HIGH SCHOOL

MASSACRE

 

a novel

 

© 2019 by S.W. Blayde

All Rights Reserved

 

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

 

BOOKS by S.W. Blayde

Sexual Awakening

erotic romance murder-mystery

Steele Justice

erotic thriller (Lincoln Steele book 1)

High School Massacre

erotic thriller/mystery (Lincoln Steele book 2)

Death of a Hero

erotic thriller (Lincoln Steele book 3)

The Breeder

erotic western/romance

Conflicted Nun

erotic romance

Last Kiss

romance mystery

 

Chapter 1

The boy huddled behind the big gray dumpster in back of Cactus Point High School. He sat on the asphalt with his back against the cool metal and knees raised. In a few months, the scorching summer heat in the tiny Arizona town not far from the Mexican border would bake the black asphalt, making it too hot to sit on, and so soft the heavy garbage truck would imprint wavy tire tracks in its surface.

But the beautiful spring morning had a slight desert chill in the air, so the boy wore a long-sleeved sweatshirt. It was black with the Cactus Point High School logo on the front. A circle of blue with a green saguaro inside it, with two arms, one on each side, both curved upward reaching for the sky. According to the school yearbook, it signified the sky's the limit for its students. The students, who felt their futures were limited, joked that it was a gesture for giving up. A white cowboy hat was perched on top of the saguaro, tilted on a slight angle. The yearbook claimed it honored the brave men who had founded their little town. The large Hispanic population viewed it differently.

The boy flipped the oversized sweatshirt hood over his head and, with the tip of his middle finger, shoved the mirrored sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. The dumpsters had been emptied the night before and classes had just begun so he was sure no one would disturb him. His heart pounded in his chest anyway. And his palms sweated inside the black, skin-tight leather gloves.

He lifted the bottom of the sweatshirt, snatched the semi-automatic pistol from the waistband of his jeans, and ejected the high-capacity magazine. It was full, as it had been the two previous times he had checked it. After snapping the magazine back into the handle and flipping off the safety, the boy pointed the muzzle toward the sky and racked the slide. The metallic shlick-shlick sound loading the round into the chamber was like a crack of thunder in his ears.

His breath caught and his body tensed. He clutched the pistol to his chest, one hand on the handle with a finger on the trigger, the other hand pressing the weapon to his body. Someone with more experience would have realized the gun's muzzle pointed at the underside of his chin. A twitch of his trembling finger would blow his head off. But his thoughts were on someone catching him as his eyes darted behind the sunglasses and his ears strained to hear for a sound.

The air came out of his lungs in a long whoosh.

The boy pulled up the scarf that was tied around his neck, up over his chin and lips, all the way to the bridge of his nose. He tucked it under the bottom of the sunglasses. The black nylon was sucked into his open mouth with each deep breath and then ballooned out.

It was time.

He jumped to his feet and yanked up his jeans. The high-capacity magazines were heavy. One in each front pocket. He only needed the three. It would be done quickly. Everything needed to be done quickly. Not wanting to wrestle the magazines out of his tight pockets at the crucial time, he moved them to the waistband of his jeans and tucked the bottom of his sweatshirt behind them for easy access.

He was ready.

The boy knew every entrance and exit in the small school. The one that led to the dumpsters wasn't used by students or faculty. It didn't lead anywhere they would go. Not to the parking lot in the front or the ballfield off to the side. There wasn't even a classroom close to it. Only the custodial rooms at the rear of the school. The first classroom he would come upon was Miss Johnson's. He had always thought she was pretty. Hot, actually. In her early twenties, she wasn't that much older than him. He had masturbated thinking about her many times. She never liked him, though. Said he was lazy and disruptive.

He entered the rear door and hugged the wall while slinking past the rooms containing mops and brooms. At the end of the hall, where it intersected the main hallway, he peeked around the corner. All quiet. Not a soul. With gun ready, muzzle pointing up, finger on the trigger, he tiptoed to the first classroom. Miss Johnson's sweet voice came through the closed door. Something about an upcoming exam.

The boy shoved the door open. It ricocheted off the wall with a crack and slammed into his shoulder as he sprang into the small classroom.

Miss Johnson, caught in the middle of a word, turned his way. Her blonde hair whipped the side of her face, finding the inside of her gaping mouth. He pulled the trigger. Bang! A flash of light flew out of the muzzle. Miss Johnson's eyes widened. The bullet plowed into her chest. Into her heart.

Children screamed. Some jumped from their chairs. Stood like statues. Unable to move. Others dropped to the floor. Curled up in balls. Hands clasped behind their heads. Desks scraped the linoleum as they were shoved out of the way. Chairs toppled over.

In the midst of the frantic turmoil, one girl in the back row sprang up from nowhere and shrieked. Maria Lopez's hands covered her open mouth. Her eyes bulged. The boy spun away from the teacher lying in a pool of blood, her lifeless green eyes staring up at him, and focused on the girl in the back that caught his attention. He fired. Bang! Bang! Bang! The sounds filled the room. Echoed off the four walls. Two bullets entered Maria Lopez's chest. One her throat. She grabbed her neck and made a gurgling noise as her legs folded under her. She crumbled to the floor.

He whipped the pistol around at a boy cowering under his desk in the front row. Steve Smith always sat in the front. He was the teacher's pet in every class. The boy put two bullets into Steve's body.

Big-titted Juanita Salvo sat frozen at the next desk. The fingernails of her right hand drew blood as they sank into her left forearm. Her tight sweater-top flaunted big, round breasts that a Playboy centerfold would envy. The boy had once grabbed her tit. When she had slapped his face, everyone laughed. He fired two quick shots, one in each breast. No one's laughing now, he thought. Juanita's hands flew to her breasts as she fell forward. With all the screaming, no one heard the bone in her nose crack hitting the desktop. Her arms dropped and hung limply at her sides.

Leaving her, the boy sped around the room shooting everyone he saw until the slide of his semi-automatic pistol locked open. It had only taken a minute or so. He pressed the button on the side of the pistol. The now empty magazine flew out of the handle and rattled on the floor. In a flash, the new magazine was out of his waistband and inside the pistol. He pressed the slide release with his thumb as he ran to the door. The slide slid forward with a shlick that didn't sound as loud as it had outside. With a new round in the chamber and a full magazine, and everyone in the classroom shot at least once, the boy stormed into the hall.

Mr. Blackburn, the history teacher and baseball coach, was leaning out of his classroom into the hallway. Their eyes met. The boy pointed and fired twice. One bullet hit the teacher's shoulder. The other ricocheted off the wall into his cheek. The large man fell with his feet still inside the classroom and his upper body in the hallway, squirming on the floor. Groaning. The boy shot him in the head before stepping over him into the classroom. He fired at the screaming children. Boys and girls he knew. Carlos Sanchez. Bernie Cohen. Tiffany Wagner. When the slide locked open, bodies lay slumped over desks and in pools of blood on the floor.

The boy inserted his last magazine and darted into the hall. Something caught his attention from the corner of his eye. He turned. A girl in a short blue skirt had bolted from a classroom and ran down the hallway. Her blonde ponytail swung behind her. He fired. Missed. The bullet whizzed by the girl's head. She dropped to her knees with her face in her hands, her body shaking. He cupped his shooting hand in the palm of his other one and aimed over the barrel. Bang! Her back arched. She crumbled onto her side. Blood spread like red lava from underneath her lifeless body onto the black and white linoleum.

The boy dashed to the door across the hall. He turned the doorknob and pushed. The door didn't budge. He rattled the doorknob. Locked from inside. He kicked the wood door with the sole of his foot. Did it again. Even harder. Then he stepped back and looked up and down the hallway, seeing only the girl in the short blue skirt. Her blonde ponytail now soaked red. He pointed the gun at the door and sprayed it with bullets. With each shot, a new hole splintered through the wood. Screams came from the other side. Boys and girls he knew. Grew up with. He kept firing, counting the number of shots. Then he turned and sprinted back down the hallway toward the exit to the yard out back where the dumpsters were.

***

While the shooting was in progress, the 911 dispatcher and sheriff's office in a nearby town were inundated with phone calls from petrified students crouched under desks or locked in classroom closets. Too small to have its own police, Cactus Point relied on the county sheriff's deputies—and the local mechanic, Buck Ka-e-te-nay. The sheriff didn't have enough deputies to police the small town so, with the approval of Cactus Point's mayor, made Buck a volunteer deputy. With a body built for football, a calm disposition, and the ability to get along with everyone, he was well suited for what they needed—someone to settle arguments between neighbors. Other than a speed trap to catch the occasional speeder and a disturbance at the Red Dog Saloon, there wasn't much need for police there.

Although Buck Ka-e-te-nay's bronze complexion matched many in town with origins from south of the border, he would never be mistaken for Mexican. His thick, straight black hair almost reached his waist and was held off his round face with an Apache patterned bandana. The only Native American in Cactus Point, the full-blooded Apache had run away from his home in the San Carlos Indian Reservation when a teenager and never looked back. He loved to tinker with machinery and was an integral member of the community fixing cars, but mainly farming and mining equipment.

