True Intentions (11 page)

My head throbs as I drift back and forth into a semi-conscious state. I hear noises, although they sound incredibly muffled. I make out the sound of an engine. The floor rattles beneath me and causes my body to vibrate. I try to pull my hand around to touch the area of pain coming from the back of my skull, only to realize both hands are tightly bound behind my back with some type of rope. As I lie on my side, the rough, old, crusty carpet rubs against my left cheek, causing my sensitive skin to burn. My vision is cloudy, as if a fog surrounds me. I'm unable to focus on any objects more than a few feet away. I gulp past the lump in my dry throat. I am in some type of large van—
or a RV!

Panic overwhelms me, and I fight the pain in my head to open my eyes as wide as they will possibly go. As I consider my options, my breathing becomes more rapid.

Fear of my fate sets in.

I'm going to die . . . .

Okay, let me recollect my thoughts.

I remember the man asking me for my phone before I blacked out, but after that—nothing.

Disabling tears fill my eyes. I try not to picture in vivid detail what I believe his intentions must be. I can only assume I'm being taken somewhere secluded. I start thinking about my mother finding out about my death and blaming herself for bringing me out to California to begin with.

I imagine her all alone, first losing Aiden and Dad, and now me. I wish I could tell her goodbye. Different thoughts race in my mind, competing for dominance:
I can't
do this to her . . . . She needs me . . . . I have to get out of here . . . .

I attempt to adjust my body to sit up, but with the bumpy rocking of the RV and feeling dizzy, I lie back down. My hands are so tightly bound, there's no way I can squeeze them through the ropes.

Is escaping hopeless
?

I gently move my feet, assuming they're also tied, but I pleasantly discover I'm able to move them without resistance. I wiggle and scoot until I find something hard to lean on to balance myself. The orange-colored carpet is worn and hard, resembling cement. My heart pounds from terror. I steady myself against an old, rusting, dining table post screwed to the floorboard. Mice droppings cover the floor. My head still pounds, and the rapid beating of my heart accelerates the pounding.

Heavy music blares from the front speakers. I look in the direction of the music and see a rigged-up shower curtain hanging between the seats of the motor home and the living space. Undoubtedly, someone has to be driving this thing on the other side of that curtain.

The rattling of the floorboard reassures me the RV is still moving, but it's traveling at a slower speed than before. I may not have much time left before he reaches his destination. I need to find a way to get my hands free or escape will be impossible.

While scoping out the outdated interior, something silver catches me eye.

Drawers and cupboards sit to my far left. The drawers' handles caught my attention.

Could there be scissors or a knife in there?

Are there any drawers closer to me?

The more the RV bounces, the harder my head pounds from the pain.

I must not think about the pain now, not yet
.

I need to focus all my thoughts, all my wits, on staying alive. There's a wet spot about the size of a small paper plate, of wet blood on the carpeting where I lay. More blood streaks lead to my current location, most likely caused from my wiggling over to the bolted table.

I try to think, but can't concentrate. A gush of nausea hits my stomach. All I want to do is lie down. I know I can't do that. I have to find a way out of here.

I continue to scope out my surroundings for any possible escape route, weapon, or objects that might help me to cut this rope. I glare to my left, realizing the drop-down bed in the back room of the motor home has been staged. A blanket and pillows are draped on top of the thin, full-size mattress. Duct tape attached a video camera to an old, wall-mounted TV stand.

Panic again sets in.

Contrary to what I fear will happen, I try to stay positive.

I can't die, I must live, I can't die, I must live.

Yesterday was just another ordinary day. Today, I'm living my worst nightmare.

If only I hadn't had the Jeep top down, he wouldn't have been able to hit me. I would have
been able to speed off and get away.
My internal dialogue is interrupted when I feel the recreational vehicle jerk. It comes to a complete stop, and the engine turns off.

