Chapter 8
"Dear God, this is a nightmare!" the terrified young wife screamed in silent panic as the yellow university car lurched around the cul-de-sac edged with flower beds within sight of the political science building, then slunk through a mass of students headed for class. Where her abductors were headed seemed a silly question: blood was throbbing in her temples so fiercely that she couldn't see anything but dizzy blobs of swirling color through the rolled-up car window, and she was in far too severe a state of shock for coherent, Holmes-inspired thought.
The gray-haired university policeman stationed at the north entrance sat munching on a falafel as the university car paused at the congested exit, but any thought Carrie Tarrington might have held about crying out for help was quickly squelched by the sensation of the ice-cold steel gun butt prodding against the nylon-covered flesh of her inner thigh. Her mouth fell open as she stifled a scream of terror, and when the university policeman glanced in through the glass, he winked at the young couple in the back seat.
Times sure are changing, he smiled to himself as he took another bite of his falafel. Christ, he's got his hand up her skirt! They're probably headed to some cheap motel for a lunch hour quickie.
The black skinned gunman beside Carrie spoke for the first time as the car careened through the green light of University Avenue and squealed around a corner onto a less-traveled street. "Shut up, bitch," he barked, "or I'm gonna pump your pussy full of lead!"
Carrie's fear-widened eyes rose toward her captor's face for the first time since he'd come behind her in the bushes outside of her husband's office building and jabbed a gun in her ribs. She shivered at the cold cruelty in his glinting black eyes. Having never sat next to a black man before, she cringed as his hot breath bathed her neck and she could feel each one of his heavy heart beats as he held her clamped to his chest.
This isn't real! her tortured mind wailed again. I'm going crazy and having some dreadful hallucination!
Carrie wasn't the only person in the car wondering if he was hallucinating. At the driver's wheel Peter Goldberg gawked slack-jawed in the rear view mirror at the ashen faced, unforgettably innocent Vassar coed he'd plotted to ravish three years back. Now he was an accomplice to her abduction! For a moment he had to remind himself that he was on the right side of the law this time, for a panicky feeling of de ja vue mingled with his sympathy for Carrie made him want to grab his own gun and blow Jackson's head off! He hated Jackson and Una and every frustrated militant-minded idiot who grabbed people indiscriminately and tagged a name to their silly cause to rationalize sadistically toying with others lives. Jackson . . . what tortures would he subject Carrie to? Rape? Murder? Send locks of her beautiful chestnut curls to her poor, grieving husband and then snicker at his anguish?
Carrie Kelly . . . he remembered, with a tingle in his loins, her soft femininity . . . her staunch Irish Catholic morals. Yes, she had admired him for his disciplined mind and had even flirted with his lofty ideals, but radicalism wasn't in her blood. Now, simply because she'd married Dr. Tarrington she would probably end up with a slit throat stuffed in the trunk of a stolen car or dropped into the Bay with cement blocks chained to her slender white ankles . . . food for the sharks.
Oh, it is inhuman!
He stared back at her reflection, thankful that she hadn't recognized him. Had he aged that much? he wondered with an insipid concern which his rational mind quickly rebuked. If Carrie ended up fish fodder in the Bay, he had only himself to blame. Wasn't it he who overrode his superior's judgment by insisting that the FBI let the terrorists perform their kidnap before moving in for the arrest?
Carrie's throat felt as if a noose were tightening around the silken white skin there. Five minutes ago she'd been smelling the geraniums while strolling along toward her husband's office when-no! It couldn't really be happening-she was imprisoned in a university car driven by a white man while a maniacal black shoved his gun right up against the crotch band of her panties!
Carrie's relish colored eyes were blurred with unshed tears as she stared fixedly at the floor of the car, desperately trying to comprehend the reality of her predicament.
