Once upon a Time, Margaret
1
Escape
Dekalb's relationship with his little Lolita was relaxed now. The efficiency apartment above Cedar Inn was certainly much more roomy, homey, and kid oriented than her crummy little basement room at her parents' house had been. He indulged the eleven year old Margaret sinfully, and loved giving her presents, although she never asked for anything. One whole wall of shelves was filled with stuffed animals. DeKalb was a mountain of a man, but he had no qualms about invading children's departments gathering stuffed animals for her, admitting a guilty pleasure from cuddling them to his own breast before handing them to the girl. Her presence made such returns to childish pleasures of long ago legitimate. Withdrawing money from his retirement savings, he'd splurged on an expensive computer for her. Modern kids needed such extravagances. Of course, he couldn't let her plug into the internet, but he kept her more than well stocked with games from the computer software store at Scotland Mall in Burns Hill. He'd also bought her a 21 inch television with built-in VCR and DVD players. Every time he entered the door he had two arms filled with goodies for her: Always new stuffed animals, and always three or four videos or DVD's.
It was awkward at first. Well, that was to be expected. After all, she had no idea how much he adored her, or how he'd do anything to make her happy. It took a few days to establish the rules of the road, so to speak. He understood how emphasizing the restrictions of her new life wasn't the most pleasant way to start things off. But it had to be done. However, what with his constant attending to her wants, she seemed to have warmed to the circumstances beautifully. He trusted her now. Actually, she'd never given him reason not to trust her. Oh, what a joy it was to come home, knowing she'd be happily skipping up to him when he entered that door. She always giggled with delight as she tore the packages open to find what the day's special gifts were. He didn't see any reason any more to deprive her of clothing. These days it was a symbolic gesture, just a harmless way of reminding her of the permanence of their relationship, that she belonged to him now ... and forever more. In the beginning it was a way of discouraging her from running away - she'd have think twice before running out on Main Street stark naked. He could have retrieved her easy enough if she had; he had all the controlling chips, after all.
Now he knew she'd never try to run away. But oh, how he loved his naked little Lolita. He wouldn't think of covering her beautiful young body. And she never complained. It was just so neat to open the door and see her standing proudly nude before him.
And how great sex was with the child. Those first few days she was sort of cold. But now
she was eager; she wanted him in her. Sometimes she climbed up his body, tearing open
his fly to get at his great prick. She did whatever he wanted now, and loved every
minute. His own beloved little Lolita.
This had been a hard day for the sheriff's office. Three highway accidents; four fatalities. DeKalb had worked them all. Such things always depressed him. But the day brightened, as he knew it would, when he walked in the apartment door. Margaret sensed his preoccupation. She didn't even look at the packages. She drew him straight to the bed. She petted his brow. She kissed his cheeks. She gently helped him divest himself of his clothes. She carefully laid his shoulder holster with its loaded 9mm on the chair beside the bed. It was the best sex he ever had. Her lips and tongue brushed every square inch of his body. Knowing how fatigued he was, she made him take it easy while she straddled his loins and did the work, like an eager cylinder to its piston. In the warm afterglow as she lay by his side, he drifted to sleep, murmuring, "I love you, my little Lolita."
"I know you do," she whispered back.
A few minutes later, she moved from his side, awakening him. He opened his eyes. She was standing at the side of the bed, the 9mm in her hand.
What could have been his last thought the second before those three killing shots? Now he lay inert, his head a mass of blood, shattered bone, and chunky segments of brain.
*****
Margaret knew what she had to do. She'd planned this day from the moment she first entered the apartment a month before. Still holding the gun, she grabbed the shoulder holster with its spare clips, walked to the door, and then down the steps and onto Main Street.
Stunned by the sound of the gunshots, passers-by stared in silence as the naked girl moved to cross the street. She began an easy jog mixed with occasional skip-steps, but moved faster when she heard the distant sound of a police siren. She slid down the muddy embankment of Sunshine Creek, which bisected the town; and splashing rapidly along the shallow watercourse, she disappeared into the darkness of the narrow woods that ran along both sides of the creek.
*****
Once upon a time, Margaret
2
Introductions
Once upon a time there was a little girl named Margaret.
The events in this story started in August that year. Margaret Campos was eleven years four months old. On June 3, she had finished fifth grade at St. Paul's Catholic School in Burns Hill. She lived in Scotstown, but it was a small town and had too few Catholics to support a church and school of its own. Her parents were Jerry and Evelyn Campos. Margaret was the fourth born of five children in the family. She had three older sisters and a younger brother.
