Chapter 12
Now that Jackson had tied up Carrie's unconscious, sperm-splattered body in his newly discovered hideout in a condemned house two blocks away, directly under the thundering underpass, he congratulated himself on a job well done. His white teeth sparkled gloatingly as he listened to the fire trucks scream their sirens and screech to a halt in front of the flaming apartment building that moments before had been Carrie Tarrington's prison. Standing in the glass cage phone booth, fingering a slender dime, he could see red fingers licking at the endless void of the night skies, bathing the city in a hideous orange glow and choking it with smoke as the building exploded into flames like a dried Christmas tree.
All of Berkeley was aware of the five alarm fire-especially Dr. Tarrington who sat half drunk and fully expecting the telephone to scream shrilly as he stared with numbed fear at the smoky clouds rising from the flatlands below. Was his dear, sweet little Carrie in there, screaming for help while the flames licked at her quivering flesh? His lip curled back in a snarl of hatred for her abductors while his house, infested with policemen, FBI agents and newsmen, turned into an ant hill of activity. Their poking around his house and flicking cigarette ashes on his Persian carpets was beginning to annoy him. To them Carrie's kidnap was just another headline story from Berkeley; none of them cared if his wife was dead at the hands of a black man.
All mouths clamped shut and several pairs of anxious eyes greedy for a story, a clue, fell on Dr. Tarrington as he carefully picked up the ringing telephone receiver and answered it in a voice shaky with fear and emotion.
". . . Leave the bills in a garbage bag in the dumpster in back of Sammie's Cafeteria on San Pablo. You get your hot-assed little wife back two hours after the pick-up. You fool around with cops and shit and you ain't never gonna see her sweet little face again."
Instantly, Dr. Tarrington recognized the uneducated, obscene language of a ghetto black filled with perverse hatred for all white men and he shuddered and shivered as if a blast of Arctic wind had gusted through the opened door.
Carrie wasn't the only one in misery that night as the moon rose from its watery grave and splattered light over the murky Bay waters.
Una Hart stomped up the steps to her apartment, her heart throbbing with agonizing rejection and her fists clenching with hatred for a man whom she had trusted. "The disloyal, cheating, double-crossing mother fucker!" she sputtered, her lungs burning from the brisk walk back from the hideout which Jackson had set afire without contacting any of them about his change in plans. Now she knew why he hadn't called her as planned.
She hated herself for believing in Jackson and being sucked in by his jive talk of freeing black people from white oppression. He d never planned on going underground or dedicating his life to the cause, she thought. Hell no! It didn't take the investigative brain of Holmes to figure out that Jackson was about to take the money and run, leaving the rest of them to face the fireworks.
Una poured herself a glass of wine, drank it in one gulp and refilled it. I've got to get out of here before the FBI closes in on us. If they catch Jackson hell sure an hell turn states' evidence on me and I'll be the one to rot in prison. She'd been rejected, cheated and her life stretched ahead of her like a barren desert highway leading into a dark void of nothingness. Her misaimed mind refused to believe the obvious-the cause was dead.
I can go to South Africa and start up a new branch of SALM there. But no . . . I'm White . . . nobody would trust me. . . especially the blacks. Or . . . I could go to Rio and find myself a rich man who'd support me.
Una sat for long moments, nervously peeling the label from the wine bottle with her slender thumb nail. And if I go to Rio, what then? I won't fit into that crowd . . . nobody down there takes anything seriously. Nobody cares about things as seriously as I do. What's life but a cruel, dirty joke.. . " She snickered bitterly to herself, the skin of her fair-complexioned face feeling tight with infinite emptiness, her eyes open but seeing nothing in the black vacuum of life.
Slowly, deliberately, she rose from her bed and strode to her dresser where she opened the top drawer and pulled out a bottle, uncapped it and shook out several morphine tablets from the stash that Carl had melted down to drug Carrie Tarrington. Draining the wine bottle to the dregs, she threw a handful of yellow capsules into her mouth and washed them down with the wine.
Death is the only true romance, she thought, lying supine on the bed. Now I'm going to sleep for a long, long time . . . Finally I'll have somewhere to go.
As Una fell into a deep comatose slumber, Peter Goldberg pulled his pistol from the desk drawer, slammed it shut, and filled the barrel with bullets, his fingers working deftly, his mind calculating. In two years of working as an undercover agent for the FBI he had yet to shoot a man and squeamishly he hoped he wouldn't have to point this barrel between the eyes of the poor, messed-up Una Hart . . . or Carl and James, Jackson's white puppets.
