Chapter 1
"Aw, Coach, I haven’t got a prayer. Everybody knows how
much I want to get a good scholarship, but I’ll bet that every
incoming freshman will fill out this one."
"Come on,
Angie. Someone will win. You’ve filled out more of these things
than anyone in the county— that experience ought to count for
something." Coach Chuck Doyle grinned as he fell into stride
with Angela Donalson. "This one is kinda different. The company
is sending a representative to conduct area interviews, which just
happen to be good old Adamsville High, so you won’t have to
go anywhere. It’ll cost you a stamp and a class period."
"Well, okay.
Since you put it that way, I guess I should. Hey, maybe I’ll
get out of Mrs. Harris’s class." Angie paused on her way
to American Literature.
"Angie, this
is important. Someone is gonna win, and that someone might be you.
Your future is at stake." Doyle’s voice was sincere and
caring. Too caring.
"Don’t
tell me, you need a sitter for tonight?" Angie voiced her suspicion.
"Yep, we
could use you. Got a game over in Americus, and Suzanne is gonna take
some pictures for the yearbook." Doyle turned toward the gym.
"The twins say they’d rather have you than anyone in town.
We’ll need you from the time school is out until about 10:00.
How about it?"
"Okay, I’ll
call my aunt." Angie sighed as she turned onto the English hall.
Coach Doyle’s eight-year-old twins were mischief personified,
but she needed the money even more than she needed his goodwill. Realistically,
she needed both.
"Thanks,
Angie. Meet me at the gym after school."
"I’ll
be there."
As Mrs. Harris
droned on about some dude named Emerson, Angie perused the form. Avery
Electronics might be sponsoring it, but it was just another scholarship;
the questions seemed typical.
Halfway listening
to a poem about a snowstorm, Angie began to sketch out answers to
each item. Being Adamsville High’s queen of scholarships, she
had begun early, in her junior year, looking for anything that might
cause her college years to be spent studying, rather than at a part-time
job. What Angie wanted, more than love, more than clothes (and she
loved clothes), was to have people see her as she walked down the
street and say, "There goes Angela Donalson— she’s
...." But with the capriciousness that is common in high school,
she kept changing what went into the blank. Angie applied for everything:
nursing scholarships, information technology scholarships, journalism
scholarships and education scholarships. She wrote each essay as if
whatever was being offered had been her greatest goal since she emerged
from diapers. So, today she brainstormed a list, working up a keen
desire to be an electronics engineer.
According to everyone
who could remember, Angie’s mother had loved her redheaded daughter
with all her heart, but that same heart, never strong, had given out
when Angie was just a toddler, so Angie’s Dad had been doubly
important to her. After her mother’s death, Angie and Bill Donalson
had moved in with his older, spinster sister, Claire Donalson. Angie
supposed that Aunt Claire was loving in her way, but she suspected
that Claire had never married because it was hard to get through the
rather distant facade which she directed toward most of the world.
The family lived modestly on Bill’s salary, earned by driving
an eighteen-wheeler, until he died in an accident. Afterward, Angie
and Claire, who had never worked outside her home, faced harder times.
Although her parents
were gone, their desire to have their daughter "be somebody"
was alive and well within Angie. Each week she studied the board outside
the counselor’s office, looking for yet another avenue to make
her goal a reality.
A few weeks later, Angie was summoned to Ms. Greeson’s office,
next in line for the interview.
Wearing the closest
thing she had to preppy clothes— khaki pants and a pullover
sweater, Angie rose to greet the interviewer.
Mrs. Greeson introduced
them.
"Mr. Arnold,
this is Angie Donalson. A junior."
"Hello, Angie."
Mr. Arnold was wearing a glen plaid suit, traditional white shirt,
and a dark silk tie.
"Hi."
"I’ve
read your application, and your essay. A most impressive essay."
"Thank you,
sir." Mrs. Greeson waved Angie into a chair.
"You’re
only a junior. Most of the students I’ve talked to are seniors."
"Some scholarships
are open to both, and I want to do everything I can to obtain the
best one possible."
"Why do you
want to study engineering?"
"Well, sir,
to be honest, I’d be willing to study any number of things,
if I could get the proper financial support. My parents are dead,
and my aunt and I will have a difficult time when I go to college.
