominate his face. This monster who’d just hooked him up looked that way, only his liver lips cut through a gray speckled black beard and, when they parted, exposed yellowish, crooked teeth.

"Now?" Fat Man loudly wheezed, clutching the front of his sweat pants like a five-year-old trying to contain his bladder.

Jeff, wouldn’t you rather savor the moment? Beard Man asked.

No, no, his cherry. You promised.

Indeed I did. Assume the position, Jeff. I’ll strap you in. You’ve certainly earned it, big guy.

Fat Man, holding his crotch with both meaty hands, quickly took a position behind the kid. Oh, yeah! he blurted, feeling the leather noose slide over his head and down around his neck.

Beard Man fitted the noose, then walked over to a workbench and picked up a black remote control unit about twice the size of his palm. It had three buttons: a green one for wind, a yellow one for unwind, and a red kill button that caused a braking system to freeze the cable in place. He gently pressed the green one and let off after the noose had firmed around Fat Man’s neck. They’d practiced this many times. Fat Man got off on erotic asphyxiation and Beard Man exploited his need. Beard Man understood that compressing the carotid arteries deprived the brain of oxygen, increased carbon dioxide and, thusly increased the sensations of giddiness, lightheadness, and a cocaine like pleasure. Fat Man only knew that popping his nuts while being strangled was a real mind blower. It made a climax seem to last forever. With Beard Man’s help, he’d become recently addicted. As to sex with boys, that began during puberty while sharing a sleeping bag with his younger cousin.

Now? Fat Man pleaded, thumbing his sweat pants down to his thighs and revealing his readiness.

Not yet, Beard Man commanded. You may clasp the lad’s trousers, but go no further. Holding the remote, he walked over to face the kid. Like all previous victims the boy was absolutely motionless, failing to mount even the slightest struggle against the hook in his palate. A string of strawberry colored saliva ran off the kid’s chin and down his white T-shirt. Beard Man was pleased at the boy’s eyes. They properly reflected disgust, anger, and fear—unbridled, delicious, paralyzing fear. Beard Man slipped his right hand under the kid’s T-shirt and slowly, deliberately slid it up to his chest. The man was pleased to feel a racing thumpathumpathumpa and he quietly asked, Do you believe I’m god?

The kid knew there was only one answer. Uh-hu.

Uh-huh isn’t a word. I want to hear yes.

The kid awkwardly complied in spite of the hook. The word came out guttural but it was definitely yes.

Beard Man leaned to the boy’s ear. Do you accept me as your personal lord and savior?

Without hesitation, Yes.

Your master in all things?

Yes.

Now? Fat Man gasped. Oh, god, please now! His hot, humid breath blew across the kid’s right ear and smelled like something rotten.

Don’t ever disappoint me, Beard man whispered to the kid, then responded to Fat Man. Yes, now.

Tears shot from the kid’s eyes as thick, perverse hands jerked his pants down and grasped his muscular cheeks. Bracing for searing penetration he tried to think of anything but the present. Overhead, the pulley squeaked; behind him Fat Man wheezed, then gurgled. The kid felt Beard Man’s hand slide out of his shirt and cup his left shoulder. Turn and behold, the savior said. Slowly turning against the agonizing pain in his palate, the kid was face to genitals with Fat Man, then face to thighs, then knees, and as Fat Man’s black sports shoes slipped by his face, they were kicking wildly at empty space.

Death is mine, Beard Man whispered in the kid’s ear. As are you.

