Capital Offense

April 4, 2001

He woke to consuming darkness.

Wind whipped around him, freezing his naked frame. He lifted his throbbing head and spit blood. His stomach churned. He vomited. His entire body ached from injury and exposure. Jack struggled against the ropes that bound his wrists and ankles. Pain exploded like flashbulbs behind his eyelids.

Scraping the side of his body on rocks and underbrush, he inched over to a large oak tree and rubbed the rope that bound his wrists against an exposed root. He wore down much of the bark on the root as he slowly shredded the twine and the skin on his wrists.

His fingers, stiff from lack of circulation and the cold, touched his face and felt something crusty – dried blood. His right eye would barely open, and his cheek was swollen underneath.

He reached to untie his ankles, but his breath caught at the stabbing pain in his ribs. He held still and took a shallow breath. Then another one.

Someone beat the crap out of me, Jack thought in confusion. He laid back and carefully probed the damage to his ribs.

Shit, the last time he felt this bad was the day after that barroom brawl in Turkey, and the only thing that made that bearable was knowing the other guy had been hospitalized for weeks. Jack laughed, but pain lanced through him like a knife blade, silencing him.

He licked his lips and tasted more blood. He was obviously in a game of hardball, and someone else had wielded a heavy bat. Jack strained, trying to recall what had happened. He knew he’d gone to the diner. After eating, he’d read the newspaper, then… he didn’t know. The trail of his memory ended.

Jack heard an owl screech.

Where am I? He inched himself up on his elbows, dead leaves and twigs snapping beneath the weight of his body. He tried to focus in the dark. He heard another shrill scream in the distance.

With each passing moment, Jack’s thinking became clearer. His adrenaline started to flow. All his instincts told him to get the hell out of there. But where was he?

Jack’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. A cloud moved past the sliver of illumination offered by the moon. Dense forest surrounded him.

He grimaced as he forced himself to a seated position. Jack’s body felt heavy and weak, as if he’d been drugged.

Where the hell were his clothes? He untied his ankles, then gingerly shifted to his knees. He straightened, trying to stand. Oh, God. He wrapped his arms around his chest and curled into a ball. Tears welled in his eyes. Not good, Rudly, not good.

He knew he needed to get up and start walking or die of exposure.

The howl of coyotes floated on the sharp wind. Jack clenched his teeth and forced himself to his feet. A wave of dizziness rolled over him. He steadied himself against the tree. His arms and legs felt weak and rubbery.

Shit, this was not good. Jack looked around – he saw no sign of his shoes and clothing. They’d dumped him in the middle of the Missouri backwoods as a snack for ravenous animals. An efficient way to provide torture while disposing of a body, he thought. In short order, the animals could have scattered his bones throughout the forest leaving no recognizable trace of his presence.

He glanced up at the sky, trying to get his bearings. Clouds obscured the stars, making it impossible to determine his location or the direction he needed to pursue.

Was it before or after midnight? Maybe some time before dawn? Just get moving, and keep moving.

He hobbled forward. Jagged stones tore at the soles of his bare feet. His body throbbed from the beating. Leafless branches whipped at his arms and legs.

He peered through the darkness for a landmark. Where the hell am I? He could see nothing in the periodic flashes of moonlight other than trees and shadows. His left eye was focusing better, but his right eye was almost swollen shut. The smell of rotting leaves and decaying underbrush assaulted his senses.

I bet I’m an attractive sight, he thought as he lightly touched his bruised face. Boy, he must have really pissed someone off. He’d obviously been beaten beyond unconsciousness? Nice crowd. He rubbed his hands together. His feet tingled in the aftermath of numbness. Jack rubbed his sides to warm himself, then flinched from the pain. He tried to increase his body temperature by jumping around, but his body wasn’t up to being jarred. Jack looked back over his shoulder, hoping he wasn’t traveling in circles.

He had no idea how long he walked, or how much ground he covered. He suddenly spotted a road. Jack approached cautiously, fearing that his captors might still be nearby.

Hearing a car in the distance, Jack ducked into a cluster of bushes. He prayed that poison ivy didn’t bloom until late spring. Once the vehicle passed, he followed the road, staying in the brush and ready to dive into the low growing shrubs if necessary.

He had to find someone to help him, he realized. If he could find a home, he could wake up someone and ask for help.