Born to Lose (3 page)

Kathy, a high schooler who'd never been on a date—wasn't yet allowed to date—was struck with her worst fear. “I can't, I can't, oh please … I've never been … my Dad, it's important that … I'm a virgin …” Her staccato response did nothing to dissuade. Bill put his hand to her forehead and pushed her down on the ground, the cold wet seeping through her handmade culottes. Standing over her, gun again in her face, Bill repeated, quieter this time, “I said, take off your clothes.” Then she heard the sinister click of the gun's hammer. “Okay, okay,” she agreed, “but let me get up. My clothes are wet.” Kathy pushed up from the ground so as to stand, hoping for a chance to run for it, but Bill kicked her arm out from under her and she fell back down. “Off with the clothes, and shut up.”

Kathy squirmed free of the culottes. She sat up, leaning forward with her arms to cover her naked legs. Bill knelt beside her, knocked her arms away from her legs and said, “You forgot the panties, sweetheart.” When Kathy made no motion to comply, her tormentor pushed her down. On her back, she stared up at a black heaven. Positioned above her, he bent his knees to reach the ground and laid the gun down. From his coat he pulled out a skinning knife. Kathy felt a hand grab the waistband of her panties, then the knife cutting and ripping through to the crotch. Bill worked the blade, pulled, and the panties were in his hand. He put them in his pocket.

Kathy knew all was lost. Bill put the knife aside and swept the gun further away. With no choice but to suffer the fate of this terrible night, Kathy said, “It's so wet and cold. Can we go in one of the cars?” “Yeah, all right,” came the response, then, more agitated, “Get the hell up and get in that one,” gesturing at a nondescript two-door hulk squatting on
four flats. Kathy pulled open the passenger door and crawled in the back. After maneuvering past an old battery and generator left on the backseat, she sat upright. Making his way in, Bill shoved the auto parts to the floor and told Kathy to lie down. Both made attempts to get situated; the quarters were cramped, chilly, and dank, conditions hardly better than outside. Further, the car's upholstery gave off a sickening musty odor. When Bill's ankle got caught for the second time between the battery and generator on the floor, he cursed, started disengaging arms and legs and began backing out of the car door muttering, “This ain't workin'. Come on, out on the ground!” Standing outside the car, Bill reached in, taking hold of Kathy's hand. She was pulled out roughly and sent sprawling. Bill's hands grabbed her shoulder, twisting Kathy onto her back then lowered himself onto the teen who, numb with terror, no longer felt the cold. First, the crude hand, then the invectives. “God damn you! You on the rag?” His face was close to hers. She felt a fleck of spittle. Turning her head aside Kathy said weakly that yes, she was. Inexperienced with men's attitudes on such matters she had, of course, listened to girl talk and was now uncertain whether wrath would descend upon her. Bill cupped her chin with his hand, forcing her to look at him. “Too bad,” he said, “you're gettin' it anyway.”

During the rape the gun was held at her temple and she feared it would go off at each movement. Kathy remembered two recurring thoughts: When will this be over? Is he going to kill me? Though defiled by force, the teen was already feeling guilty. Did she struggle enough? Did she resist in every way? Maybe she should have bolted into the night, chancing a bullet in the back, or clawed at his face, risking a knife across the throat.

Then it was over, her body and mind stung by the coarseness of the attack. She turned onto her side, grabbed for her culottes, and placed them over her lower body. She pulled her legs up, wrapped her arms around her shoulders, and lay in this fetal position as a light rain began to fall.

How much time had gone by Kathy, in her stupor, didn't know, but when she lifted her head, Bill was sitting Indian style on the hood of a junker, idly twirling the revolver on his index finger while talking with Ron, who had apparently just returned. Kathy tried to climb into her clothes but Bill called over, “Sweetheart, hold up with the clothes, it's Ron's turn.” Bill slid from the hood, then both men walked over to Kathy. Badly hurt and tormented, Kathy felt ripped inside. She couldn't face this, just could not. She held her clothes against her body. “Ron, please let me go, don't touch me. I'm sick now, I don't feel well and … and I'm bleeding.” Bill stood to the side, arms folded, amused. “She got that right,” he quipped, “on the damn rag, but, what
the hell, I've been in worse places.” Bill laughed and turned to Ron. “So, want it? She still ain't half bad.” Ron rubbed his thumb back and forth across his chin. Bill yawned, as much as telling Kathy her immediate predicament was of little moment to him, but Ron finally said, “Forget it. If she's bleedin' I don't want nothin' to do with her.” Bill nodded, shrugged again, then told Kathy to get dressed. “And comb your hair, put some lipstick on.”

