Read Online 1 - Artscape: Ike Schwartz Mystery 1 by Frederick Ramsay - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Frederick Ramsay
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of the exterior camera. Harry wondered about that. No reputable company would leave their system unguarded like that. It looked like someone had changed the angle of the camera after the system had been installed. The area covered now included a view of a small dirt road leading into the woods but which, Harry knew from his earlier survey, was blocked by a tree trunk ten yards in. The car parked there now.
Harry moved to the junction box, backed out its retaining bolts, and lifted off the waterproofed covering. He put it aside and took the battery-operated recorders from their cases. He checked the cassettes and made sure everything was in order. He scraped the insulation away from the coaxial cables, cleared a bit of the sheathing away from the core, and fastened alligator clips. He turned the recorders on and watched as the cassettes completed their loops—three minutes. He then punched the playback buttons and at the same instant cut the cables behind the clips. Now the guards would see the same three minutes for the rest of the night. The batteries were good for nine hours. After that, it would not make any difference.
***
Loyal Parker slipped into the clump of bushes beside the car. He had set the lane up years ago, dropping the tree to block it so cars parked there could be approached unseen from the passenger’s side. He listened to the girl’s muffled cries and protests. He licked his lips in anticipation, unaware of the saliva that dribbled down his chin.
Little tart, he thought. Get what she deserves. They all do. He thought how this one would look when he snapped on the torch—naked and afraid. It was the last thought he had on this earth. The tire iron caught him behind his right ear, crushing most of his occipital bone. The force of the blow drove one piece into his brain stem. For all practical purposes, he was dead before he hit the ground.
***
Jennifer Ames was angry. She was angry with herself for having listened to her roommate.
“You’ll love him, Jen. He’s Jack Trask, you know, the big lacrosse player from UVA and he just doesn’t date anyone.”
Betsy Mae Billups had one of those honeyed accents that only come from the depths of Alabama or Mississippi—the kind of accent that can distract the most rational men and even other women. Jennifer nicknamed her Magnolia Mouth.
“And besides,” she went on, “you’d be doing me a huge favor. My boyfriend is just dying to get a bid to St. Elmo’s and Jack Trask can help him. It’s really important, Jen.”
“Why me?” Jennifer had asked. “Why not Laurie or one of the Marys in fourteen B or someone who wants a date and knows what the hell lacrosse is?” Jennifer grew up in Chicago and, until she came east to go to school, Lacrosse was just a town in Wisconsin.
“Magnolia, you know I don’t like to go out much, and I hate jocks.” It was true. She had gotten a reputation in her years at Callend as a loner. She didn’t date much, content to spend her free time in the library and weekends in Washington, New York, and Boston, cities where her parents and their respective spouses had houses or apartments or connections. She discovered early in her freshman year that the boys who attended the mixers and the few she had dated were boring and juvenile. She gave up, deciding there was something wrong with her because she could not get into the whole scene.
“Jen, they already have dates, and besides, you’re the one he wants to go out with. He said, ‘How about Betsy Mae’s good-looking roommate?’ That’s what he said and…oh, come on, Jen, he won’t bite.”
***
Like hell he won’t, thought Jennifer. And now here she was, in the woods, fighting for her—what? Her life? Her honor? Not her virginity. Her second cousin, Danny, had taken care of that three summers ago.
“Stop it, Jack.”
Jack Trask was an octopus. His hands seemed to be everywhere, unbuttoning, unhooking, squeezing, and clumsy. Jennifer tried to stop the
Harry moved to the junction box, backed out its retaining bolts, and lifted off the waterproofed covering. He put it aside and took the battery-operated recorders from their cases. He checked the cassettes and made sure everything was in order. He scraped the insulation away from the coaxial cables, cleared a bit of the sheathing away from the core, and fastened alligator clips. He turned the recorders on and watched as the cassettes completed their loops—three minutes. He then punched the playback buttons and at the same instant cut the cables behind the clips. Now the guards would see the same three minutes for the rest of the night. The batteries were good for nine hours. After that, it would not make any difference.
***
Loyal Parker slipped into the clump of bushes beside the car. He had set the lane up years ago, dropping the tree to block it so cars parked there could be approached unseen from the passenger’s side. He listened to the girl’s muffled cries and protests. He licked his lips in anticipation, unaware of the saliva that dribbled down his chin.
Little tart, he thought. Get what she deserves. They all do. He thought how this one would look when he snapped on the torch—naked and afraid. It was the last thought he had on this earth. The tire iron caught him behind his right ear, crushing most of his occipital bone. The force of the blow drove one piece into his brain stem. For all practical purposes, he was dead before he hit the ground.
***
Jennifer Ames was angry. She was angry with herself for having listened to her roommate.
“You’ll love him, Jen. He’s Jack Trask, you know, the big lacrosse player from UVA and he just doesn’t date anyone.”
Betsy Mae Billups had one of those honeyed accents that only come from the depths of Alabama or Mississippi—the kind of accent that can distract the most rational men and even other women. Jennifer nicknamed her Magnolia Mouth.
“And besides,” she went on, “you’d be doing me a huge favor. My boyfriend is just dying to get a bid to St. Elmo’s and Jack Trask can help him. It’s really important, Jen.”
“Why me?” Jennifer had asked. “Why not Laurie or one of the Marys in fourteen B or someone who wants a date and knows what the hell lacrosse is?” Jennifer grew up in Chicago and, until she came east to go to school, Lacrosse was just a town in Wisconsin.
“Magnolia, you know I don’t like to go out much, and I hate jocks.” It was true. She had gotten a reputation in her years at Callend as a loner. She didn’t date much, content to spend her free time in the library and weekends in Washington, New York, and Boston, cities where her parents and their respective spouses had houses or apartments or connections. She discovered early in her freshman year that the boys who attended the mixers and the few she had dated were boring and juvenile. She gave up, deciding there was something wrong with her because she could not get into the whole scene.
“Jen, they already have dates, and besides, you’re the one he wants to go out with. He said, ‘How about Betsy Mae’s good-looking roommate?’ That’s what he said and…oh, come on, Jen, he won’t bite.”
***
Like hell he won’t, thought Jennifer. And now here she was, in the woods, fighting for her—what? Her life? Her honor? Not her virginity. Her second cousin, Danny, had taken care of that three summers ago.
“Stop it, Jack.”
Jack Trask was an octopus. His hands seemed to be everywhere, unbuttoning, unhooking, squeezing, and clumsy. Jennifer tried to stop the
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