#

Caylee Sweet tapped her foot and muttered, About time, and glanced to the face of her smartphone. One forty-seven p.m. She was standing on the front deck of a two story log summer home listening to varying engine sounds coming from the meadow on the other side of a quaking aspen grove. She’d heard a vehicle slow down on Highway 75 and then it sounded like it might have turned toward the cabin on the narrow gravel road that climbed up here to the Boulder Homesites. Even during August the midmorning air was cool, clear and quiet enough to detect such varied noises as the rattle of flying grasshopper wings, the chatter of chipmunks, the screech of flickers, and, yes, the changing rpm’s of motor vehicles as they slowed, sped, or climbed. Alex, at ten, was too young to assume responsibility for meeting the telephone technician, and Caylee, fourteen, was too proud to say no to a foot race challenge by older cousin, Tanya. Race to Boulder Creek and back. Loser meets the geek, is the way Tanya put it. Caylee lost as always, by only two yards this time, but it might as well have been two miles. So, by now Tanya and Alex were swimming in Easley Hot Springs geothermal pool while Caylee waited for some old fart to, what was it he told Aunt Aubrey when he called yesterday? It was something about the phone company modernizing and installing new phone lines to all cabins in this area? To do that he had to come inside and someone had to be available to meet him between the hours of one and three. Whatever. Middle kids always got the dirty end of the stick, whether it was from your own siblings or your cousins. Caylee, stuck between a baby brother and bossy big sister at home and a kid cousin and his big sister here, was used to being the invisible middle kid. But that didn’t mean she liked waiting for a phone installation before she could hoof it over to Easley’s. And she couldn’t even complain that it wasn’t her cabin to be responsible for. Her dad and Aunt Aubrey had inherited equal shares so it was as much hers as it was her cousins’.

Oh well, the wait should be over soon because that engine sound was definitely closer now, moving toward her. She anxiously watched where the gravel road broke through the quakies until the nose of a brown Ford Econoline van pushed through and then she plopped back into a padded chaise lounge, turned her smartphone to word processing and typed: I’m in hell. Another boring day in the mountains, this time waiting for the telephone repairman. He just got here. Small enough to be a she, but, no, it’s just a very small he. No texting style shorthand for Caylee. She was going to be a professional journalist someday and her favorite teacher, Mr. Bowen, told her to actually write every chance she got. It was almost an automatic response for her to raise the smartphone and snap a photo of the van with the technician rounding the corner. Then, embarrassed that an adult might think she was a snoop, Caylee slipped the phone behind the chair pad before he reached the steps, toolbox in hand.

Hello, the man said. His voice was raspy, crowlike. He was an odd, little guy with blue marbles for eyes and sand colored bangs jutting out of his baseball style hat. I’m Sam with the phone company.

Hi, she said. I was told to stay out of your way, so that’s what I’m doing.

Alone, he thought. She’s referring to herself in the singular. Makes the decision of which chick to remove from the nest rather an easy one, indeed. I won’t be long, he responded with a thin smile. If you’ll show me where the phone is, then the procedure will just take a jiff.

Why do they need an old fashioned one, anyway? Caylee asked, springing from the chair and almost stepping out of her yellow Flip Flops. She was pubescently clumsy, on her way to beautiful in a few years.

Have you tried a cell phone up here? he returned her question with a question.

Oh yeah . . . iffy, she laughed.

Right, the Forest Service is strict about putting artificial towers in the Sawtooth National Recreation Area, he said. So, for now anyway, the most reliable phones are the hardwired ones. A lot of cabin owners try to get by without them, but if they spend much time up here, they end up calling us. Once inside, Sam the serviceman scanned the cabin. It was elegant in a pedestrian sort of way, varnished knotty pine walls, a central fireplace, faced with river rock, a solid pine mantel five feet off the floor sporting an assortment of old but not quite antique fishing reels. To the left was a stairway leading to the second floor and to the right was an entrance to a small kitchen. No one else was within sight or sound. So, I guess you’re the one who got stuck waiting for the telephone guy. That kind of stuff always happened to me when I was a kid.

Sucks, doesn’t it? Then, jerking her hands to her cheeks, Caylee reddened and blurted, Oh, so sorry. I didn’t mean—

No problem, he laughed. I know you’d rather be out . . . hiking or . . .

Swimming, she said, relieved that he wasn’t pissed. My aunt’s in Sun Valley for that publishers’ conference and my cousins are at Easley’s.

Niece, he thought. I’d hoped for an offspring, but niece will do. And you got stuck, he said, chuckling. Tell you what, if you’ll be the gofer—go for this and go for that when I need things—we can get this done in fifteen minutes.

Gofer? Jeez, she thought, old guys are so corny. But fifteen minutes was more than she could hope for. Sure thing. Caylee followed him over to a small dining area on the outside wall of the kitchen and watched him set the toolbox on a backless wood bench that served as a catchall. Beautiful view, he said, glancing out the window toward Boulder Mountain."

Sure, she said with typical teen non-appreciation.