Kathy didn't care what orders came out of Bill's mouth, she'd comply. Anything to keep the peace, keep him calm until she was released. Bill had the gun and he had drawn a knife, yet she hadn't been shot or sliced, and now, with Ron's decision, she would not be raped again. Things could change, she knew, but her thoughts were to provoke no anger. Addressing Bill, Kathy said, “I'd like to comb my hair, but I don't have my purse. I guess I dropped it on the road when you grabbed me.” Bill was walking away from Kathy when he heard this reply. He stopped, pivoted, stepped toward Kathy, and gave her an odd look. “What did you say?” His tone confused Kathy. Had she said something wrong, somehow made a mistake? “What is it? I'll comb my hair, I'll put lipstick on, but my comb and stuff is in my purse. I dropped it on the road … I don't have it.” Greatly worried, her voice trailed off, now barely audible. “Bill, do you have a comb? Can I use it … I'll comb my hair.” Ignoring her plea, Bill emphasized each word: “You lost your purse?” Thoroughly flummoxed as to Bill's meaning, Kathy replied, “Yes, but it doesn't matter. I can get another one.” She was breathing harder. She moved her eyes to the left and saw Ron standing still, hands in pockets, but clearly paying attention to this exchange, apparently in the dark himself about what the problem was.

Bill spat out at Kathy, “You dressed? Good, now let's go.” He motioned to Ron. “Get her! Keep her with you. Follow me to the front of the house.” Bill marched off, with Ron following ten yards behind, clutching Kathy's wrist. During the walk to the farmhouse, Kathy whispered desperately to Ron. “What is it? What did I do?” Nervous himself, Ron replied, “Just keep walkin'.” As the trio approached the house, the dogs again sounded a ruckus. This so annoyed Bill that he hurled stones at them.

Once together, Bill announced to Ron, “We got to kill her.” Ron's eyes widened. Dropping his grip on Kathy's arm, he held his hands out, palms toward Bill. “Wait a sec, hold up!” Ron began to protest. Not waiting to hear another word, Kathy pushed Ron as hard as she could, then began a dash to escape. Surprised at the shove, Ron stumbled toward Bill, whose eyes stayed with the fleeing girl. He sidestepped Ron and sprang forward.

Kathy tore across the driveway, arms and legs pumping furiously, headlong
into a rough field, the ground made uneven by clumps and depressions, but inside of fifty yards a tremendous blow across her back sent her facedown into grass and weeds. Seizing Kathy's right wrist and twisting it up behind her back, Bill forced the frantic Kathy to her feet and marched her across the field back to the farmhouse.

Keeping torque on Kathy's arm and glancing at her occasionally, Bill started right in again to Ron. “We got to kill her. She dropped her damn purse in her neighborhood. She got her name and address in there …” Kathy, upright but sagging, listened to her own death sentence.

Ron wanted no part of murder. Bill was usually calm and calculating, but always, just under the surface, there lay a recklessness, a violence. Ron knew he couldn't plead for the girl's life. That would peg him as soft, too nervous, even unmanly. So instead, feigning unconcern, Ron said, “So what she lost her purse? We were just gonna fuck her and let her go anyway.”

“No,” Bill shot back, “you don't get it. She got fucked but we were gonna scare her real good about sayin' anything to her family or the cops, and, believe me, she wouldn't say anything if she knew what was good for her. But now, whoever picked up that purse took it to her house, so her folks are gonna go nuts and call the police. When they see that purse and her missin' they ain't gonna wait no twenty-four hours to start lookin'. I'll bet there's cop cars combin' the area for her right now. We can't risk gettin' caught with her in the car with us, 'cause you know why?” Without waiting for Ron to reply, Bill continued, “Because this ain't just a rape. It's kidnapping. And do you know what they do to kidnappers?” Bill traced his index finger across his throat.

“Are you sure?” Ron countered. “Let's just leave her here and take off. She don't know us. She don't know our names …”

But Bill broke in, “No can do. I know we could've scared her into shuttin' up, you know, that we'd come back, do something to her family, but with them havin' her purse, they already know she was grabbed. If we let her go, she won't keep her mouth shut. The cops'll lean on her to tell, and she will. The whole thing's too risky…. Best to kill her. That way there'll be no blabbin' on her part, and by the time they find her up here, the trail will be ice cold.”