The automobile jerked around many corners, zigzagging down residential blocks like a rat in a researcher's maze, swerving out of cyclists' paths and around parked cars. The frightened Bostonian wife glanced out the window to see the disheveled looking homes somewhere west of campus where the freeways interlaced overhead like so many gray shoestrings. Sprinkled amongst the cracked windowed homes and deserted broken-down cars, were factories, warehouses and gutted out buildings wearing 'condemned' signs.
Then, as the black man's steaming breath flushed her soft neck, she felt him lean closer until his gun teased at the sensitive, panty-protected flesh of her vagina and she felt so nauseated that she closed her eyes and prayed to every holy saint Saturday Catechism had taught her to trust.
"Well, Mrs. Tarrington, the driver said without turning his head and carefully avoiding the rear view mirror. "Here we are. Your new home." Christ, I wish I could blow that sonofabitch 's head off right now, but like a stupid idiot I put my gun under the hack seat! So help me, if he touches her. . . .
The newlywed trembled violently as flickers of late night private detective movies flitted through her head. They're going to rape me right here outside of this dingy warehouse!
A cold, metallic object pressured against her soft inner arm, and the brunette's head whirled around to see the driver's face for the first time. Peter Goldberg! A scream of recognition tore from her glossy red lips when she noticed the hypodermic syringe he was wielding with ominous intent. What kind of maniac has he turned into, her mind screamed when an icy twinge of horror gave way to a yelp of pain as he sank the gleaming silver needle into her yielding flesh. Hopeless sobs of despair rumbled from her chest as her body gave way to the numbing effects of the drug meant to dull her senses.
Christ, I hated to do that! Peter started up the car again, jolting over the curb so violently that the kidnapped girl's already paralyzed teeth rattled and her slender body tensed in fear. Within minutes, however, she sank lifelessly to the floor of the car, a rainbow carousel of color spinning dizzily through her narcotic-numbed brain.
The smog-littered sky blocked out most of the stars studding the night skies; only the slivered moon pierced down from the heavens to streak in through the smudged windows of the San Pablo Avenue apartment, its unearthly radiance intermingling oddly with the neon lights and car headlights of the low-rent, congested area.
Jackson, his tightly cut levis hanging around his black bony knees as he fondled his stud-sized penis, was staring in bestial anticipation at the limp, thoroughly drugged figure of the elegant Mrs. Tarrington.
"You're one foxy chick, baby," he muttered, a greedy, Cheshire grin passing across his sharp-featured face. "I think your ol' man's gonna pay plenty to get you back in one piece."
With his left hand, he reached out and yanked the unconscious brunette's skirt up around her tiny waist, simultaneously skinning back his dark foreskin to massage the bulging head of his blood-throbbing cock. Beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead as his black eyes feasted on the perfectly molded white curves of her nylon-covered legs, letting his gaze linger for long minutes on the rich swell of her hips and her girlish white-lace garter belt. Jackson could hardly believe he, a ghetto-born black man was in the presence of this holy white woman . . . and she was his property now!
"Jes' you wait, cunt," he leered, reaching toward the row of buttons which fastened the bodice of her silk blouse. "When you open them white eyes of yours, you're gonna be starin' at one hunk of black flesh!"
Just before his black bony fingers touched the voluptuous mounds of the young prisoner's gently heaving breasts, Jackson exerted an immense effort of will and pulled his trembling hand away. Then he zipped up his fly, stuffing the swollen black genitals behind the zipper and sucked in his breath. His penis ached in its denim trap, but he tried to ignore the pressure. Much as he longed to rape this vulnerable white bride, his greed and ego-mania overwhelmed his lust.
With a final sneer at the lush female figure sprawled out on the unwashed foam rubber mattress, the kinky-haired terrorist picked up the alligator handbag which had fallen on the floor beside her. A little spasm of anger flooded through his animalish veins as he realized that Mrs. Tarrington's clothes and accessories were worth more than his father's monthly salary.. . which fed nine hungry children. This woman had probably never gotten her hands dirty, had no idea what it was like to eat turnip greens and beans instead of steak and champagne . . . or to see your father beating your mother in a drunken fit of frustration from not being able to find work. Shit, she didn't know a goddamned thing about life. But she'd learn . . .