The old line comes in up there, he said, nodding toward a wire that entered near the ceiling and stretched down to a small phone stand. The new one is coming in underground, so what I’m going to do, he explained, popping the latch on the toolbox and pulling the lid back, is auger a hole through that baseboard down there and then I’ll fish the new phone line through from the outside and you can give it a tug from in here.

Okay.

Grasping a ten inch auger bit by the shank, the repairman said, And then I’ll need to put another line up there on the second floor. He looked up and swung the auger like a pointer, wide and upward, scraping it along Caylee’s right bicep just hard enough to draw a fine line of blood."

Ouch! she screeched, jumping back and gazing at the superficial wound.

Oh . . . oh, I’m so sorry. What a clumsy fool. I’m so sorry.

Caylee looked at the scratch, then at the poor guy’s face, and actually felt more for him than for herself. The klutz had to live with ugly all his life and now he probably thinks he hurt someone. Oh, gosh, it’s just a little scratch, she said. Don’t be mad at yourself.

It was just so clumsy of me. Fortunately, I’m also an EMT in my off time—we’re all volunteers around here—and I carry a first aid kit everywhere I go. His left hand plunged into the tool kit and extracted a small black bag with an official looking medallion by the zipper.

She waved him off. Don’t worry about it. We’ve got first aid ointment in the bathroom for just about everything. Caylee headed off in that direction and heard, That might not be enough, but I guess it’s okay.

Whattaya mean? she said, cupping the scratch with her left hand.

Oh, just . . . well, I don’t want to frighten you. Are you from around here?

Nope, Salt Lake City. Why?

It’s probably nothing, he said, packing the kit back into the toolbox. Just that we’ve had a problem with flesh eating bacteria this summer. I don’t think you’ll need to worry.

Caylee rolled her hand back, examined the wound, and took on the demeanor of a patient being told, It’s probably terminal, by her physician. Wh . . . what can be done about it?

All local EMTs carry a topical solution, he said. "It’s a black powder that just rubs on the wound and kills all bacteria. And I mean, all. Seriously, I doubt you’ll need it. But, then, if you want . . ."

Um, think I want.

So Easy. The repairman slipped on latex gloves, had Caylee stand by him and turn her face away. It might sting a little, he said. And it did. Not bad, though. When he was done and she examined her arm it looked like he’d rubbed black dirt on her. Uck, that doesn’t look like medicine.

Things aren’t always what they appear to be, he said chuckling. Trust me, it’s very powerful medicine. Now, should we get back to work? I promise to be more careful.

#

Bobby Bledsoe passed out twice without slamming onto the concrete floor either time. Beard Man was a qualified expert at his profession—if serial killing could be called a profession. He’d fitted Bobby in a leather harness that wrapped around the kid’s chest and fastened in back with two broad strips of Velcro. An eye hook had been carefully stitched into the back of the harness. A wire rope ran from the hook up to a friction gear. The apparatus functioned like a seat belt harness: when sudden pressure was applied the gear locked in place and stopped the wire rope from unwinding. The first time Bobby fainted was shortly after Beard Man lowered Fat Man’s corpse to the floor, removed the noose from his neck and refastened it to his ankles. Fat Man was then hoisted to where his face stared at Bobby’s chest. Beard Man handed Bobby a six inch skinning knife and said, Now, Bobby, being an Idaho youth you’ve harvested deer, haven’t you?

Yes, Bobby answered as best he could. The fish hook penetrating the roof of his mouth was growing more painful by the minute.

And you’ve bled them, haven’t you Bobby? You’ve slit their throats and drained their blood. After the boy confirmed it, Beard Man said, Pigs are done the same way. Now, cut the pig’s throat. When Bobby whimpered, Beard Man said, Bobby, he tried to ravage your anus. Cut his throat. Bobby reached out with the knife, feebly pressed it to flesh, but Fat Man’s eyes were wide open and bore right into the boy’s heart. Bobby’s hand trembled and the knife would have tumbled if not for Beard Man’s bony right hand reaching around his shoulder and clasping over Bobby’s well formed hand. Beard Man guided the razor sharp blade in a half moon across Fat Man’s neck from jaw line to jaw line and fresh blood poured out in a sheet of crimson liquid that painted Fat Man’s upside down face and