But with or without a scholarship, I intend to go to college. Please
understand, it’s not that I mind hard work. I just want to devote
myself to my studies as much as I can. Your scholarship could make
that possible." Angie chose to focus on his tie, because looking
at his face was making her nervous.
"Do you have
any hobbies, Angie?"
"I like to
read. The library is my favorite place in town. Fiction, some classics,
even the newspaper. Especially the paper. I like to know what’s
going on. Here, and everywhere."
Mr. Arnold smiled,
and thumbed through the papers on his lap. Angie tried to ignore the
video camera, sitting on a tripod, running.
"Some students
don’t want to study; they just enjoy getting away from home
and having a good time." Mr. Arnold observed.
"Yes, sir,
I guess that does happen. My mom and dad would want me to finish school.
If I win, the money will be used, uh, in the way you would want. Some
folks do just want a good time, but I need that degree. It’s
been my goal for a long time."
Mr. Arnold nodded,
a gesture of dismissal.
"Thank you,
Angie. It was nice meeting you."
Mrs. Greeson motioned
her out of the door. Angie glanced at her watch. She hadn’t
spent more than ten minutes in the interview. So much for getting
out of class!
* * *
Marcus Avery,
Jr. was in his father’s private lounge, holding a watered down
drink and discussing his latest project.
"The estate
is shaping up— twelve thousand square foot house, five hundred
acres, in the foothills. Stables, tennis courts, pool. I’ve
hired Matt Chapman’s sister as the estate manager."
"Billie?
She’s career Navy, isn’t she?" The elder Avery searched
his mind for Miss Chapman.
"Marines.
She retired three months ago. She’s hired a small staff, and
renovations will be finished soon. I plan to spend the weekends there
as much as possible."
"Won’t
that ruin your social life?"
"Right now,
I just want to have an outlet for stress. Tennessee is a restful place,
and Billie Chapman is most efficient. It’s going to be great."
* * *
At that moment,
Billie Chapman was supervising the addition of steel bars to the windows
in the two adjoining upstairs bedrooms on the north wing of Avery’s
country estate. She had already had steel doors installed from each
room to the hallway, and a steel door in between the rooms. A pair
of pocket doors, made of chain link fencing within a heavy steel frame,
had been added to close off the hallway from the rest of the house.
The girl’s room was furnished with good quality furniture, in
light, feminine colors. It had enough square feet to make two rooms,
with a study/sitting area at one end, and the bedroom furniture close
to the bathroom. Through the connecting door was Avery’s room;
although somewhat smaller, its furnishings were even more elegant.
Danny Watson,
one of the permanent staff, looked at Billie through the open window,
as he screwed on the heavy metal grill. "You expecting burglars,
Billie?" he asked, grinning.
"No questions,
Danny. You agreed before you took the job."
"Yes, ma’am.
No questions."
"And you’ll
get no answers from me."
"Yes, ma’am."
Janice Rule came
upstairs, with shopping bags in her hands. "I have the purchases
you asked me to make, Billie."
Billie glanced
in the bags. "These look fine. Cut off the tags and hang them
up in the closet. Underwear in the chest. Put the reading material
on the desk and tables." Janice put the items away, making neat
rows in the drawer, and an attractive display on the table, then she
left. Billie looked around the room again, nodded, and moved on to
the next job.
* * *
Angie was excited
when Mrs. Greeson informed her that she was a finalist for the scholarship.
The second interview was a bit longer, and Mr. Arnold was accompanied
by Marc Avery, Jr., who was introduced as the son of the CEO of Avery
Electronics. Winning a scholarship generous enough to pay her every
expense was an awesome thought. Although she was nervous, she dressed
in her best outfit and tried to impress the committee with her maturity,
as well as her desire to learn and succeed.
As she left the counselor’s office, she felt that she had indeed
swayed them, especially the handsome Marc Avery. He was, she supposed,
any girl’s dream man— six feet, two inches, blonde, with
an athletic spring in his step and penetrating blue eyes. Despite
the difference in age and social class, he’d seemed to show
real interest in her, which surprised her. The connection, however
fleeting, made her feel that her chances at winning had just gotten
a whole lot better.