As soon as the panicked calls had come in, the sheriff's deputy called Buck and told him there was shooting at the high school, but not to go in. To wait for the deputy sheriffs. Dropping the telephone before hearing the last part, Buck jumped onto his motorcycle and accelerated. The front wheel rose high in the air and smoke spit out the rear tire as it spun on the floor of his garage. He sped the few blocks to the school. Hearing gunshots, he hopped off the motorcycle before it even completely stopped. Letting it fall onto its side, he stormed through the front doors and ran down the hall toward the sound of pop, pop, pop.

Buck came to a screeching stop when the school quieted. No shots. No noise at all. It was as if someone had flipped a switch.

His pause was for only a brief moment. He continued in the direction he had been heading, still quickly but now more cautious. When he rounded a corner, he saw a girl in a short blue skirt lying in a pool of blood and the upper body of a man lying half in and half out of a classroom. He sprinted to the girl and knelt next to her, lifting her limp wrist. No pulse.

Bang!

Buck's head shot up. He dropped the girl's arm and jumped to his feet. He raced toward the gunshot, passing Mr. Blackburn with a quick glance at what used to be the teacher's face. He skidded around the end of the hallway, stopping in his tracks when he saw another body. A boy this time, wearing a hooded sweatshirt, his face hidden like a stagecoach bandit's in the Old West. Broken mirrored sunglasses lay in the blood flowing from the large hole in his head where the bullet had exited. It was the semi-automatic pistol in the boy's gloved hand that made Buck look no further.

 

Chapter 2

Lincoln Steele bounced the leather basketball inside his private gym. His eyes were locked on the iron hoop ten feet off the floor. The large exercise room separated his living quarters from the private investigator office. When he had built the house, the architect balked at wasting so much space. But it was not wasted space for Steele. He required the bare minimum for his private investigator office and living quarters. This was an essential room. Where he trained and played.

On the far end of the room, in front of one mirrored wall, free weights of all sizes were neatly arranged in metal racks. Padded benches and mats were nearby. Although Steele preferred free weights, several multi-purpose exercise machines were strategically placed. Along the side wall that led to the main part of the house, three different types of cardiovascular machines were lined up with a television and clock mounted on the wall in front of them. A telephone, next to the door, had land lines for both the private residence and business office. Each with a unique ring tone. The door to his office was on the opposite wall where various bags hung from the ceiling for punching and kicking. There was even an area set aside for knife throwing.

The room was assembled for staying in shape and keeping his skills sharp. That wasn't what made it so large, though. It was the half-court basketball court on the end opposite the mirrored wall. Not that Steele played much anymore, but shooting the basketball relaxed him. And he believed improved his eye-hand coordination. Now was one of those times.

Having finished a dangerous and stressful assignment, he needed a little down time. If the union men hadn't shown up, the Russians would surely have killed him. And since Officer Cherry Mulligan hadn't made him turn in the money he found in the gang's warehouse, plenty remained after giving money to the extorted store owners and women forced into prostitution. He now only had to work on cases he wanted to, and right now all he wanted was to make the three-point shot. He jumped off the balls of his feet with his wrist cocked next to his ear and the basketball sitting on his palm. That excitement he used to feel in high school with the clock ticking down swarmed his body.

Ring!

He flicked his wrist, sending the ball wide to the left, missing the hoop by a foot.

While the basketball bounced and rolled to a stop at the far end of the room, Steele shook his head. Even the military had given him R&R after a Special Ops mission. Civilian life should be easier. Who was calling him? Captain Wilks and Cherry knew he needed downtime. The call was to his business line. It must be a new client? He'd have to say no. He needed the rest.

Steele moseyed over to the telephone hanging on the wall. It rang twice more before he picked it up. "Hello?"

"Linc?"

The voice was female. Pleasant. But edgy.

"This is Lincoln Steele."

"Linc, it's Elena Bargas. You won't remember—"

"Elena! It's been ages. Of course I remember you."

"Yeah, you and your photographic memory. You remember everything."

"Well, I remember only good times with you."

"Do you mean that? I wasn't sure about calling you."

"Of course. You were very special to me."

"Am I still?"

Steele hesitated. His eyes flitted to the side and fell on the treadmill. "Elena, it's been a while. Must be almost twenty years."

The hesitation was now on the other end of the line. "I didn't know who else to call. I—"

Her words were cut off with sobbing. Steele waited, but it didn't stop.

"Elena, tell me what this is all about."

A few words were uttered between sobs. Unintelligible words. A lot of sniffling. Steele waited. And then she got it under control.

"Did you hear about the school shooting here?" she said.

"Where's here?"

"I live in Cactus Point now. It's a small town in Arizona. Near the Mexican border."

"No. What does it have to do with you?"

"They say my son did it."

"What does he say?"

More sobbing. Louder this time. Again she struggled to control it. It took longer than before.

"He's … dead." The two words were broken up by sobs. "They said he shot himself."

"Tell me what happened?"

"I don't know what happened. Someone went into the school and shot a lot of people and they found Pete— They found him dead. They said he had a gun in his hand and that he shot himself."

"Pete is your son?"

"Yes. He's only fifteen."

"I'm so sorry. Are there witnesses?"

"Yes, some kids didn't die."

"What did they say?"

"They said it was Pete."

"They recognized him?"

"All I know is the sheriff said they said it was Pete. And they found Pete's body with the gun."

"What would you like me to do?"

"Find out who did it?"

"The witne—"

"They're wrong!" Steele jerked the telephone away from his ear. "Pete wouldn't do it. I know my son."

"Was it your gun?"

"We don't have a gun!"

"Then whose—?"

"Linc, I don't know! I don't understand any of it. I need your help."

"To do what?"

"To find out what happened. Please help me."

"Elena, people saw—"

"I don't believe it!" The woman let out a long sigh. "Look, you once told me things aren't always what they seem. Remember?"

"They aren't."

"Then help me prove it. I have no one else. I don't have a lot of money, but I can pay you what I have."

"Elena, I won't take money from you."

"Then you'll do it! Oh, thank you. Thank you."

Steele hadn't meant he'd help. On the contrary, it seemed like Elena's son had done it. But Elena was right. Things weren't always what they seemed. He remembered telling her that. The situation at the time had nothing to do with them, but he had been thinking about what he had done for the government when he mentioned it. One thing Lincoln Steele knew was that the world was not black and white. It was many shades of gray. Muddy gray.

"Okay," Steele said, "I'll look into it. You said you live in a place called Cactus Point. In Arizona. Give me your address."

"Thank you. Do you know where Cactus Point is?"

"I'll find it."

"It's probably not on your map."

"I'll find it. What's your address?"

"Do you have a pen and paper?"

"I don't need to write it down. Give me your phone number and address."

Elena provided the information and told him to fly into Tucson and rent a car there. It wasn't the closest airport with a car rental, but it would be worth the extra drive.

He caught a flight to Tucson the next day. Elena had always been practical and, flying into the big airport, he was able to fly direct. No stops. No changing planes. Which was his preference for both comfort and minimizing Security checkpoints. He chuckled as he drove the roads through barren desert, hospitable only to rattlesnakes and the few cacti sticking out of the cracked, parched earth. Elena sure hadn't been talking about the scenery when she had said the extra drive would be worth it. At least the winter rains had created spots of green here and there and some flowers on the cacti. Soon it would be nothing but brown. April showers brings May flowers did not apply to this part of the world.

Cactus Point wasn't on the map. It wasn't in the rental car's GPS. But Lincoln Steele had done his homework and knew which roads to take. He drove east on I-10 and then south on AZ-90 toward Ft. Huachuca. But then he took lesser used roads. The closer he got to Cactus Point the more isolated the roads were, and the more radio stations were lost. The remaining stations were mostly Spanish speaking. Those in English were Christian or country and western. He chose a Spanish station even though he didn't understand the language. The upbeat music kept him company as he whizzed down the empty road.

The first indication that he was getting close to his destination was the speed limit dropping to forty-five. He turned off the radio and cruised another mile to a sign riddled with bullet holes. "Welcome to Cactus Point," it said. Some welcome.

Another change in the speed limit had him travelling down Main Street at thirty-five miles per hour. Cactus Point wasn't much of a town. Buildings needed painting and Main Street lacked the arts and craft shops many small towns in Arizona had. No one would confuse Cactus Point for a tourist stop.

Steele slowed down as he passed the high school. The ballpark on the left was empty. Some cars sprinkled the parking lot, but there were mostly bicycles and a few motorbikes. Bunches of flowers lay on the both sides of the main entrance's double doors. Posters hung on the walls. Too far to read them, he noticed a lot of red hearts. He continued down Main Street until turning onto Hacienda Drive and following Elena's directions to her house.