Stupefied, Kathy screamed, “No! No, you're wrong! I won't tell. I won't say anything. Please, please let me go. I'll never say anything, I promise!”

“Hey, let's forget this broad. She's scared stiff—look at her. She ain't gonna say a damn thing. Besides, we leave her here, tie her up, it'll be forever till she sees anyone to talk with.” Ron hoped his words might mediate, might break Bill's intent. He waited, watching Bill's face closely.

It scared him when Bill said with perfect finality, “No good, not sure enough.” Bill then clutched a fistful of Kathy's blouse and held her upright on the rough driveway, her back facing the farmhouse.

“Don't!” she cried weakly. “Oh God, don't.” Ron stepped slowly away while looking into the girl's contorted, tear-streaked face. Still holding tightly her blouse, Bill positioned the gun against her temple. He cocked the hammer.

“Wait!” Kathy shouted, “A car! A car!” Both men looked over their shoulders. In the distance, headlights were coming toward them, bobbing in the rough terrain. “Shit! Let's go!” Bill yelled, and grabbed the girl's hand to tug her along. All three ran to the rear of the farmhouse, then through some woods to a clearing on the very top of the hill, which led to a cliff. This fearful dash left them all dry-mouthed, lungs heaving. Bill forced Kathy to sit between him and Ron, all still for the moment getting their breath back.

Bill and Ron discussed the car. Whose was it? Where was it now? Ron went down the hill to reconnoiter. Kathy again found herself alone with Bill. If she could talk to him, make some connection with him, maybe he would be less apt to kill her. Showing remarkable presence for one so young, she uttered his name. He brought his eyes around to stare at her. “Bill,” Kathy continued, gambling it all, “why would you do these things? Why did you have to hurt me?” There was no rancor in her voice. Her world was so far removed from his that perhaps she genuinely wanted an understanding, but he said nothing.

Ron returned. Out of breath from the hike, he reported that he hadn't seen anyone. No car was in sight; it must have turned off onto one of the side roads. “Okay,” Bill said, “but someone just might be around. A gunshot's too risky.”

Taking all this in, Kathy wondered mightily what this meant. She wouldn't be shot? Would they use the knife, … stab her to death? Or, hope against hope, had her few words in Ron's absence softened Bill's murderous edge?

They hadn't. Bill's next command showed her a fate worse than any she had yet imagined. “Get up over there.” Pointing to the edge of the cliff, he nudged Kathy to get her going. In the dark, she could perceive the edge more than actually seeing it. Terrified, she put one hesitant foot very slowly in front of the other. Then she stopped. “Not quite,” Bill encouraged, “a little further.” Kathy proceeded by half-steps to the edge. Peering over, she saw far below the headlights of a few cars traveling a road running alongside a broad river. From this height, the cars were playpen toys.
She was to be shoved off. If her body was ever discovered, it would look like a terrible accident. When Bill spoke again, he was directly behind her, not an arm's length away. “It'll be over in a second. You won't feel a thing, and … oh yeah, sorry it had to turn out like this.”

Not turning around or even moving, she said, “I don't want to die like this … No one will ever find me down there. Please shoot me up here.” She closed her eyes and waited.

An arm came up from behind, reaching over her right shoulder, forearm angling down across her neck and breast, with the hand clutching under her left armpit. Kathy was dragged back a few body lengths and set on the ground. Standing over her, Bill said nonchalantly, “You're pretty cool. I think I like you.” Kathy cried. Sobbed. She was alive.

He grabbed her hand, pulled her to her feet, and walked from the cliff area. Bill called over to Ron, who had earlier distanced himself from the pair and was loitering around the farmhouse. All three crawled under a barbed wire fence, then tromped through a farmer's field, all the while drifting toward the base of the mountain. At the very bottom, they crossed railroad tracks and walked along a main road, soon coming to Orris's garage and gas station, which was owned by the family of a township policeman. Seeing the place was open, Bill said he wanted a drink. Squeezing Kathy's hand in warning, Bill said, “Be good. I'm going to get a pop,” and fished in his pocket for change. With genuine urgency, Kathy asked if she could go to the bathroom. Bill looked around. Only two old men were inside the station. The bathroom was part of the building, around the side. He pulled his jacket aside, revealing the gun tucked in his waistband. “Okay,” Bill answered, “you got it made now. I'm gonna let you go soon, but if you start yellin' for help, I'll shoot you right here. Got it?”