* * *
Marc Avery practically
leaped from the helicopter when it landed on its pad at his country
house near Apple Valley, Tennessee. The estate was not huge, but the
five hundred acres of rolling hills provided ample privacy. The grounds
surrounding the house were verdant in the early spring, and he could
see some obvious improvements. There were new beds of azaleas in bloom,
and some more formal flowerbeds had been added, ready for planting
once any danger of frost was past. The lawn had been cut, and a privacy
fence had been added around the pool. The stable had a new coat of
white and green paint, and four horses grazed in the paddock beside
it.
The drive, graveled
with creek pebbles, led from the main gate. A new chain link fence
surrounded the exterior perimeter of the grounds, eight feet high
and electrified. The five car garage held a BMW, a Ford Explorer,
and a flatbed Dodge truck for hauling materials around the estate.
A latticework breezeway, covered by a green metal roof, connected
the garage with the main house. This was a knock-off colonial design,
in the traditional white, with huge columns and two wings branching
out from the main hall.
Billie Chapman,
dressed in neat khaki pants and a navy polo shirt, strode up. Her
military uniforms might have been left behind; her aura of authority
had remained.
"Good evening, Mr. Avery. I believe that we are ready."
Avery nodded,
"The grounds look great. How about the inside?"
"Ready there,
too."
"Then we
are ready to go get the girl?"
"Right,"
said Chapman. "Of course, that is subject to specific information.
I can't plan the mission without the details."
"Got it right
here," Avery said, waving his soft leather briefcase. "I
think that you will have everything you need— we have the initial
application, the video tape interview, and the P.I. report."
"After I
have reviewed the materials, what is the timeline for this operation?"
"As soon
as possible," Avery replied, starting for the house. "I’m
going to be out of town for a while, more than two weeks, but I would
want her to have a few days to settle in before I see her, anyway."
"You will
want to inspect the rooms where we will be keeping her, right, sir?"
"Yes."
Chapman opened
the door for Avery.
As they entered
the wide entry hall, Avery dropped his briefcase on a bench at the
right. Chapman followed him as he bounded up the stairs.
"I have your
keys, sir. Do you want them now?"
"No, no need
as yet." He stopped before the wire gate. Chapman used her keys
to unlock the gate, and then she slid it away into the partition walls
on either side of the hall. Hinged moldings covered the openings,
making the gate invisible for the moment. The first room was Avery’s;
Chapman used her key to open the steel paneled door. They entered
it and proceeded to the door between the rooms, which she also had
to unlock. As he entered the girl’s room, Avery glanced at the
furnishings.
"As a security
measure, the gate will be locked before any door to her room is unlocked.
There are bars on the windows in both rooms. There is no possibility
of escape, as long as we follow standard operating procedures."
"And the
detention cell?" Avery hoped that it wouldn’t be used,
but he figured that his little redhead would put up a fight. She seemed
to know her own mind, despite her youth. Chapman led him to a room
across the hall from the girl’s room. Another steel panel door
was there, but this one had a gap under it of about four inches.
Chapman opened the door. Dark gray painted walls, an iron framed cot,
a basic sink, and a seatless toilet made up the furnishings. There
was a security camera mounted high in one corner. Chapman gestured
to the camera. "The green room, next door, has the security monitors
for the entire estate, so a single staff member can monitor the girl’s
suite and the rest of the grounds, if necessary. There is an additional
monitor station in my office, which can be switched to monitor any
camera, or it can be set to rotate at a fixed interval."
They went into
the room beside the cell. The longest wall had a huge desk set against
it, with a hutch filled with small monitor screens. Chapman turned
on the system, and views of the front gate, two views from the exterior
of the house, the interior of the front hall, the detention cell,
and four views of the girl’s suite— two in the bedroom
and two of the bathroom— came up in rapid succession. Another
wall of the room had pegboard with hooks that held several different
types of restraints including handcuffs and leg cuffs, as well as
an electronic stun gun, and even a riding crop.
Chapman gestured
toward the pegboard. "Mr. Avery, I am concerned about how much
punishment I can use on her, and yet not do any permanent damage—
either physical or psychological."