I want Carrie alive! It's my fault I let Jackson have her in the first place, but by God, I'll find her!
FBI headquarters had telephoned minutes before, informing him that in the commotion of the fire trucks, congested traffic and idle onlookers, they had lost Jackson's trail. Whether or not Carrie Tarrington's fine white flesh had disintegrated into a charcoaled mass of ashes and bones, they weren't certain. The fire would have to be extinguished before they could surmise.
His only hope of getting to Jackson were James and Carl who were gullible and short-sighted enough to be talked into anything . . . including turning state's evidence on Jackson and clearing their names. Neither had been in the kidnapping car or harmed Carrie in any way. Like Una, they were Jackson's buffoons, extension of his own screwed up ego. But, with typical institutional blunderings, the FBI had lost track of Carl and James who, unbeknownst to Una and Peter, had defied Jackson, left no word of their whereabouts and snuck out of Jackson's apartment. To further complicate matters, he couldn't reach Una who was either not at home or wasn't answering her telephone. Nobody knew the two SALM members were sitting in a San Pablo street bar heatedly discussing over a pitcher of beer and amateur country and western music what to do next.
Finally, with their bellies full of beer and their minds buzzing with fury at the ex-con black leader whom Una hinted would cheat them out of their fair share of the ransom money, they zipped up their jackets and headed out into the crime-ridden area of town where hookers sported their wares and drunks guzzled Thunderbird wine.
Maybe the FBI didn't know it, but they were positive Jackson wouldn't send his hostage up in flames when she was worth a million dollars alive. Certain, too, that Jackson was traveling on foot, they set out in search of Carrie Tarrington, knowing that whoever had her had the million dollars.
The weight of the pistols dragged in their down jackets and the combination of marijuana and alcohol had imbued the pair with King Kong courage as they tromped down dingy alleyways, dark and silent except for the occasional bark of a warehouse Doberman pinscher keeping guard and the scratch of rats scouring trash cans and littered debris in search of food.
Difficult it was for Jackson to realize so much had happened in ninety minutes: moving Carrie to this flea-infested deserted house hidden under the shadows of unlit street lamps, burning down the evidence of his former hideout, and making arrangements for picking up the ransom money tomorrow. Now, safe, nervous and slightly out of breath, he lay on the tattered bed next to Carrie's shivering, sleep-stirring body and listened to the crackling fire raging out of control, its flying sparks lighting up the skies like Fourth of July fireworks.
Carrie was half awake, he realized, squinting at her bruised face splashed with orange light and encrusted with dried sperm, and her tied-up body looked mangled as a broken doll in her ripped blouse and wrinkled skirt. Her hideous condition and vulnerable frailty flinted a spark of sadism in his black heart.
There's only one thing I ain't done with this white bitch, he thought triumphantly.. . . and I ain't gonna go to Morocco until I finish her off.
Carrie's half-conscious body didn't feel the rough hands momentarily untie her wrists and ankles and flip her over like a breakfast pancake. She groaned slightly from the dizzying after-effects of the morphine and the mind shattering fatigue of fear and rape she'd suffered at the hands of this madman. Only when she felt the calloused hands tie her wrists again with the ropes of her twisted nylon stockings, did she open one green eye to see her tormentor slip out of his pants and drop to his knees in back of her on the squeaking, dust-filthy mattress.
With painful tantalizing slowness, Jackson let out an obscene moan and ran his long bony finger along the soft crevice of Carrie's buttocks, his ragged finger nail searching for and finding the puckered buttonhole of her anus. She lurched, winced, and gave in to the pain as he probed at the tiny hole, wriggling his probing finger into the tight elastic opening, his black body shimmering with unholy intent as the fire played over his shadowy figure.
His words stung her consciousness, but only for a moment. "I'm gonna fuck that white ass of yours, Mrs. Tarrington," he spat menacingly. "I'm gonna shove my cock up that tight ass hole of yours and squirt my black cum into your asshole. . . and when your bigoted husband gets you back, I want you to tell him how much you love ol' Jackson's cock."
Propped up on his knees, Jackson stroked with his free hand his hardened penis until it stood out in a forty-five degree angle, hard and black as a chunk of coal. It wouldn't take much taunting to get her going now, he knew, and for the pleasure of seeing her squirm out of control, he lowered his head, his kinky hair tickling deliciously the split of her buttocks as he shot out his long rough tongue and lathed it over the puckered bud of her most intimate parts.