Margaret was anything but an imposing child presence. She was somewhat shorter than average for her age. And lighter than the recommended weight for her age and height. Her hair was sort of dull blond, and hung without much curl or wave more or less limply to her shoulders. She usually secured it with a rubber band in a practical pony tail. Her face was an easy artist's oval; her nose too long to be cute; too wide to be beautiful. She had a small mouth and no dimples worth mentioning when she smiled. Light brown eyes under thin brows that matched her hair. She wasn't at all athletic and never participated in the usual team sports offered kids these days. She'd never expressed an interest in sports. Even if she had, it's doubtful her parents would have given their blessing.
Her grades usually hovered in the C range. An occasional B, usually in Social Studies ... but only occasional. She never received an A in her life. Awkward, fairly sloppy penmanship. She had a habit of using tiny letters - very hard for her teachers to read.
She seemed to have few, if any, close friends; and parents often missed her name when making invitation lists for their children's birthday parties. But she was shy and didn't seem to mind.
Her mother frankly couldn't stand her. Not so much for anything the girl ever did, but for the fact that she a born a girl. After three consecutive girls in their late marriage, her parents were praying for a boy. When Margaret arrived instead, her mother, uncomfortably close to menopause, was pressed to try again. She never forgave Margaret for making her go through another pregnancy. The situation wasn't helped when the boy who was born to that pregnancy was severely physically handicapped, and would require awesome amounts of time and energy, as well as a constant drain on the family's strapped financial resources. Margaret's father was required to hold two jobs, and for peace in the family didn't take up Margaret's cause. Had she been prettier or cuter, or smarter ... but she wasn't.
Not that the girl was ever mistreated. It's just that her absence in day to day family events was more welcome than her presence. When it became apparent that her younger brother would need so much attention, space was made by building Margaret a small sleeping space in the basement. It was nice enough. But isolated. Nobody in the family noticed. And it suited Margaret's comfortable adaptation to her lonely existence.
However, there were others in the community who did notice and have interest in this nothing little girl.
*****
And a sheriff named Schindemann.
George Schindemann was a good sheriff. George Schindemann was a good person as well - married twenty years now with three kids attending Walton High School. Unless on Sheriff's business, he attended every PTA meeting for every one of his children. And every game they played in every sport season. George Schindemann was also a good politician. The Sheriff in Walton County, Illinois was an elective position. He attended most all social events in Walton County from craft shows to church festivals. He had firm-grip handshake and intense eyes; both were factors of his personality that inspired confidence and trust. Walton Countians felt secure under his watch. And they were. His department permitted no outside gambling or drug interests to make roots in his county. He returned favors to his supporters, and practiced prudence when dealing with county citizens stopped for traffic violations. He may have been a politician, but he knew the importance of a team of good horses, what he called members of his impressive professional police force. For his professional staff, he only hired the most capable officers available after nationwide searches by a reputable recruiting service. Only occasionally did a sour apple turn up, like John DeKalb. But even John was a dependable and capable lawman. When he was about his business there were few better. Until the murder, Schindemann was quite satisfied with DeKalb's work, if not his, er, personal quirks. In any case, everyone in Walton County knew that their security was in good hands in Sheriff George Schindemann's capable hands.
*****
And a detective named Martel.
The keystone of the force was Detective Tris Martel. The best word to describe his police style was "ruthless". He came down from New York City, where, with his trademark dogged tactics, he'd dealt with citizens the like of which were never seen in Walton County. But more definitive of his style was his non-emotional approach to the people he encountered in the normal course of his job. He didn't approve or disapprove witness accounts, or show any notable appreciation for risks witnesses might be taking in coming forth. He didn't judge those who were under suspicion. He didn't despise probable perpetrators. He didn't sympathize with or care about mitigating circumstances, real or artificial. He didn't frown. He didn't smile. While he used required words of courtesy with subjects of investigation (from the accused to potential witnesses), there could be no comfort for those he spoke them to. His courtesy was cold, as if both he and the subject were machines. He knew how to deal death, being officially credited with a dozen felon deaths in the course of his thirty year career in law enforcement. Everyone knew there was an unofficial list much longer. He came into police work after a stint in Vietnam as a member of the Army's Special Forces - he was an efficient killer then, too. He had and desired no friends, although he had many acquaintances in places of influence who respected his abilities as a lawman. He was never married, his sexual appetites usually easily and indifferently satisfied with casual encounters in bars out of his working district, especially the Burns Hill Bar and Grill. Martel was an archetypical loner. He rarely participated in departmental social activities. He was sixty now to Schindemann's forty-five.