"You have
several options. Use the detention cell if necessary. I hope you won’t
need it, but it’s there. You’ll no doubt need to use the
handcuffs, and the whip, at least at first. Let her know who is boss,
right from the start. If she’s unreasonable, then use more force."
"Yes, sir."
Chapman agreed that in order to break the girl, a certain amount of
force would be necessary. "But how do you want her treated?"
"With utmost
courtesy, whenever possible. I know it’ll be a balancing act—
but be very polite, even formal. Still, she does need to be broken
in a bit. You do that yourself. Train her to respond to your commands.
Search her every time she goes off this floor, and every time she
comes back. You have two reasons for that— for security, and
to get her used to your touch. Monitor her in the bathroom. That is
your first, biggest risk. Search her again before bed. I hope that
suicide never crosses her mind, but at first, any sort of reaction
is possible." Avery paused, thinking aloud. "Billie, she'll
need to lose some of her modesty, her shyness. You can see her naked,
or without much in the way of clothing. But you conduct all searches,
and any punishment which must occur. Only you. Limit her contact with
the staff as much as possible."
"I can’t do everything, Mr. Avery."
"No, of course
not. Janice and Danny are trustworthy— but you must do most
of the oversight."
"How do I
address her?"
"As Miss
Donalson. We want her to behave like a lady, so we will treat her
as one. Make some attempt to help her realize that as soon as she
learns how to act, she will have the run of the place."
"Yes, sir."
"Don’t
answer questions, if you can help it. It will be up to me to tell
her why she’s here. Go ahead and start breaking her to her role,
but any mention of sex will come from me. Don’t allow her clothes,
just a nightgown, at first. That should make her less likely to try
to get away from you. After I have spoken with her, I’ll make
the decision as to when she can dress and be allowed out of the suite
upstairs. We’ll give her more freedom as she becomes more trustworthy."
"Okay, we
can do that," Chapman acknowledged.
* * *
Chapman, a compact
woman with short brown hair, slid into the passenger seat of a rented
Lincoln. It was the third rental this week. Not wanting anyone taking
notice of a particular car, she changed cars each trip. Along with
Danny Wilson and Janice Rule, she was cruising around a small Georgia
town, looking for a tall girl, with sparkling green eyes and copper-red
hair. Two minutes without a witness— that was all her crew would
need. Two minutes.
* * *
Angie stood at
the back of the gym, waiting for Sheila, her best friend, to give
her a ride home. Ever since Sheila had gotten her new car, Robert
had come over to talk to her in the afternoons after school. Angie
couldn’t fault Sheila, because she had plotted long enough to
get both the car and Robert. Certainly, Sheila didn’t want her
friend hanging around. That was the reason was for the planned gym
door pick-up. Angie hated being left out here alone, plagued by all
the guys who had nothing to do but drive around and around the school,
yelling stupid stuff. Today, even the cruds had gone home— or
wherever they went. The gym parking lot was deserted, so Angie decided
to hike the two miles home.
A large, green
four-door drove up as Angie reached the rear chain link gate of the
school, a car she didn’t recognize. A woman— perhaps in
her mid thirties— got out, dressed in jeans and a chambray shirt.
Her square-jawed smile was tentative, "Are you Angela Donalson?"
"Yes,"
Angie acknowledged, puzzled. "Do I know you?"
The back door
opened and a dark-haired man got out. He also in his thirties, and
was dressed in denim. He stepped backward, a grin on his face. Angie
felt a tremendous shoving force square in the middle of her backpack,
and she was pushed into the arms of the smiling man, who reached up
to steady her, or so she thought. Instead of helping her stand, he
seemed to fall backwards, pulling her into the backseat, literally
on top of him. The door slammed behind them. The woman got back into
the front seat, and the car pulled away. With his arms wrapped around
her, Angie’s face was mashed into the chambray-clad chest of
her captor. A needle jabbed into her upper right arm.
"What’s
that? Why are you doing this?" Angie’s yell was stifled,
as she struggled to move her face away from his chest.
"It’s
a drug to make you sleep. You have about thirty seconds." The
woman’s voice was calm and matter-of-fact.
"You don’t
understand. You have the wrong girl." Angie’s voice trailed
off, and she had trouble keeping her eyes open. The chambray shirt
melted into a swirl of colors, into blackness.
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