A shiver of vulnerable delight goose bumped Carrie's body and with a growl, Jackson ripped off her blouse in one yank, wadded it up, and threw it in the corner. Her skirt came next, joining her blouse in a wrinkled heap like so much old newspaper.
Oh Lord, whimpered Carrie silently. What kind of block magic does this man use? I can't take much more of this. But she could . . .
Jackson slithered one long hand underneath her buttocks to cup her pubic mound and stretched one finger to massage the bud of her clitoris, still slippery and swollen from the last time he'd raped her only two hours before. Or was it two days.. . ? Oh, she couldn't be sure of anything . . . except for the electrical sparks of lust charging over her body from the tips of her hardened nipples to the ends of her chestnut pubic curls matted with Jackson's dried cum.
With a savage grunt, Jackson dropped his hand from the mushroom tip of his black mushroomed cock head, raised a finger to his mouth and spat on it, then rubbed his saliva over the puckered hole of Carrie's anus, the only lubrication she was to receive.
"Get up on your knees, bitch!" he growled, slapping her creamy ass-cheeks cruelly till Carrie, with a groan of real pain, wriggled her buttocks compliantly and rose painfully to her knees.
"Higher!" he blasted, grabbing her around the waist and forcing her into a dog-like position until she thought her spine would snap.
Oh, dear God, he's really going to do it! He's going to put his big black thing in me back there! Carrie had never heard of anal sex, but her tormentor was preparing her for the initiation.
To fight meant more pain, more humiliation, and she winced only slightly when he pulled her legs wide apart and levered himself between her creamy thighs, aiming his blood-bloated penis straight at the eye of her rectum and pressured relentlessly against the skinned resistance.
"Oooooucchh! You're hurting meeee!" Carrie gave out one yell of anguish as the bloated head of his penis popped through the elastic rim of her anus and wriggled cruelly into the buttery depths of her bowels. The first stab of pain was too numbing to register in her swirling brain and she merely bit her lips and whimpered submissively . . . a broken woman with a broken spirit and shattered morals. A wave of self-hatred began to splash over her brain, but it didn't have a chance to crash against her fragile psyche, for a second wave of pain swelled in her bowels as the cruel rapist shoved his penis with a flick of his hips, banging her head into the iron posts of the headboard.
He's going to rip me apart.. . he.. . he's going to rum me forever! her mind wailed. But I deserve it! I don't deserve to ever have sex with Edward or to have his children. I'm a disgusting woman. I'm as crude and lustful as Jackson. I'm worse . . . he was born with nothing and I was born with everything. He doesn't know any better . . . but I should.
Her thoughts were shattered with the next thundering plunge of Jackson's blood-fed cock gouging into her tender rectal walls, sending a charge of pain up her spine that nearly made her gag. Gnashing her pearly teeth, she clenched her anal muscles, trying to squeeze him out and was immediately rewarded by a lecherous grunt from the pumping madman behind her.
"You got natural talent, lady. You're gonna make ol' Jackson cum if you don't quit squeezing my cock like that!"
"Never! I'd never try to please you!" she yelled. "NEVER!" And to cut off his pleasure, she relaxed her anal muscles until her anus expanded a full two inches. Jackson continued fucking into the depths of her bowels like waves crashing against rocky cliffs. To her dismay, the pain lifted like fog on a dewy morning and the yellow glow of carnal bliss pierced through her agony. She screamed out, more from the mental anguish of her masochistic lust than from the physical pain of her anal rape.
Out in the alleyway Carl stopped short in his tracks, drew out his pistol (though he'd never shot a gun in his life) and halted James with a gestured hand. Putting his finger to his lips, he crooked his head, shaking his blonde hair out of his eyes, and motioned toward the ramshackle house facing the alley. Stealthy as alley cats they stole toward a first story window and peered in.
The two of them stared slack jawed as the fire-lit skies shimmered over Jackson's naked ebony back and he pounded into the hostage's tortured anus, cries of mixed pain and pleasure rippling from her parched lips like squeals from an animated doll.
"Jesus Christ!" James stood on his tip toes and peered over the cracked window ledge. "He's fucking her in the ass!" he hissed.
"Hell, yeah! God, what a honey!" returned Carl, feeling his penis lurch enviously. "Fuck the money. I want a piece of that ass! Christ, look at the way she's takin' it!"
Guns drawn, their nylon jackets rustling in soft whispers, they drew their guns and tip toed in Addida-soft steps up the rickety steps of the house and took Jackson by surprise.