Then, as he dumped her purse open, its contents vomiting out, he forgot his bitterness and centered on his greed. Christ, the woman was carrying five hundred dollars in travelers cheques.. . not to mention the VISA, BANAKAMERICARD, and MASTER CHARGE cards!
Jackson was joyfully counting out the green bills and stuffing them in his pockets when he heard footsteps on the rickety steps leading to the second floor apartment with a 'Condemned by Berkeley Fire Department' sign on the front. That would be James and Carl, he reasoned; Una would still be in Dr. Tarrington's office trying to console the poor bastard, and Peter was writing a communique to be sent to the local radio station. That kept the newcomer out of the way.
Carl and James were out of breath by the time they reached the top of the squeaking stairs.
"Did ya get the car back to the university car pool?" demanded the terrorist leader.
The two nodded simultaneously. "We've even got the release slip," put in Carl, fumbling for it in his pocket, the slender beam of his penlight cutting lightning streaks through the dark, dank interior of the chilly condemned apartment.
"For Chrissakes, don't go carrying evidence like that around in your pockets, you dumb ass!" glowered Jackson, the whites of his black eyes scintillating marbly like an alley cat in the night.
Neither youth seemed to hear him, for they'd craned their necks to look through the doorway at the limply lying female form. Carrie's mouth hung open and the red highlights of her chestnut curls flamed in the dim light of the kerosene lantern sit-ting on the dusty floor next to her, bathing the room in an eerie, flickering glow that reminded the shivering Carl of his grandmother's wake.
James whistled in appreciation. "Shit, man. What a piece of ass! That wedding picture didn't do her justice!"
"Nobody's playing cupid . . . " Carrie was Jackson's prize, as were the contents of her pocket-book, and he wasn't about to let these white honkies touch her until he'd savored a piece of her white meat himself. "Get your asses out of here before the place starts swarming with cops. We don't wanna blow it now. How's Peter doin' with the commui-" Jackson couldn't remember the word. "That damned ransom note . . . "
"He's over at your place workin' on it now." Carl flicked on his penlight and streaked it down the steps to make certain no rats crossed his path. "Ain't you coming with us?" demanded the blonde haired militant in an almost belligerent tone. "You don't wanna stay here with her . . . if the cops come . . . "
"Somebody's gotta stay to keep guard, stupid. She'll be conscious before morning." Then, in an attempt to mollify his compatriots, Jackson added: "Take some of this money and score yourselves some good dope." His black paw plunged into his bulging Levi pocket to draw out two twenty dollar bills.
The wide-nosed leader breathed a sigh of relief as, with a number of backward glances over Carrie Tarrington's shapely body, Carl and James tip-toed down the rickety steps and walked off into the blackened night.
I been waitin' for this, gloated Jackson. This white southern cracker's gonna be crunchin' under my jaws when she comes to!
With deftly fingered delight, Jackson removed the prisoner's gold watch, her diamond engagement ring and gold wedding band, and the diamond-studded chain from around her neck. Carrie stirred slightly at the feel of his cold fingers prodding her ivory-white neck, but her eyes remained shut. The expensive jewels were stuffed in his pockets along with the credit cards and money and Jackson calculated gleefully how much they would bring at Fat Eddie's Pawn Shop down in East Oakland.
Jackson couldn't help but feel smug. His wide features broke into a self-congratulatory grin. Jackson McBee was no common pimp pandering girls down on McArthur Boulevard and driving a dented up black Cadillac. No, sir! Pimping, pushing drugs . . . that was kid's stuff. He was in the big league now . . . working with people with brains, making a name for himself. Yeah, it's my trip.. . he gloated. It's all my trip! Ain't nobody gonna call Jackson stupid no more. . .