Tapping the brake pedal, Steele coasted his rental car to the curb, stopping a few houses from Elena's with the engine idling. The house was one level and stucco like all the others on the block. A sand color with a pitched, red tile roof. Elena was outside wearing worn blue jeans and a pink tank top. Her dark brown hair, which had reached her waist when Steele had last seen her, bounced on her shoulders as she scrubbed the words someone had scrawled on the front of her house with black chalk. All that remained was "to hell" and under that "murderer." A plywood board covered the large window. The woman Steele watched was an older version of the Elena he had known years before. She was a little meatier and wider in the hips, which filled the tight jeans nicely.

Steele pressed the gas pedal and glided forward. Elena spun around when he stopped in front of her house. The wet sponge clenched in a tight fist. Water dripping onto the ground. A scowl marred her beauty. He turned the engine off and got out. Elena's eyebrows rose and her face softened. The sponge fell from her hand as she raised it partway up before dropping it to her side. The two locked eyes as Steele strolled up the concrete path.

"Linc?" she said, her voice so soft he barely heard it.

"Do I look that much different?"

"Oh my god! It is you!"

Elena ran up to him and flung her arms around his body with the side of her face pressed to his chest. The wetness from her hand seeped through the back of his shirt. He stood like that for a moment before slowly lifting his forearms and placing his hands flat on her lower back and returning the hug.

"I didn't believe you'd come," she said into his chest.

"I told you I would."

"But I didn't believe it."

"Have I ever lied to you?"

"Not that I know. But you lied for a living."

"Well, I never lied to you. So here I am."

Elena arched her back and tilted her head to stare up at Steele. "You're older."

"It's been a long time."

She jumped back and slapped both hands over her face. "Oh my god, I must look a mess."

Steele dragged her hands to his chest. "You're as pretty as you were back then."

"I'm old and fat."

"You're older, but just as pretty. Maybe prettier."

Steele looked over one shoulder and then the other. The streets were deserted.

"But I'm fat," Elena said.

"Look, houses have eyes," Steele said. "We should go inside."

Elena paled as her eyes darted right and left. She snatched his hand and dragged him up the walk and into the house. To the right was the kitchen, well-lit from a window over the sink on the side of the house. On the left, the family room had little light.

Steele thrust his thumb at the plywood-covered family room window. "Had an accident?"

"A rock."

"Were you hurt?"

"No, it woke me up though. It happened last night. In the middle of the night."

"And the graffiti?"

"Also last night."

"The first time?"

Elena lowered her head and shook it. Her bottom lip quivered. And then tears flowed down her cheeks. Steele pulled her to him and held her tight, cupping the back of her head, pressing her cheek to his chest. That triggered loud sobs. He didn't let go until they stopped and she wriggled free of his arms. Once again her hands flew to cover her face.

"I'll be right back," she said and dashed to the back of the house, slamming her bedroom door behind her.

Steele returned to his rental car. He retrieved two suitcases from the trunk and carried them into the house where he sat on the family room sofa with a suitcase on the outside of each leg. Except for the broken window, the room was well kept. On the mantle over the fireplace, the photograph of a boy looked like Elena except that his skin tone was lighter. Steele stared at the boy. Her son Pete. The boy's smile was warm. He looked so young. Could he be a mass murderer? Of course. A photograph tells you nothing.

Heels clicked on the tile floor behind Steele. He looked over his shoulder to see Elena walking toward him. Her hair was brushed out and she had applied makeup. A simple black dress that came to her knees replaced the old jeans and pink tank top. She walked around the couch to sit next to Steele. The suitcase stopped her. She sat in the chair adjacent to the couch with her knees together, legs tilted, and ankles crossed.

"Are you planning on being here a long time?" she said.

"As long as it takes. Why?"

"You don't travel light."

Steele patted the thicker suitcase on his right. "Well, this one has my toys in it."

Elena's eyebrows furrowed.

"Tools of my trade," Steele said. "Is it okay if I stay here?"

"Where else you gonna stay? You wouldn't be welcomed anywhere else." Her head lowered. "I don't have a guest room so you'll have to stay in Pete's room."

"I can sleep on the couch if that bothers you."

Her head shot up. "No, no. Of course not. You're not gonna sleep on the couch in my house."

"Okay." Steele peered into Elena's eyes. "Do you want to tell me what happened or wait until tomorrow?"

"I told you on the phone. They said Pete shot those kids and teachers and killed himself."

"What else?"

"That's all they told me."

"Who told you?"

"The sheriff and Buck."

"Who's Buck?"

"Buck Ka-e-te-nay. He owns the garage in town."

"Why did a mechanic come with the sheriff?"

"He found Pete's body. He was the first one in the school."

"What else?"

"They searched my house."

"Did they find anything?"

"No. The sheriff took Pete's laptop, though. He has his cellphone, too."

"Where'd they get his phone?"

"It was in his pocket."

"When they found him in the school?"

"Yes. No!" Elena covered her face before sliding her hands down her cheeks. "Yes, in the school. I don't understand it."

"Anything else?"

"No. They didn't tell me anything. They just told me Pete did it." Her bottom lip quivered and her eyes watered. She sat up straight and stamped a foot on the floor. "He didn't! Not Pete."

Steele waited for Elena to calm down and sit back. "Was Pete in the classroom where the shooting began?"

"They said he was there. That he did it."

"That's not what I mean. What period was it?"

"First."

"Was that his first period class?"

"No. Pete has Math first period. Mr. Luna's class."

"So he would have been in another classroom when the shooting happened."

Elena hung her head. Steele waited. She looked up. "They said Pete wasn't in class."

"Did Pete skip class often?"

"No! Never! He was a good student."

"So why wasn't he in class that day?"

Her head hung again. She shook it. "I don't know. It makes no sense."

"Did you see his body?"

Elena stared at Steele. Her bottom lip quivered. "I identified him in the morgue." Tears flowed down both cheeks making her dark complexion glimmer.

Steele jumped up and stepped over the thick suitcase. He rushed up to Elena and hugged her head to his belly and waited for her crying to stop.

"I'll check out the police report tomorrow and speak to that guy Buck," Steele said.

Steele had to start somewhere. He was already wondering how he would tell Elena her son was a mass murderer.

 

Chapter 3

In the basement of the largest house in the Diablo del Norte area, a small Mexican town a little over an hour's drive from Cactus Point, a young woman's tear-soaked eyes darted between her husband and two small children, a four-year-old son and six-year-old daughter. Her husband was bound to a chair with ropes around his wrists and ankles. His chin rested on his chest. He had two swollen black eyes. The gag parting his lips and digging into his cheeks was soaked in the blood oozing from both his nose and mouth. It overflowed down his chin to stain his dirty, yellowing undershirt. The children stood not far from the woman—fear in the girl's eyes, confusion in the boy's.

A man towering over the children pressed them against the front of his legs with a single hand large and strong enough to hold both in place. The girl's hair, black as her mother's, was parted down the middle and tied into two long pigtails with red ribbons that matched her short summer dress. One of the dress's spaghetti straps hung loosely off her bony, bare shoulder. Her big brown eyes stared at her mother from under her unevenly cut bangs. The boy wore navy shorts and a light blue polo shirt, his straight hair combed down in the 1960s style of the Beatles. In his case, it wasn't a fashion statement. A barber was a luxury. His father simply placed a bowl over his head and cut around the edges.

A second man leaned against the wall with his knee bent and the sole of his foot flat against the wall. His hands hung at his sides, knuckles bloodied. The handle of a semi-automatic pistol stuck out of the waistband of his pants and a lit cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. One eye squinted from the floating cigarette smoke giving him a sneer that made him look that much scarier to the woman.

"Please don't hurt them," the woman pleaded with the man standing in front of her as she squeezed the skirt part of her white dress in her clenched fists, causing the frayed hem to ride up over her tightly pressed knees.

Marco Perez's black eyes bored into the woman's. His face was lined from too much sun and his thick, bushy mustache covered his upper lip. He pulled the strap back up onto the little girl's shoulder with his free hand and then patted her head.

"It's up to you, Mrs. Cano," Marco said. "Do what we want and not only will your family be safe, but you'll make some money. Your husband is a laborer. A shitty job. The money will come in handy."

"We don't need your money."

"And I don't have to give you any. I'm being generous. Nice. And believe me, you want me to be nice and not the alternative."

"Have someone else do it. Why me?"

"Because you're pretty and speak English and have family in Cactus Point."

Marco cupped the little girl's chin in his thick hand and tilted her head back so that her eyes met his. His hand squeezed her cheeks. The tips of his thumb and fingers reached her hairline.

Staring down at the frightened girl, he said, "And you have a lot to lose if you don't."

The man against the wall snickered. The woman turned to see his smirk. He cupped his crotch, thrust his hips, and winked.

"Don't worry about Carlos," Marco said. The woman's head whipped back around. "He knows I'll cut his balls off if he disobeys me. Mrs. Cano— Hmm, let's not be so formal. Can I call you Bella?"

