The Night Killer

“What’s going on, Sheriff?” asked Jason.

“Just teaching a Sunday-school lesson,” said the sheriff.

He must go to a Sunday school from hell, thought Diane, as they were manhandled through the doors and down two flights of stairs. Her upper arm was hurting under his heavy grip. They arrived at the block of three cells in a row. At first glance, they looked fairly clean. Each had two sets of bunk beds and a toilet and sink in the corner. Two cells were empty and one had three men who looked like they might have been pulled in off the street for being drunk and disorderly after a long Saturday night. The sheriff put Liam in the cell next to the drunks. Then he unlocked the cell with the three men in it and, before she realized what he was doing, shoved Diane inside.

Chapter 42

Diane grabbed the bars as the cell door slammed shut. She glared at the sheriff.

“Are you out of your mind?” she said. Diane was tired of being scared. She’d felt the nauseating sting of it too many times in the last few days. Damn him. She wasn’t going to be sick with fear again. But she was. Fear churned in her stomach and through her body. Her mouth was dry and she wanted to cry.

“I told you not to come into my county,” he said, hitching up his pants and straightening his tie.

Diane hadn’t noticed before what an ugly man he was. His face looked as if malevolence were oozing out of his pores.

“This is among the worst human rights violations in the world. I never expected to see it here in my country or my state,” said Diane. She was holding the bars so tight her hands were aching. “You’re the devil, Leland Conrad, and you can’t dress yourself up as anything good, decent, or clean. You’re a dirty sheriff and a dirty man.”

He glared at her, moved his mouth, but a retort seemed unable to pass his lips.

“Sheriff, don’t do this,” said Liam. “Switch us. At least put me in the cell with her. This is wrong. You know this is wrong. Why are you doing this?”

“I want you out of my way.” Conrad found his voice. He ignored Liam and spoke to Diane, spitting out his words. “You wouldn’t listen. Maybe now you’ll know I mean business.”

He walked away. Liam called after him.

“Sheriff, you can’t expect to get away with this.”

Diane heard the doors closing as Conrad walked up the stairs.

“Well, what’s this?”

The voice behind her was slurred. She only now really noticed the drunken, urine stench of the place. Her mind immediately started going over her inventory of weapons-her high heels, her hands, her knowledge of anatomy.

She turned to find the three men watching her, their stares set behind drooping eyelids, their faces colored by bad habits of long standing. The one who spoke was a thin guy not much taller than Diane’s five-nine. He was red faced and had stringy hair and yellow teeth. Diane didn’t want to know what his clothes were stained with. The three of them gaped at her. They were everything her worst fears might conjure up for images of backwoods, small-town drunks in lockup. The man behind the talker was huge. He had a heavy padding of blubber over his entire upper body, most of it in a substantial beer belly. He had a scraggly red beard, a shaved head, and a leering grin. The last man stood off from the other three. He was tall and thin and grinned broadly. He was rubbing his crotch, tilting it toward Diane.

“What you in for, honey? Honey?” said the first man.

They all laughed at his joke and started coming toward Diane in a slow sashay.

“Elbows are sharp, heel of hand is strong,” said Liam, talking fast. “You know where the pain points are. Throats and noses are vulnerable. Solar plexus on the thin guys.”

The first guy was almost to Diane. She was shaking and he laughed at her.

“Throat or nasal,” said Liam.

The guy’s breath was disgusting. He reached his arms in a circle as if to embrace Diane. She punched him straight up under the chin with more strength than she thought she possessed. The man staggered back.

“Then again, an uppercut is good,” said Liam.

Diane’s heart was pumping so hard she could barely hear what Liam was saying from the blood rushing in her ears, but she knew he was trying to give her instructions. The rush of adrenaline through her system flooded out some of her fear. The guy was still staggering and shaking his head, disoriented. With all her strength, Diane punched him hard twice, a double tap, in his brachial plexus, a branch of nerves in the shoulder that power the arm.

He let out a howl and staggered back, clutching his right shoulder. The other two watched him flop down on the bottom bunk, whimpering.

His hurt was temporary and Diane was afraid she was going to run out of strength if she had to fight all of them twice. But for now, she could still feel the adrenaline surging through her.

“Thorax punches won’t work on the big guy,” said Liam.

“What the hell are you talking about?” the guy who had been rubbing his crotch asked Liam, marching up to the bars, glaring at him.

Liam reached suddenly through the bars, grabbed the waist of the guy’s jeans, and jerked him into the bars. The guy hit his head on the cell bar and collapsed. Liam held on as the man slid to the floor. Liam grabbed his feet and pulled them through the bars, and with two quick, devastatingly crushing kicks, broke both the man’s ankles across the bars.

“He’s out,” said Liam.

The big guy looked around wide-eyed at his other friend. “Shit, whad’ya do that for?” he said. “Ya could of just laid back and watched the show. Little honey missy here’s going to pay for that.”

He looked back at Diane, who was trying to stay out of his reach. She’d taken off her four-inch heels and held one in each hand. She’d thought of pulling one of the bunk beds out to try to keep it between her and him, but they were bolted to the floor. He eased toward her. She guessed he was playing cat to her mouse, wanting to draw out her fear. It was working.

He was too big and he had a layer of fat covering all the vulnerable places on his torso she could use to disable him. Right now his head was the only vulnerable part of him. But she would have to get through his beefy arms, and his arms were longer and stronger than hers.

He eased closer.

“I’m going to get you, missy. You got your honey pot ready for me?” he taunted.

“Keep away from me or I’ll hurt you,” said Diane.

“Hurt me?” He laughed loudly, derisively. “I ain’t one of these skinny boys you can hurt, missy. Your boyfriend over there knows that. He knows all he can do is watch me fill that honey pot of yours.”

Diane eased away, trying to figure out how to get across the cell to where Liam was. He could help if she could get there, but the big man had the way blocked. He stepped back and forth. He knew what she was trying to do.

Diane kept her eyes on him, always moving in the opposite direction every time he moved. He would get tired of the game soon, she knew. He stepped to the left and Diane made a break to his right, trying to get to the opposite side of the cell. He was quicker on his feet than she imagined an overweight drunk would be. He lunged toward her and grabbed her arm. She swung at his eye with the heel of her shoe, missed, and grazed his nose. He pulled at her clothing as she tried to get away from him. The sleeve of her jacket ripped as Diane struck his hand with the other shoe. He let go of her and she fell backward to the floor.

He rubbed his hand where the heel of her shoe had struck. She knew it must have hurt him.

“You bitch,” he said, spitting on the floor. “You fucking bitch.”

He stepped toward her. Diane started to rise.

“No. Stay,” said Liam, and he yelled out a series of words: “Dorsal left foot calf plantar right foot patella leverage.”

Keywords, Diane’s mind flashed to her. But what? her