Once again he jerked down the zipper of his jeans to stroke his horse-sized pulsating pole of hard black maledom. If the morphine worked normally, she would be awakening in about twenty minutes, leaving him just enough time to strip her down and tie her up. Christ, he hoped he didn't squirt it off before then! The thought of ramming his cock into the helplessly bound rich white bitch was giving him the wildest hard-on he'd had since a forty year old hooker took his virginity at the age of twelve.
Working fast as his bony fingers could, the abductor quickly eased off his unconscious victim's clothing to reveal the creamy whiteness of her pure, virginal body. A few curling tendrils of soft brown hair stuck out through the elastic leg bands of her tiny white bikinis, and his long tongue flicked over his thick parched lips as he stared at the mountain of her vaginal mound. His two big black hands tugged the fragile bikini panties down over her well rounded hips and down over her shapely calves . . . clear down to her slender ankles, letting his animalish eyes feast on the pouting mound of her untouched cuntal lips.
Jackson's cock gave a vigorous lurch of appreciation as he stared down at Mrs. Tarrington's inert figure, clad now in a girlishly proper white lace garter belt, sheer stockings, and white lace brassiere, all fresh and white as her virginity. This was not the first time Jackson had violated a woman-though never a woman as innocent looking and fresh as this one. Within seconds, he'd pulled off the silk stockings and bound her slim wrists and ankles with firm square knots. Now, when she woke up, she wouldn't be able to move anything but her head.
The hard muscled ex-San Quentin-convict-turned-terrorist saved the white creamy mounds of Carrie's strawberry tipped breasts for desert. With lingering, mouthwatering slowness, he unhooked the flimsy lace brassiere, his bony fingers working clumsily at the tiny white hooks, finally ripping them off in his frustration. His black hands crushed the succulent ivory-white mountains of soft, flesh, squeezing them until her pliant feminine flesh oozed between his grasping fingertips; the excitement of using this unconscious woman according to his own lustful whims caused his penis to stiffen into iron-hard readiness.
Christ, she's got big tits! he exclaimed in silent delight. On a sudden lewd impulse, the sex-maddened man sank his livery mouth down against the pink buds of her proudly straining twin flesh mounds, twirling his long tongue over the tiny tautening nipples until he was rewarded by a low, almost imperceptible moan uttered between her slightly parted lips.
She's coming to! he exalted. And she's gonna rake up to see one hell of a hard-on! Ain't no white honky got a cock like ol Jackson!
True! His blood engorged ebony cock was dangling directly over the white girl's flat white belly and, with a quick flick of his slim hips, Jackson let the lust swollen spear slide up to her melon round breasts, then back down over her satiny smooth body and slightly spread thighs. A thin trickle of pearly pre-cum smeared ominously over the girl's nakedly magnificent loins, like the opening chapter of a pornographic novel. Carrie shivered in her drug-induced stupor, her comatose mind dreaming of a wet, slimy snake crawling all over her naked body.
Now! Jackson thought excitedly. Now! He reached up and ceremoniously tore his crocheted hat from his kinky black hair and carefully set it next to the kerosene lantern sending red flickers of light over the spooky silence of the filthy room where the roar of freeway traffic overhead reverberated like the low, steady roar of a lion.
He bent down, his knotted black hair mingling with the clean, perfumed chestnut curls of Carrie Tarrington's sparsely-haired pussy, then sighed in lewd ecstasy as his velvety tongue darted out to part the silky curls as if he were God parting the Red Sea. In a minute, he'd made contact with ocean's floor, running his tongue over the coral pink flesh of her fresh tasting vaginal lips and was kicking his muscle bound legs free of his levis as shamelessly he buried his head between her silken thighs.
I'll show her what a black man got that no white dude never though t of havin'. That impotent ol' man of hers never done to her, I'll bet.. .