She glowered at him.

Marco shrugged. "Bella, as long as you cooperate, nothing bad will happen to your family."

Marco released the children and strolled up to the woman's husband. Now free, the girl snatched her brother's wrist and dragged him to their mother. Bella grabbed both children by the front of their clothes and pulled them into her body, clutching them in her arms. With her eyes locked on Marco, she cupped the back of her children's heads, smothering their faces in her bosom, shielding them from the monsters in the room.

Marco grabbed a lock of her husband's hair, yanked his head up, and twisted it until their eyes met. He leaned over. Their noses almost touched. "And if I hear that you mistreated your wife because of this, I'll skin you and then burn you alive."

The husband's swollen eyes found his wife's for an instant. They darted away. His chin dropped back to his chest when Marco released his hair.

"So, Bella, what's it going to be?" Marco said.

Bella's eyes shifted back and forth between her husband and the head of the local drug cartel, settling on Marco. Tears flowed down both cheeks as her fingers tightened in her children's hair.

"I'll do it."

 

Chapter 4

Two hours after leaving Marco Perez's mansion, Bella Cano finished packing a small suitcase that she left at the front door before joining her husband in the living room. He hadn't spoken a single word during the entire drive home in the back of Marco Perez's limousine. The same vehicle they had been forcefully brought to the mansion in.

During the first trip, Bella and her husband had clung to one another while their children looked around wide-eyed, playing with buttons that lowered and raised windows and turning the television on and off. The drive home had been much different. The Cano family had sat in the back with the glass partition isolating them from the driver and guard up front. Bella, with her back to the partition, clutched her children on both sides of her, hushing them when they tried to speak, not letting their squirming bodies break free. Her husband sat across from her, never once looking at her. Not once speaking to her. As if it was her fault.

Now back at their house, the children were playing on the floor. The girl was lying on her belly with her feet in the air, clicking her heels together while choosing the next crayon to use on the open coloring book in front of her. As if it was the most important decision in the world. The boy sat cross-legged, crashing two toy trucks together.

Bella looked at her husband. "Honey, please talk to me."

He rubbed the rope burn on his left wrist without looking up.

"I have to do it," Bella said. "You know what he's like. I'll make the delivery and come right back."

Her husband stared at his lap. "That's all?"

Bella's mouth hung open. And then her bottom lip quivered and her eyes watered. Her husband glanced up. His left eye was swollen shut. His head immediately dropped.

"That's all," she said.

The man's head shot up and he glared at his wife with his one functioning eye. "I heard what he told you. What to do if they're on to you. And I saw you in the bathroom when we got home. What you just did there."

He muttered, "Whore," under his breath.

"Would you rather I go to prison?" He shrugged. "And what about you and the children? You know what they'll do. They're animals."

The girl looked up from her coloring book. "Mama, what are you talking about?"

Bella turned to her daughter. Her cold stare became warm. "Just grown-up stuff. Finish your picture for Mama. It's so pretty."

The girl rolled onto her hip. Her eyes were wide. "About what happened to Daddy?"

Bella dropped to her knees and hugged her daughter's head to her chest. Both hands clutched the back of her head. Tears overflowed Bella's eyes. "Don't think about that. Forget it happened."

"But—"

Bella grabbed her daughter's shoulders and shook her before holding her at arm's length. "Do what I say!"

"You're scaring her," her husband said.

Once again Bella pulled her daughter into her. Her arms smothered the little girl. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell. It's not your fault." She rocked the girl in her arms.

Bella looked up at her husband. "I have to go. I'll do anything for my children. I don't care if you understand or not."

The boy stopped playing and stared at his mother, his toys forgotten on the floor. Bella grabbed his wrist and tugged him to her. She clutched both children.

"Daddy is going to be taking care of you for a little while. Do what he says. Be good."

The girl, her voice muffled in her mother's grasp, said, "Where are you going? To prison?"

Bella jerked back and stared at her daughter. "Of course not! Why did you say that?"

"That's what you told Daddy."

Bella hugged her daughter. "You misunderstood. I'm going to Aunt Monica's. I won't be gone long." She looked at her husband. With pleading eyes, she mouthed, "Help me."

The man slid off the couch next to his daughter and took her arm. "Aunt Monica needs Mama's help. That's all. Now go play."

Bella kissed her daughter's forehead and then her son's, using the meaty part of her palm to rub off the smudge from her freshly applied lipstick. "I'll be home before you know it."

She jumped to her feet and dashed to the front door, tears streaking down both cheeks. If she saw their faces one more time she wouldn't be able to leave. She wanted to throw them in the car and drive far away from Diablo del Norte. But where? She had no money. If she brought them to her sister's, Marco would find out and kill Monica and her family. And what would happen to her children? That Carlos man scared her more than Marco Perez. She snatched the suitcase off the floor and fled her house, tossing the small suitcase on the back seat of the car Marco's men supplied, next to the stuffed animals just as she had been instructed.

Most of the drive north was on small, desolate roads. Only when Bella got close to the border crossing did she intersect with well-traveled roads. Roads that took people to cities where they made a good wage and didn't live in fear. The same would be true on the United States side. She had driven it often and it was always the same. All the cars would go one way and she'd go the other way to Cactus Point. At least Cactus Point had the mine, not that it produced much ore anymore. Diablo del Norte had nothing. Just drugs.

Their new mayor had promised to get rid of the drug traffickers and bring in new businesses. After the election he even made some arrests and amazingly wasn't murdered, but lately it was business as usual. After all his promises, he was able to be bought. The people had put their trust in him and he betrayed them.

Cars jockeyed for position in the multi-lane crossing. Bella typically visited her sister early in the morning so she could spend the entire day with her. The crossing was busier this time of day. That was good. She'd probably breeze through. She kept telling herself that, but her heart pounded faster the closer she got to the steel structures. She checked the sign for the umpteenth time. Lane 1. That's the lane Marco had told her to use. What difference did a lane make? But she did what she was told and inched along. Getting closer and closer.

Bella glanced over her shoulder at the two stuffed animals in the rear seat. Her only hope was to act normal. But her heart pounded like it was going to burst. Perspiration dripped down both sides of her face. She wiped her sweaty palms on her dress. Another order from Marco. He had said to flash some leg so they wouldn't look inside the car. Bella slid the hem higher. Whatever it took.

Now there were only three cars in front of her. The Customs and Border Protection officer in Lane 1 leaned next to the driver's window of the one in front and asked a few questions. The officer nodded and the car whisked away. The same with the next one. Those people were not stopped. Why would they stop her? Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Her shoulders rose and fell with each deep breath. She had to calm down. To look normal.

A blast from a horn behind her caused Bella to look up. The CBP Officer was staring at her. His arms crossed. Frowning. The car in front of her was gone. The officer was waiting. Looked impatient. She pressed the gas pedal. The car lunged forward. She jammed on the brake. It rocked to a stop. The officer backed up before motioning for her to drive the few feet. She was careful this time and glided the car to where he was standing. He held up his hand with his palm facing her. A white name tag with blue letters pinned above his left pocket said, "Walker."

When she stopped, Officer Walker tapped on the side window. She lowered it. He leaned over and peered into the car. His eyes landed on Bella's bare thighs. On a lot of smooth skin. She had shaved before leaving her house. Marco had instructed her to do so. Having raised the dress higher than she had intended, Bella snapped her knees together and somehow stopped herself from yanking the dress down.

The officer smiled and said in perfect Spanish, "What is your business in the United States?"

"I speak English," Bella said. It was another of Marco's instructions. "I'm visiting my sister in Cactus Point."

Officer Walker's eyes fell on her legs again. She squeezed her thighs together. He then looked at his clipboard, her face, the clipboard again, and then into the back seat.

"What are those for?" he asked in English, pointing at the stuffed animals in the back seat.

"My niece. A present."

"Doesn't look new. Looks like they were torn and sewn up."

Bella's head whipped around to look at the stuffed animals. She didn't see what he meant. Her heart was about to explode. The sweat poured down the sides of her face.

"You look nervous," Officer Walker said.

Bella spun back around. "No! I'm just late. My sister will be worried. I, um, I had a problem at home and it took me, um… I had to fix something so I got a late start. That's all."

"I think you better pull over there," Officer Walker said, pointing to an area next to a building on the United States side of the border. "I'll get someone to relieve me here."

"No, I'll be even later."

"Lady, I'm not asking. Pull over there. Vamonos!"

The CBP officer picked up the telephone and made a call. His accusing eyes never left Bella. Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. The road in front of her was clear. Her foot lifted partway off the brake pedal with the urge to slam down on the gas. But her foot turned to lead. She couldn't move it. Her body trembled. Sweat continued to pour down the sides of her face. Her body felt clammy under the dress. The dampness soaked the material under her armpits.

The officer banged on the roof of the car.

Bella jumped.