Chapter Thirteen – Too Late

Sam races to his Audi and slides into the driver's seat. With urgency, he turns the ignition and peels out of the restaurant parking lot. He remembers where Walter lives, and knows about Walter's plan to use his 1993 F-250 as bait. He is planning to pull a Ted Bundy. What girl wouldn't help someone in need?

There has to be enough time.

He refuses to consider what Walter may be doing to Ava. After all, he created Walter. He set the monster in him free by teasing and tantalizing him with two things,
a
sexual release and
power over a woman
.

Walter's desires are strong. He has been living with self-doubt for a long time.

The assault on the waitress gave him a sense of power and self-worth he had never known.

Walter will need another victim to fulfill his needs.

Sam cringes.

What if he is too late?

Sam shakes off the thought. Panic wastes time and energy. Yet every time Ava's face enters his mind, he visualizes her being tortured by Walter.

He remembers her look, the day outside school when her soft lips touched his.

Goose bumps erupt over his arms as he relives the moment in his mind. She had taken him by surprise. Had his unspoken desire influenced her? Or was there a chance she kissed him because she truly wanted to?

Would she want to kiss him—an atrocious demon—if she knew the truth?

Surely not.

This is exactly why this life is a living hell. He is aware of the feeling he has toward this young girl. Desire unlike any other he has experienced in his seventeen years of human life, or his two hundred plus years of immortality. Yet he recognizes he can never be with her. The only thing that could make this living hell any more unbearable would be to live for eternity knowing his careless actions resulted in her death.

Sam turns onto Walter's dirt driveway his tires spinning. Walter's Ford is parked in front of the house.

Sam jumps out of his car and runs through the yard, searching every square inch of accessible property. He is running so fast his feet barely touch the ground.

To his dismay, Walter is nowhere to be found.

Is he already disposing of the body?

Sweat pores down Sam's face.

He drops to his knees, hitting the cold, hard ground with enough force to leave deep indentions in the soil. He looks down at the dry dirt in shame.

The thought of her death is unbearable.

Instinctively, Sam starts to pray to God, but then catches himself mid-prayer. Has he lost it? Praying to God like this? Surely God would never consider answering the prayers of a monster of Satan.

Although he knows it's hopeless, he glances up toward the sky, begging for mercy.

Please, Not her.

As he looks back to the ground, the emotional pain causes his eyes to feel grainy; several clues come to his attention.

There are tire tracks embedded in the soft dirt. Tracks that don't match the Ford truck sitting in the driveway.

He studies the marks carefully. The deep impression of the treads indicates a heavy vehicle, maybe a semi or RV.

He rushes to the front door, a new idea entering his mind. Walter's front door is locked. He must be planning to be gone for quite a while. Walter never locks his door.

He must have Ava somewhere private, somewhere he can have his way with her . . . .

An RV.

He tries not to picture what pain Walter will inflict on her. She is so fragile, so pure and innocent. A scary thought creeps into Sam's mind. Even If God did answer his prayers, and he makes it to Ava in time to save her from death, what effect will this attack have on her?

With her innocence lost, and Walter's inflicted torture, she'll never be the same.

Sam closes his eyes, trying to erase the vivid details he imagines may be lurking inside Walter's mind. Although he can only assume how Walter will handle this new found freedom of power and control, Sam must consider:
Maybe after Walter is done with her, she will be praying to die?

Chapter Fourteen - Walter

The RV stops moving. In the eerie silence, I hear my own breathing intensifying with each passing second. The floor of the vehicle creaks from my legs shaking so hard.

I struggle to remain focused on my escape, but the pain diverts my attention to the blood oozing from the back of my scalp. I need to remain clearheaded if I'm going to survive. But right now, that task seems impossible.

I tremble uncontrollably as I lean against the cabinet. I need to stand up, to get out of here. My hands are numb from the ropes tied securely around my thin wrists. I make a pathetic attempt to use the limited freedom of my fingers to pull on the closest cabinet drawer, hoping there might be something sharp inside. Maybe something that can be used as a weapon.

Nothing!

There's nothing in here except papers.