*****
Once upon a time, Margaret
3
Contract
Schindemann and Martel were in DeKalb's little apartment now. The body was gone, of course. And the bloody sheets and mattress cover. But everything else was pretty much as it was. It was a cozy room. Pink walls and light blue furniture - small couch, side chairs, shelving and standing closets. The carpet was child-garish, with woven-in scenes from classic fairy tales and legends. The kitchen was just a small alcove with mini-refrigerator, stove, sink, dishwasher, and a built-in divider, which along with its two tall stools, did double duty as a table for two. Otherwise the apartment was one unbroken area - that corner acting as the bedroom, this as the livingroom. The tiny bathroom, with its stand-up shower stall, opened off the bedroom area.
Martel was sitting on the window sill, casually watching the lazy action on Main Street. Schindemann was by the "wall of cute animals" idly toying with a stuffed brown bear.
Schindemann walked over to stand at Martel's shoulder and joined the detective in pondering the view of downtown Scotstown. "A naked kid with a gun. And nobody knows what she looked like," he said.
Martel, with a lifeless chuckle, "Precisely because she was naked and carrying a gun."
Schindemann: "You know what she looks like?"
Martel offered a handful of 8x10 photographs: "No problem there. John must have a million pictures in the apartment. All nudes, of course. He used to brag on them. He liked to show his prize pictures to the guys at the League hall. It was obvious she was a kid. He seemed to have a tight lid on it all. Why stir up shit - that was my thinking anyway. He had home-made videos, too. But he only showed them to the guys he trusted. We didn't know she was a love slave stashed in his apartment. I figured she was a handy neighbor's kid."
Schindemann, taking one of the photographs: "Looks like an ordinary little girl to me. I wouldn't call her a beauty. I wonder what ..."
Martel: "Maybe he fell for her when he found she could be got. Availability might've made her very attractive to him." His eyes lingered on another photograph in his hand for a couple seconds. "She's not all that bad, though. Like you said, an ordinary kid."
Schindemann giving the photograph back to him: "It's just as well nobody said anything. We didn't need a department scandal." Pause. "I didn't need a department scandal."
He studied the stuffed bear. "Um, you don't know who she is, do you?"
Martel shuffled through the stack of papers at his feet. He pulled out a large manila envelope. "As a matter of fact, I do." He withdrew some papers and shuffled through them until he found what he was looking for. "Name's Margaret Campos. She's eleven. He has her complete history here."
Schindemann: "Her parents going to be a problem for us?
Martel: "I doubt it very much. He had them by the balls. He discovered her through his internet kid-porn fixation. Recognized some local background scenes in the videos. He was good with computers; helped with his fixation. Through one source and another he was able to trace the maker of the video. A local guy, Jay Coleman. John leaned on him and got the girl's name. I checked: Coleman's gone now. Disappeared right after John outed him.
"Anyway, John got from Coleman that the parents had agreed to using her in the porn stuff. They had some heavy money problems. Five kids; and one of them has MD or MS or some such. Keeps them broke. Evidently Margaret wasn't one of their favorites, so when this Jay offered them a little cash as incentive, they agreed to his using her in his movies. John picked up on this right off."
He held out one of the papers. "John knew how to take advantage of an edge, all right. Made them sign a paper releasing her to him ... with a full understanding of what he intended to do with the girl. It's all here in writing."
Schindemann: "Hold onto that one. If they try to make a stink, they'd still be fucked. By the way, not that it matters, in any of those papers does it say what the kid thought about doing porn?"
Tris: "No. I sampled a video she'd made for Coleman - it was in DeKalb's collection. She didn't look unhappy. In fact, it looked to me like she was having fun." Shrugging his shoulders, "It was a movie; maybe she's just a good actress. It's hard to tell. She sure looked good at what she was doing."
Schindemann, fondling the bear again: "Can't help feeling a little sorry for her though."
Martel, looking out the window again: "She killed a cop."
Schindemann: "She is only eleven years old. And he was a real shit-ass."