"Over there," he said, pointing at the building.

Bella slid her foot from the brake pedal to the gas pedal. She turned the steering wheel and guided the car to the parking area Officer Walker had directed her to. Another guard was trotting past her to the booth Officer Walker was in. The building was one story. Cinderblock with a flat roof and no windows. It looked like a bunker. Her heart pounded in her chest. She was going to prison. The American president had made it a campaign promise to stop drugs from coming into the United States. Unlike her mayor, he was following through. She sat with her forehead resting on the backs of her hands gripping the top of the steering wheel. What would become of her children?

"Turn off the car," Officer Walker said.

Bella looked up and stared at the officer who had followed her on foot. Her breathing was heavy. Deep, fast breaths. Everything started to spin. The man looked annoyed, but she couldn't move.

"Now!" he shouted.

Bella jumped. Her feet and hands suddenly came to life. She turned the key. The car quieted.

"Get out!"

Bella opened the car door and swung her legs out. Her dress rode up higher. If she had been wearing nylons the skin above the top band would be showing. However, her legs were bare and only skin showed. A lot of skin. But her thoughts were on the man standing with his hands on his hips and his feet shoulder width apart. Waiting. His lips pressed together in a tight line. She climbed out of the car and closed the door behind her.

"Forget something?" the officer said. Bella stared at him blankly. "Your keys. Don't want someone stealing your car, now do you?" He chuckled.

Bella opened the door and leaned into the car. Feeling eyes on her, she glanced over her shoulder. The man had moved behind her and was staring at her butt. She grabbed the key and stood up quickly, banging the back of her head on the edge of the roof. While she rubbed her head, the officer's eyes roamed up and down her body. Not even trying to mask his leering.

Officer Walker smirked. "You forgot your pocketbook."

Bella looked into the car. It lay on the passenger seat. She placed a knee on the driver's seat, leaned into the car, and stretched to reach her pocketbook. The dress rode up the back of her thighs. She snatched the pocketbook and ducked as she got out of the car. The officer slammed the door shut while Bella stood trembling.

"That was very interesting," he said, once again smirking. "Now follow me."

"Where are we going?"

"Wherever I say. Follow me."

The officer walked toward the bunker-like building. He stopped and glanced over his shoulder. Bella stood frozen. Still as a statue. When he motioned for her to come, her feet finally moved. She followed, lagging a couple of yards behind him. Thoughts about her future flooded her mind. And about her children's future.

Stopping at the gray metal door, the officer waited for Bella to catch up. She had fallen even further behind. He held the door open. Bella looked back at the parking lot and then up at the big blue sky. At freedom. Something she had taken for granted. Could she handle being cooped up in a small cell? She stepped over the threshold into the building.

It was just as sterile inside as it was outside. Scuffed brown linoleum floors. Beige walls in need of painting. Nothing on them except for one glass-enclosed case with typed memos thumbtacked to a cork board inside it. Schedules and other items the Customs and Border Protection Officers used.

Bella followed Officer Walker down the hall. He flipped a folding sign down on the door that said "Occupied" and then opened the door. Bella leaned into the room and then stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind her. Bella jumped.

Now alone, she hugged her pocketbook to her chest as she scanned the room. No windows. It had a large desk with a chair behind it and two visitor chairs. A couch was against the far wall. No other furniture. Was it an interrogation room? She looked for the two-way mirror. No mirrors. Nothing on the walls. Not even a picture or clock. Maybe they brought her there to keep her out of the way while they inspected the stuffed animals. Bella's hand flew to her open mouth. She hadn't locked the car doors. Her eyes shot to the door. They'd come for her and lock her up when they found the drugs.

Bella paced. Back and forth. From one end of the room to the other. Feeling more alone than she ever had. Always glancing at the door. Waiting for them to arrest her. Would Marco take care of her children? Or would he punish her family for losing his drugs? She had done what he told her to. It wasn't her fault she got caught.

 

Chapter 5

The door to the interrogation room in the Customs and Border Protection building swung open.

Bella spun around. She backed up a few steps when the same CBP officer entered the room. He closed the door behind him. The lock clicked.

"Get against the wall," Officer Walker said.

Bella looked around and walked to the nearest wall. She stood with her back against it, her eyes locked on the man who once again scanned her body from head to toe without trying to mask his lust.

"Turn around and place your hands on the wall. I need to frisk you."

"You? Shouldn't a woman do that?"

"We're short-handed. Now do what I say."

"But that's not right."

"Are you going to make trouble?"

Bella lowered her eyes and shook her head. She dropped her pocketbook onto the floor and turned to face the wall, leaning forward with her weight on her hands. The officer stepped up to her and kicked the inside of her right foot.

"Spread them," he said.

Bella shifted her feet further apart. He placed his hands on her head. She cringed. His fingers slid through her long hair and along her scalp. He pushed her hair to the side and looked inside her right ear. He did the same with her left one. The officer placed a finger under her chin and turned her head to face him as he stepped to her side.

"Open your mouth."

When she did, Officer Walker pried it open more and peered inside. He put a long finger into her mouth and ran it over her tongue and all around the inside. Bella wanted to vomit. He didn't even put on gloves or wash his hands. But she stood still while her stomach churned. It was disgusting. His finger inside her mouth and his breath on her skin gave Bella the creeps. Releasing her mouth, Officer Walker stepped behind Bella and placed his hands on her shoulders. He slid them up and down her arms. Maybe he was simply doing his job. Maybe she was just being paranoid. It would soon be over. Bella relaxed with a soft sigh.

His hands went around to her front and cupped both breasts. Bella pushed off the wall, slamming into his body. She spun around as the officer stumbled backward.

"Are you going to cause trouble?" Officer Walker said.

"It's just that you touched— Isn't there a woman officer around?"

"Just me, lady. I'm either going to search you or your car. Your choice."

Not the stuffed animals! The thought filled her with dread.

With slumped shoulders, Bella turned and resumed her position. She leaned forward with hands flat on the wall at shoulder height and spread her feet. Marco had told her what she might have to do. This was better than that. She closed her eyes and sucked her lower lip into her mouth.

The man reached around her and placed his hands on her breasts. He squeezed them a couple of times before sliding both hands over them. Bella clamped her eyes tighter. His hands finally left her breasts and traveled up and down her sides and onto her belly, which hollowed with an intake of air. Then his hands slid up onto her breasts again. He squeezed.

"I feel something," Officer Walker said.

"There's nothing there."

"Like you'll tell me the truth. I need to look closer."

Officer Walker's hands left her breasts. Bella felt them on her upper back. Tugging the dress's zipper down. The cool air hit her skin as the back of her dress parted. She rested her forehead on the wall. Willed herself to be strong. When his fingers fumbled with the hooks on her bra strap, she chewed her bottom lip. The bra opened and hung loose. This couldn't be happening.

The man stroked her back, pushing the ends of the unhooked bra strap out of the way with each pass of his hands over her skin. There was no longer any pretense of conducting a search. He was fondling her. Then his hands crept to her sides underneath the dress, over her ribcage, sliding all the way to her belly. He pulled her toward him as his body pressed against her back, his hot breath on her cheek, his hard dick pushing into her buttocks. Bella cringed and squeezed her eyes shut. His hands traveled up her front, sliding under the loose bra onto her bare breasts. Something came up from her stomach causing a foul acidic taste in her mouth. Bella held it back and swallowed. She groaned.

Officer Walker squeezed her tits. Sometimes gently, sometimes hard. She clamped her teeth together when he did that, groaning when she couldn't hold it back. It wasn't that he hurt her. It was the humiliation. She felt cheap. Used. He pinched her nipples. Pulled them. Stretched them. Twirled them between his thumbs and index fingers. His hips rocked, bumping his hard-on into her soft buttocks.

Officer Walker removed his hands from inside her dress and backed up. "Can't find anything there."

Thank god, Bella thought and let out a long sigh.

"But there are other hiding places," he said.

Bella gasped. Held the air in her lungs. She knew what the other places were. Her children needed her to be strong. This would be over and forgotten and she would go on with her life. Not forgotten. She'd never forget it. And would it be over? There would be more trips for Marco Perez. Damn the new mayor. Why had he stopped going after Marco? He had been a ray of hope. If he had finished what he started, Bella wouldn't be up against the wall with a stranger taking liberties with her body.

Officer Walker placed his hands on Bella's hips outside the dress. He patted them like he was frisking her. Did he believe she was that naive? He tugged on her hips.

"Stick your butt out," he said.

Bella shuffled her feet back one at a time as she lowered her hands on the wall. Her head hung. Her hair flowed over her face. And her ass stuck out.

The man put his hands onto her butt. He moved them up and down and side to side and then squeezed both cheeks. Bella scrunched her face and clenched her asshole. His left hand remained on her butt as his right one moved back to her hip. It kept going. Around to her front, over her thigh, between her spread legs. He cupped her pussy from outside the dress. The thin, flimsy material was no barrier. She felt every finger. Bella's stomach churned. Bile came up, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. He squeezed both her buttock and pussy and moved a finger back and forth over her mound.