I hadn't expected to find anything. Nothing is ever that easy.

The tears pile up. I keep whispering, "Stay strong, stay strong
.
"

I glance once again at the drawer. One of the papers is a letter with a name, Walter Peterson.

I remember psychology class—sophomore year. We talked about serial killers and they are less likely to kill when they relate to their victim.

Will knowing his name help?

Can I make him see me as a person?

The RV's door creaks as it opens. I urgently slide to a seated position and wait, my body shaking in terror. Within seconds, the same, heavyset man who asked to borrow my cell phone walks up the two small steps at the doorway. He glances around the RV, apprehensive. He lost me. His eyes widen in disbelief.

Then, a look of relief hits his face.

"There you are," he says, grinning. I cringe as I look at his yellowed, rotted teeth.

"How did you get way over there?"

I smell the wretchedness of his breathe across the motor home.

"I was thirsty?" I say in a whisper, not totally lying. I would rather him think of me searching for water instead of a weapon.

"You want . . . something to drink?" he questions me with an uneasy tone. His voice is icy. He crinkles his nose, forcing his eyebrows close together.

"If I may, please . . . and thank you." I try to counterfeit a smile.

"Okay," he says. He pauses. "I guess I can get you something to drink."

Then he walks over to a tiny refrigerator in the corner and pulls out a glass, coffee pot with cold coffee inside. An oily film floats on top of the brown liquid. Fresh is not the word that comes to mind. As far as I know, it could be days or weeks old. I swallow the lump sitting in the back of my throat. Who knows how long it has been in there. He grabs a dull, red, plastic cup from one of the upper drawers. Coffee stains cover the entire cup. He pours the coffee into the stained cup. I nervously follow his every movement with my widened eyes.

Just the thought of drinking his old, cold coffee turns my stomach. Now I've dug myself into a hole. If I don't drink it, he will be mad and do "God knows what" to me. I have to drink.

I don't have a choice
.

"Thank you." Saliva fills the back of my throat preparing my body to throw up. I swallow then add another request.

"Would you untie my hands so I can hold the cup?"

Without hesitation, Walter Peterson is in my face.

"No!" he screams, exasperated at my request. I'd cover my ears with my hands if I had access to them. My body jumps in response, and my heart beats intensely in my chest. Tears well in my eyes.

Don't cry . . . .

I remember I need to relate to him. I can't stop shaking. How the hell am I going to relate to him? To keep my tears from flowing over, I look around the RV rather than at him.

"I've been waiting for you for a long time." The corners of his mouth grow into an evil grin.

"I've been waiting to meet you too, Walter." I respond in agreement without thinking, my survival instincts kicking in.

What the hell am I doing?

My comment takes him by surprise.

"You have?" he asks. His eyes perk up. Then I notice the corners of his lips trembling, and I get a bad feeling.

"Yes . . . ." I continue, trying to keep the façade going. I pause, unsure what to say next. I have to be careful if this plan is going to work.

"How long?" he demands to know, his tone serious.

"Since I was fourteen," I say, making eye contact. I'm terrified if I look away from his eyes, he will see right through my lies and kill me right here.

"Why have you been waiting to meet
me
?" he asks, seeming to need more reassurance.

Does he actually believe me, or is he just playing along?

"Because, I saw you in my dreams," I profess, not knowing where these answers are coming from. I keep looking at him, shuddering slightly. The flesh on the back of my neck begins to crawl.

For a moment his eyes narrow, then grow larger.

"Really?"

He is smiling again, but not as wickedly.

Maybe relating to him will work after all.

"Really," I say. I
need
for him to believe me.

"I dream about you too," he openly admits. Then his smile starts to change.

"I dream about watching you die. Oh, how it excites me," he stutters, his voice icy.

His cold tone sends chills down my spine. I inhale with a shudder.

I am going to die . . . .

I can't hold back anymore. My emotions are too strong. I start to sob dreadfully at the visual entering my mind, preparing me for death.