Martel, shrugging: "But he was a cop ... and she killed him."
Schindemann: "Yeah, and in the end it really doesn't matter if she liked the fucking or not. As I see her, she's a disaster waiting to happen." Studying the bear. "There's something ..."
Martel looked back at him.
"The apartment can be scrubbed. Burn the bears, you know. But as of this moment, she's a 'mystery woman'. There's some talk about what happened up here. The shots, the naked kid."
Martel: "Jay Coleman is gone. The Campos' are out of the picture. She's not even on any milk cartons."
Schindemann: "Right. As it stands now, it's just one twisted cop, and an unknown girl without strings. Like you say, the parents won't say anything. No one knows about the permanent housing arrangement. There'll be no questions about how much we might have known, or how long it was going on. Sex with a kid; it's his personal scandal. We're just as shocked as everybody else ... aren't we? Fine upstanding police officer and all. Who knew he had a secret life? It'll fade if we stand firm; nobody cares about the personal scandal of a lonely dead cop. Except ..."
Martel: "Margaret Campos knows."
Schindemann: "Right, Margaret Campos knows."
Quiet but for the sound of a slamming car door in the street below.
Schindemann: "If she's caught and brought in to face charges, things wouldn't go light for her - even if she's just a kid. The murder had to be planned; premeditated."
Martel said nothing.
Schindemann, laughing: "But she'd be questioned. The scab would be opened." Then decisively, "The department seems to be in crisis, Tris. It'd be better for us if she weren't brought in." Pause. "But she's out there ... sort of a loose canon ... you know what I mean?
Martel: "You're going to have to say it."
Schindemann shrugging this time, "For us, it would be better all around if she was dead."
After a second's pause, Schindemann again: "She's as good as dead anyway, poor kid. She'd have no kind of life if the world knew who she was and what she did."
Martel, tossing the papers, pictures, and videos into a box: "You want me to kill her, George?"
Schindemann: "'Subtle' isn't in your dictionary is it Tris. But, yeah, that's about it. I'd appreciate it if you terminated her."
Martel, coldly: "No problem. It's what I do. I'll take care of it for you."
Schindemann: "I'd feel comforted if I knew for sure ..."
Martel: "I'll make sure you're in on it."
*****
Once upon a Time, Margaret
4
The Hunt Begins
Start where the trail begins. Always the obvious first. The obvious is always the simplest.
No dogs. She plowed through the water. But that's no big deal. Dogs could've followed the banks and picked up where she got out. But dogs aren't simple. Too many cooks. And too much noise. Too everything. Like Sherman's war. It doesn't matter what the quarry's thinking.
I like to know what the quarry's thinking. I need to know what the quarry's thinking. Just me and him ... Just me and her.
The real challenge of police work. Prove that he ... she is the less. Don't have to stew about what to do next. It doesn't matter. He's the less ... She's the less. It's over.
She knew what John was thinking. He had her parents by the balls. But she had him by the balls. Only eleven years old. Ordinary. School records average. Thanks, Judy Hemphill, for letting me see your grade book last night. I know what Judy thinks, too.
Ordinary eleven year old kid. But she was female. She knew what he was about. John was the less. She was trapped. She was thinking sharp. Not the best. But sharp.
I don't need an eleven year old kid to fulfill my fantasies. I don't have fantasies. I have Burns Hill Bar and Grill. And the likes of Judy Hemphill ... and the others. My Margaret doesn't know what I'm about. I'm not the less.
But she's on the run. She knows she's being chased. She still has to think. So she's still sharp. She's only an ordinary eleven year old kid, but she's a challenge. She's not the less ... yet.
357 magnum long barrel revolver. 30-06 hunting rifle with scope and 5 round clip. Holster, extra ammo. Rubber boots. Camouflage hooded hunting jacket. Sweater and gloves (Mid-August, but rain and/or cool nights were possible). Long range binoculars. Two waterproof flashlights and extra batteries. Compass. Backpacks. Usual hunting/hiking supplies (matches, t.p. etc.). Sleeping bag and extra blankets to be kept in car; Tris didn't intend to camp out unless in hot pursuit. He'd be in radio touch with the sheriff's office, so he might be interrupting the chase to investigate other leads. Each night he planned to return to his van for a few hours rest.
Will she stay in the woods?
When he was checking out his gear from the sheriff's vault, the clerk commented conversationally, "Deer hunting? You're from New York, aren't you? I wouldn't have thought of you as a woodsman or deer hunter."