Officer Walker pulled his hands away. Bella sighed, but the relief was premature. He dropped to his knee and ran both hands up and down her right thigh over the dress. Again feigning frisking her. He did it to her left leg, but this time his hands continued down past the hem of her dress onto her bare skin. When they slid back up, they were underneath the dress. He continued higher. All the way up. The edge of his hand bumped her crotch. He sawed it back and forth.

"I feel something," he said. "It needs further examination."

Bella wanted to scream, Just get it over with, you fucking pervert! but she held it back behind clenched teeth.

Officer Walker lifted Bella's dress and laid it on her back. The cool air hit the back of her thighs. Her body tensed, waiting for the next touch. Nothing happened. She waited with eyes clamped shut. What was he doing? She heard his heavy breaths. God, he was staring at her panty-covered butt and the crotch between her spread legs.

"Are you done?" she said. "Can I—?"

He placed his hands on her butt. She clenched it. He squeezed. Stroked it. Stuck a finger under the elastic leg band and rubbed the bare flesh. That finger slid out from under her panties and brushed across the back of her thigh. It reached the inside of her thigh and moved upward and pressed into her groin. He sawed it back and forth, shoving the cotton fabric into her slit.

Bella flinched. The officer's breath was on the back of her thigh. That close. Sniffing. His nose bumped into her butt. His cheek pressed against the inside of her thigh. And then his tongue licked the hairless pussy lip exposed by her panties being wedged into her slit.

Marco had ordered her to shave her legs as soon as she got home, and also down there. The look on her husband's face when he had watched her sitting on the side of the bathtub with her legs spread, lathering up her pussy and then scraping off the hair, flashed through her mind. That had made her husband furious, calling her a whore. She had pleaded for him to understand, but he had stormed out of the bathroom, leaving her sobbing as she finished the task.

Officer Walker placed his hands on Bella's hips. His fingers dug into her flesh and his nose sank into her buttock as he licked her pussy from behind, both the exposed part and thin strip of rolled up panty. Her spread legs made it all available to him. With her head hanging and eyes clamped shut, she curled her fingers against the wall.

He pulled away from her groin and slipped his fingers into the waistband of her panties. He rolled them down slowly, exposing a little more skin with each tug. The panties were now a horizontal band of cloth digging into the flesh of her buttocks. He lowered them more. The crotch turned inside out as her pussy lips clung to the material jammed inside her. With a tug, it popped out of her slit. Soon, the panties were stretched at her spread thighs. After all that had happened, Bella's cheeks flushed red. Nothing was hidden from the man's eyes.

"One last thing and we'll be done," Officer Walker said as he stood up. "Need to check for hidden contraband. Need to use my probe."

His attempt to hold back a laugh failed.

Bella waited with closed eyes. Her fists tightened. The knuckles turned white. Her fingernails dug into her palms. There was a rustle of clothing behind her. Loose change clanged inside a pocket. A belt buckle hit the floor. And then the tip of a cock was forced into her.

Bella cried out.

"Did that hurt?" Officer Walker said.

Tears flowed down her cheeks. "Yes."

"It's 'cause you're fuckin' dry."

She nodded.

"Well, get yourself wet."

Bella's eyes popped open and she looked over her shoulder. "I can't. I'm not aroused."

"Then get aroused, damn it. Use your finger. Do what tramps like you do when you're horny and your husband isn't around."

"I don't—"

"Masturbate, cunt!"

Tears streamed down Bella's cheeks. She placed her left forearm on the wall and rested her forehead on the back of it. Her right hand went between her legs. When it touched her shaved pubic area, she jerked it away. It didn't feel like hers. But she quickly cupped her pussy and rubbed it back and forth. She squeezed it, pressing her dry lips together and the clitoris between them.

She felt something bump into her naked buttock. Was it the officer's forehead? His nose? Whatever it was, he was staring between her spread legs at her hand massaging her own vagina. Nothing was happening. She brought her hand to her mouth and sucked the index finger. Now wet, she placed it on her clitoris and moved it up and down. She had to keep wetting her finger. It wasn't working.

Bella closed her eyes and thought of her husband as her finger moved on her clitoris. She felt tingling and a little moisture, but then the image changed to his bruised face and him calling her a whore. Bella pushed that thought out of her mind. She thought back to their wedding. How happy she had been. And then her wedding night. Her husband had been such a gentleman. Taking it slow. She had been so embarrassed for him to see her naked and touch her, but the love for him won out. She remembered the first time he had touched her down there.

Her pussy lips weren't sticking together. It was working.

She remembered him bringing her hand to his penis and wrapping her fingers around it. She had been so afraid, so nervous, but also desire had swept through her body and she had felt butterflies in her belly—and tingling in her vagina.

She felt that tingling now so she slipped a finger inside. It moved in and out freely, getting slicker each time.

Bella jumped when Officer Walker grabbed her wrist and yanked her finger out of her pussy. He was standing behind her in a flash and shoved his cock into her. All the way. She gasped.

"That's the tramp I knew you were," Officer Walker said with a sneer as he pumped his cock in and out of her.

Bella's wet fingers curled into a fist that she placed on the wall. Each thrust pushed her forehead into her forearm. The man's hands were on her hips, pulling her to him as he rammed into her. A man other than her husband was inside her for the first time. He hadn't even asked if she was on the pill. Thankfully she was.

"Oh fuck!" Officer Walker yelled as he smashed his thighs against her buttocks and held them there.

Hot semen splashed inside Bella. Not her husband's. A second ejaculation. One more. The disgusting man grunted while leaning on her back. His hands now on her belly, pulling her into him. Getting his cock in deeper as he filled her pussy with sperm.

Officer Walker pulled out. "We're done."

Bella snapped her feet together and yanked her panties up. They were tangled but she didn't bother to smooth them out. When she stood, her dress fell back down. She turned so that her back was to the wall while she clasped her bra and then zipped up her dress. She saw Officer Walker's dick for the first time as he hauled his boxers up. It wasn't large. The officer pulled up his pants, tucked in his starched shirt, and fastened his trousers and belt.

"I didn't find any drugs on you so you're free to go," Officer Walker said. "Follow me and I'll get you through."

Bella stood still, clutching the sides of her dress. When he turned, she snatched her pocketbook off the floor and walked behind him. The crotch of her panties was already soaked.

 

Chapter 6

Lincoln Steele shielded his eyes in the bright desert sunlight. He stood in a parking lot surrounded by old cars and beat-up farming equipment, squinting at the sign over the building's entrance door. He smiled. It simply said, "Buck's Garage." No flare. Right to the point. Buck Ka-e-te-nay was a man Steele would like.

Steele didn't bother going to the main door. He marched around the side to the garage entrance. Inside were two bays and a large work area. A tractor was in the work area. Much of its engine was scattered on the floor around it. The walls inside the garage were covered with an assortment of tools and parts. A blue Harley Davidson motorcycle with high handlebars and low, black leather seat rested on its kickstand near the entrance. Steele scanned the room into his memory before his gaze settled on a pair of legs in blue jeans and scuffed brown cowboy boots sticking out from under a 2005 Ford pickup. The truck's black paint was faded to gray from the unforgiving Arizona sun.

"Mr. Ka-e-te-nay?" Steele said.

"Just Buck," the man said from under the car.

"Buck, can I speak to you?"

"What kind of problem are you having? Car trouble or farming?" His legs and feet never stopped twisting and kicking as he worked on whatever he was working on.

"I want to talk to you about Pete Bargas."

Buck's legs stilled. Steele waited.

The large man wriggled out from under the truck with the agility of a smaller man. His straight black hair was tied in a long braid that kept it out of the way while he worked, but he still wore an Apache bandana around his forehead. A few grease smudges on his cheek looked like war paint.

From the floor, Buck stared up at Steele, sizing him up. "You don't look like a reporter."

"I'm not."

"Then why are you asking about Pete?"

"His mother called me."

Buck's eyes widened. "Elena called you?" He scrambled to his feet. "Why'd she call you?"

"I'm an old friend. Are you a warrior?"

"Huh? I'm a mechanic."

"Ka-e-te-nay. It means warrior."

Buck's face broke into a toothy smile. "Actually, it means warrior and chief. You speak Apache?"

"My apologies. No, I had a buddy who was Apache. We talked a lot."

"From around here?"

"New Mexico. He's Mescalero."

"A mountain Apache. I'm from the desert. What else did he teach you?"

"How to use a knife."

"For scaling fish?"

"Survival."

Buck raised an eyebrow. "Hunting?"

"You can say that."

"But not animals."

"Not the four-legged kind."

Buck's eyebrows furrowed. "So what can I do for you?"

"You were the first responder to the high school shooting."

"Yes."

"And you found Pete's body."

"What about it?"

"What can you tell me about what happened?"

"You sort of summarized it yourself. The sheriff called so I rushed to the school. Heard shots and ran inside. I ended up at Pete's body."

"Did you see any shooting?"

"No."

"Did you know Pete?"

"This is a small town. Everyone knows everyone."

"Was he a troublemaker?"

"Pete? No way. He was a good kid."

"Then why would he have shot all those people?"

Buck pulled the bandana off and rubbed his sweaty face with it. "What's your name?"

"Steele. Lincoln Steele."

"Why did Elena call you?"

"I'm an old friend."

"But why you?"

"And a private investigator."

"What are you investigating?"

Steele's gaze was on the large man's round face with eyes wide apart, but his mind was elsewhere. What was he investigating? There were eyewitnesses who said it was Pete. They found Pete's body with the gun in his hand. If there ever was a smoking gun.

"I'm here to help Elena through this," Steele said. "She needs closure."

Buck wiped his hand with the bandana before holding it out. "Then ask away, Mr. Steele."

Steele shook it. "It's Linc."

"Well, Linc, that's the million-dollar question. I have no idea why Pete would have done it."

"Do you have a copy of the police report?"

"No. I'm not official. I sort of help out. That's all. You'll need to see the sheriff over at Blood Gorge."

"That's the name of a town?"

"Yup."

"It's more depressing than Tombstone."

Buck chuckled. "Named after a great victory during the Indian wars."

"Sounds like a loss."

Buck's toothy smile reappeared. "Depends on which side you were on."

Steele returned the smile. "I can relate to that."

Steele held out his hand. When Buck clasped it, it was a firm handshake. Not overpowering like he had to prove his manhood. Steele liked him even more.

"Thanks for your help," Steele said. "I wasn't sure I would get any."

Buck's eyes dropped and the ends of his mouth curled down. "You won't from most folks here. There's a lot of anger."

"Yeah, I saw Elena's house."

"What about it?"

"Graffiti and a broken window."

Buck stamped his foot. "Damn it. Why won't they let her be. She's hurting enough."

Steele patted Buck's shoulder. "If you think of anything, I'm staying at Elena's house. So how do I get to Blood Gorge?"

 

Chapter 7

Bella Cano's car jerked to a stop when she slammed on the brake pedal. The car in front of her had hit theirs in the heavy traffic leaving the border crossing. She screamed at them in profanity-laced Spanish and then quickly glanced over her shoulder to see if the stuffed animals had slid off the back seat. They hadn't. Bella wanted to get as far away from there as fast as she could, but it seemed like everyone in Mexico had decided to go to the United States at the same time. The lane to her right had an opening. She swerved into it without even checking the side mirror. She pressed hard on the brake pedal and stopped inches from the bumper of another car. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel and she leaned forward. The car rocked in traffic as she gave it gas, hit the brake, gave it gas, hit the brake.

After what seemed like hours, Bella approached the turn that would take her to Cactus Point. For once she was grateful to take the road no one else did. She drove for about two miles on the deserted road and then pulled onto the shoulder and covered her face in her hands.

The crotch of her panties was soaked with semen. A constant reminder of what she had done. Could she do it again? No matter what that asshole CBP officer said, she wasn't a tramp. Unlike many of her childhood friends, she had remained a virgin until married. And she had always been faithful to her husband. Her husband? Manuel was kind and loving, but that was before. He wouldn't even talk to her after they had left Marco's place. And that was before anything actually happened. But he loved her and it would be better when she got home and this was behind her.

She followed the directions Marco had given her. It took her to the outskirts of Cactus Point where she had never been. The houses were large and not on top of one another. She had heard about a neighborhood like this from her sister but had never believed her. Not in Cactus Point. Her sister had said it was where the mining executives lived. Bella drove slowly, looking for the address, wondering what it would be like to live there.

When she found the house, she held the paper up and checked the address again. The house was sitting on an acre or more with a long cement driveway carved into the massive manicured lawn. Grass! That was unheard of in the desert town. The driveway curved toward the front door and then continued like a horseshoe back to the street. A row of rocks on both sides of the driveway had lights about five feet apart that guided a car at night like runway lights at an airport. She drove up to the front of the house, walked to the door, and rang the bell. While waiting, she turned to admire the lawn. Her children played on dirt and weeds.

The door opened. She jumped and spun around.

Two large men stood shoulder to shoulder, muscles bulging from their short-sleeved shirts. Both wore identical shoulder holsters with pistols in them. A lump formed in her throat and a knot in her belly. They were white. American DEA agents? They stared at her, not saying a word. Bella shifted from foot to foot.

"I must have the wrong address," Bella said. "Sorry to have bothered you."

She turned to leave. A strong hand grabbed her shoulder and held her in place with fingers sinking into the flesh as the grip tightened.

"Let's look inside your car," the man holding her said.

Bella trembled. "I have the wrong address. I have to go somewhere."

The other man, the one with short-cropped blond hair, wrapped his large fingers around her upper arm and pulled her away from the first man, dragging her to the car. She took quick, stumbling steps to keep up with his long strides. To keep from falling. With his hand still clutching her arm, he leaned over and peered into the car through the back window. Her heart was ready to burst. He'd find the drugs inside the stuffed animals. What she had gone through with the CBP officer was for nothing. She was going to prison anyway.

"Give me the keys," the blond man said.

"It's a mistake. Please let me go."

"The keys."

Bella fished them out of her pocketbook and held them out. They slipped from her trembling hand. She stood frozen. The man stooped, swiped the keys off the ground, and sauntered to the back of the car as if he didn't have a care in the world. He opened the trunk and took out two large suitcases.

Bella gasped.

The blond man carried the suitcases to where Bella and the other man stood and laid them on the ground. He flipped open the two latches on one suitcase. Click. Click. Bella flinched twice. He looked around before opening the lid. Bella leaned over the top. It was filled with bags of white powder. Her hand flew to her open mouth. He pulled a knife from his pocket and pushed a button in the handle. The blade swung out. He slit one of the bags. Wetting a finger, he dipped it into the opening and licked the white powder off his fingertip. He looked up at the other man and nodded and then closed the suitcase. He inspected the second suitcase in the same manner.

He stood up and handed Bella the car keys. "You can go."

"I'm free? I can go?"

"You made the delivery. Now get."

"What about the stuffed animals?"

"What about them?"

"They have drugs in them."

The two men gawked at her and then burst into laughter.

"They identify your car," the blond man said. Bella stared at him with her mouth hanging open. "For the CBP officer. So he knows which car. Now go back to your family. Your job is done."

The other man grabbed her shoulder. "Wait! One more thing."

A knot formed in Bella's stomach. She closed her fist around the keys. Squeezed them tight. Not again. The men worked for Marco. They expected to have sex with her. Could she make it to her car and get away before they caught her? But then what?

The man pulled an envelope out from his back pocket and handed it to Bella. "From Marco. He told me to tell you that he's being nice."

Bella stared at the man and then the envelope and then back at the man.

"Twenty thousand pesos," he said. "That's only like a thousand bucks, but Marco said there will more if you do a good job. He said to tell you that he takes care of his people."

Bella squeezed the thick envelope. Twenty thousand pesos! That's more than her husband made in a month. She dashed to the driver's door of the car, yanked on the locked door, did it again, and then opened it with the key remote. She jumped into the car, tossed the envelope onto the passenger seat, and sped down the driveway. The car bounced when it hit the groove alongside the road used to channel water the few times it rained. Bella spun the steering wheel. The tires screeched when she peeled away.

The ride back to Diablo del Norte was uneventful. She flashed her passport at the Mexican border officer who waved her through. The sperm had dried, becoming crusty, making the crotch of her panties stiff. It was uncomfortable, especially since she had shaved down there, so she thought about removing them. But all she wanted to do was get home as quickly as she could to see her children. Hold them. She had been so afraid that she'd go to prison and lose them.

Bella burst into her house. "I'm home. Mama's home!"

Two children flew into the room and crashed into Bella. She dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around them, crushing them to her body.

"Mama, I can't breathe," her daughter said.

Bella released them and smiled. "I'm sorry. I'm just so happy to see you. Both of you."

Her husband strolled into the room and crossed his arms as he scowled down at them. Bella looked up and smiled. He didn't return it.

"Mama, you smell funny," her son said. He sniffed a few times and wrinkled his nose.

Bella took a few deep breaths through her nose. Oh god, no! she thought. She smelled of stale sex. Bella jumped to her feet and galloped past her husband to the master bedroom. She locked herself in the bathroom and tore off her clothing. Filling the sink with water, she dropped the soiled panties in it and hand-washed them, scrubbing the crotch by frantically rubbing it together.

She wrung the panties as best she could and dug through the hamper. Finding a dress, she wrapped it around the panties and carefully buried it in the middle of the rest of the dirty laundry. She then took a shower, scrubbing her vagina with a soapy washcloth until the hairless skin turned red.