Tris, with the shadow of a sardonic smile, "Never been deer hunting. Never been a woodsman. But I know jungles. And I hunt people."
Something in the way Martel spoke those words chilled the clerk to the core.
Witnesses said that when the naked girl hit the creek, she was headed upstream. Logical, the stream empties into the river just south of town. No place to go but up.
In August, the creek was relatively narrow and shallow - averaging maybe ten feet wide and less than a foot deep, with deeper three to four foot pools here and there along the way. Beyond the town, in farm country, the creek was a little narrower. A strip of woods bordered each side of the creek through both the town and a mile or so of farm country. The woods soon expanded and became the prominent feature of the land, a forest. This particular area was designated a National Forest; development was limited, and there was good deer hunting here. Bordering the forest were more farmlands and here and there isolated subdivisions and small towns. The area was fast becoming "civilized". Many people in this area commuted to work in the larger cities and towns in the general area.
Tris stopped by Schindemann's office to let him know the hunt was starting.
"Got any idea of how long this is going to take?" Schindemann asked.
Martel: "Nervous?"
Schindemann, chuckling: "Yeah, I am, Tris."
Martel: "No telling exactly. You know that. She had to have a plan of some kind, I figure. But it could've been no more than a vague direction. I want to get to know her pattern - and her general direction, maybe; then I can anticipate her. She might try to contact some of the porn gang. Some of the guys could review the old videos in John's collection. Might recognize a local kid."
Schindemann: "The fewer in on this the better. Because of the way it's going to end. I know the families around here pretty good - I'm a politician, you know. If I have time, I'll look a few of the videos over. I'll let you know if I find anything."
Martel nodded. "Whatever. Anyway, today's Friday; I figure it's all be over in a week. She's got to reach out. She's naked; she might be looking for clothes. Not desperate yet, though. The elements aren't a problem so far, unless we get a good rain like last week. But no matter what, she has to eat. That's where I think I can anticipate her." He paused, then: "It might help if you monitor police reports for house break-ins, especially if food is stolen ... or kid clothes. You can call me, but I'll check in periodically, so keep a list handy." Thoughtful. "Yeah, about a week should do it - if things go as I anticipate."
Schindemann: "There might be some naked-kid sightings. I'd rather there weren't. I'd as soon the public not be thinking of that day or that the cop-killing kid might still be around. The earlier she starts to fade away the better it is for what we have to do."
Martel: "For what I have to do, you mean."
Schindemann: "Of course. But remember, I want be there too." Pause. "Still, for our purposes I suppose it'd probably be better if she didn't get clothes for awhile. Naked she stands out. With her plain-Jane looks, in clothes she can fade into the crowd."
Martel: "Either way, she's got no place to go. An eleven year old kid on the run has to syphon off the regular world."
Martel rose and moved toward the door. He turned back to Schindemann. "Just keep those reports ready for me ... including naked-kid sightings." Musing, "But you want to know something? I've got this gut feeling she's not going to be wanting clothes. I think she'll stay naked." A wry chuckle - "Until she dies."
Schindemann: "That's weird, isn't it? Why would she want to stay naked?"
Martel: "Like I said, a gut feeling."
Yeah, she'll stay naked till she dies. I would. It defines her.
*****
Martel drove his SUV through a shortcut web of soft-top back-country county roads to a new subdivision that bordered on the National Forest upstream on the same creek the girl was on - about four crow-fly miles upstream from the bridge. A County officer accompanied him in a marked squad car, and then gave him a lift back to the starting point. Martel would make regular arrangements for such shuttle assistance as required by the progress of the chase.
Back in town the officer dropped him off at the bridge; and without fanfare or resolute pause, Martel quickly and easily negotiated the muddy slope to the stream below. Then, after hiking up the rifle slung on one shoulder, he set off on the same route Margaret had taken after her escape.
But he wasn't naked. And his boots protected him from the stream's hidden hazards. A little way farther on, he was quick to note the appearance of fresh blood smears on rocks protruding above the creek's surface.
*****
Episode Guide
Part One
1. Escape; 2. Introductions; 3. Contract; 4. The Hunt Begins
Part Two
5. Pursuit - and The View from a Deer Stand
Part Three
6. Hesitation; 7. Interlude; 8. The Plan; 9. The Execution
Part Four
10. Beginning