When done, she blew her hair dry, brushed her teeth, and applied a touch of makeup. She opened the bathroom door a crack to peek into the bedroom. It was empty. Naked, she dashed to her dresser and put on fresh underwear, a tank top, and shorts.

She found her children in the bedroom they shared. Her husband was not in the house. She sat on the floor with her back against the wall, smiling as she watched her children play. They were all that mattered. It was all worth it to keep them safe.

Time seemed to stand still in the little bedroom until Bella's daughter said, "Mama, I'm hungry."

Bella glanced at her watch and jumped to her feet. "Oh my. I'm so sorry. I didn't know it was so late."

Bella rushed to the kitchen and made dinner. She was getting it on the table when her husband came home. He washed his hands in the kitchen sink and sat in his regular chair at the far end of the table. Bella hated when he washed his hands in the kitchen, but knew better than to scold him now. She served dinner and made sure her son ate all his vegetables. Her daughter wasn't a problem. She loved them. Her children seemed to have forgotten that she had been gone most of the day. Not her husband, though. He stole glances at her from time to time. When their eyes met, he dropped his eyes on his food. He didn't say a word.

Later, Bella bathed both children and put them to bed. She found her husband sitting on the living room couch watching a soccer game on television. She cuddled up next to him. He stiffened. She laid her head on his shoulder.

Bella nibbled her husband's earlobe. He turned his head away. She placed a hand on his thigh and slid it up toward his groin. He swatted her hand away. Bella sat up straight and frowned at her husband.

"What's the matter?" she said. "The kids are asleep. Aren't you in the mood?"

He backed away and glowered. "Didn't you get enough fucking today?"

The words cut like an axe. Her hand flew to her open mouth. And then she swung it across her husband's left cheek. The smack filled the small room. Her husband's eyes opened wide as his left hand went to his face. The fingers of his right hand curled into a fist. He squeezed them tight. So tight his knuckles turned white. He raised his fist. Bella recoiled. He punched the back of the couch and jumped to his feet, bolting from the living room to their bedroom.

Bella sat there, tears streaming down both cheeks. The screaming coming from the television for a goal scored wasn't heard. She played the slap over and over again in her mind. Heard it. Saw the look on her husband's face. Shock. And then hatred. And then she remembered the rejection. She cupped her face in both hands and cried. Her life was ruined. And it was only going to get worse.

 

Chapter 8

Lincoln Steele had never heard of Blood Gorge, but assumed it was a large town because the sheriff was located there. A big mistake. Larger than Cactus Point, it still wasn't much of a town. It just happened to be situated in a central area to all the small towns in that part of uninhabited Arizona.

Perched in his car outside the sheriff's office, Steele lifted his pants leg and unstrapped the ankle holster. He locked the gun in the glove compartment. Anyone could carry a concealed weapon in Arizona, but wearing it into a police station was a bit too much. He felt naked without it, though.

Steele entered the small building and walked up to the front desk. "I'd like to see Sheriff Millwater."

The officer eyed Steele from his chair. The buttons on his shirt threatened to pop as they strained to keep the shirt closed around his round belly. "What's your business?"

"The Cactus Point High School shooting."

The officer jumped to his feet and leaned forward with his hands flat on the desk. "What about it?"

"I have some questions."

"Reporter?"

"Private investigator."

"Who the fuck hired you?"

"That's not relevant. Now can I see the sheriff?"

The policeman's eyebrows furrowed. He glared at Steele and then yelled over his shoulder, "Jack, a private dick wants to talk to you."

A stocky man emerged from the only office. His barrel chest strained the starched white shirt and his thick salt-and-pepper mustache covered his entire upper lip and then some. Steele wondered if he tasted his breakfast all day. He walked up to Steele.

"I'm Deputy Sheriff Millwater."

"Oh, Buck said you were the sheriff."

"People call me that, but there's only one sheriff in the county. He's in Bisbee. He's an elected official, I'm not. I like it that way. What can I do for you?"

"Is there someplace we can talk?"

"Sure. My office. Follow me."

The deputy sheriff led Steele to his office. Millwater took the seat behind the gray metal desk and Steele plopped down in a visitor chair across from him. The deputy sheriff shoved stacks of papers to the side and swung his legs up, dropping his heels in the cleared space with a loud thump and crossed his ankles. Steele stared at the worn soles and pointy toes of his shiny black cowboy boots.

"You ain't from Cactus Point," the deputy sheriff said.

"No. I was asked by an old friend to find out what happened at the high school."

"Pete Bargas went fuckin' crazy and shot a bunch of kids and two teachers and then himself."

"That's what it looks like."

"That's what fuckin' happened."

"Maybe you're right."

"Maybe? Who the fu—? Look," the deputy sheriff jabbed a finger at Steele, "if Buck hadn't sent you we wouldn't be talking right now. Didn't he tell you what happened? He was the first one in. He found the killer's body."

"Alleged killer."

The deputy sheriff dropped his feet to the floor and sat up straight. He slapped the desktop with both palms. "You fuckin' planning on making trouble?"

"Just looking for answers."

The deputy sheriff sat back and folded his arms across his chest. "What kind of answers?"

"Don't know yet. For example, if Pete didn't do it, then who did?"

"Bingo! It was him. We have witnesses. And his body with the gun."

"Well, if that's true, there's another question to be answered. Why did he do it?"

"How you gonna figure that out? There was no fuckin' note and nothing on his laptop. We'll never know why that screwed up kid did it. Do you even have police training?"

"I'm a private investigator."

"Ex cop?"

"Ex military."

"What branch?"

"That's classified."

The deputy sheriff's eyes widened and he rubbed his palms together. "What do you wanna know?"

"I'd like a copy of the police report."

"You got it."

"Are there photos of the crime scene?"

"Some. They're with the report."

"Can I have copies of them too?"

"Sure."

"And the autopsy report?"

The deputy sheriff twirled his thick mustache while staring at Steele. "There was no autopsy."

"Why not?"

"He shot himself. What would an autopsy tell us?"

"If he was high on something. Or had a brain tumor. Who knows? Something to explain his behavior. That's why an autopsy is performed."

"We're just simple folks in these parts. We don't have no fuckin' big budget or fancy forensic doctors at our disposal."

The deputy sheriff crossed his arms again.

Steele stood up. "Thank you for your time. If you can make me the copies I'll be on my way."

 

Chapter 9

Steele removed the 8x10 photographs from the manila envelope Deputy Sheriff Millwater had given him and spread them out on Elena's kitchen table like he was getting ready to play a game of solitaire. He picked up the police report and read it, from time to time checking the photographs of the crime scene to get a visual. He studied how the bodies lay. Put himself in the shooter's body. Imagined where the shooter fired from. Other than Mr. Blackburn, there were no bodies near the classroom doors. Steele would have expected a pile of bodies there as they tried to escape. Did it happen that fast, or did they freeze? In combat, he had witnessed even trained soldiers freezing. These were children.

Steele only had to read through the report once. The contents would now forever be available in his mind. He had stopped wondering years ago where all that information was stored in his brain. He couldn't remember being born or circumcised—thankfully—but recalled his first day of kindergarten and everything that had happened since. Not that it was all floating around in his head, cluttering it up, but if he needed to recall something it was there. It was futile to try to explain it to others. They weren't capable of understanding. It was like explaining the color purple to a person blind from birth.

The police report was skimpy. It contained the time and location of the shooting, the names of the victims, and that Pete Bargas had done it. Case closed. The survivors had said it was Pete. All three of them. Steele kept referring to the photographs as a visual guide to what was written since the crime scene no longer existed. It had been cleaned and sanitized, so all Steele had were the photographs and the insufficient police report. They had the gun and the spent brass. Ballistics identified the pistol found with Pete's body as the weapon that killed him and the others. But no fingerprints. Not even on the shell casings. Was Pete that good? He was wearing gloves at the time of the shooting, but was he smart enough never to have handled the ammo barehanded? That takes a lot of planning. And that means it was premeditated. So he didn't just go crazy. But why did he do it? What was his motive?

Lifting the photographs up one at a time, Steele studied the carnage in the two classrooms. At the dead children. Blood everywhere. Some faces unrecognizable from bullets that blasted them to pieces. Steele had seen that before. Bodies blown apart by bombs or shredded by .50 caliber machine guns. But these were innocent children in school, not a war zone.

Steele picked up the last photograph, the one of Pete lying dead. His head was hooded and his lower face was covered with a blood-soaked scarf. The sunglasses were on the floor, but at the time of the shooting they had masked the rest of his face. How did anyone identify the shooter as Pete Bargas? Steele held the photograph closer. But it was Pete. Elena had identified him. He studied the dead face.

Why? Steele thought. What caused him to go on a rampage? What doesn't Elena know about her son?

The front door opened. Steele slapped the photograph of Elena's dead son upside down on the table and then swept the others into a stack and flipped them over on top of it.

That was a preview of High School Massacre. To read the rest purchase the book.

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