His mind raced. What could he do with the information he'd gleaned from the only items available? The phone book was down under the counter next to Blanche's purse. He flipped to the yellow pages and found a listing for a Dr. D. Camp located just a few blocks from the library but the home address was not shown, however, he was able to find a local listing in the white pages. Seymour ripped the page from the book, galloped up the stairs and exited the library the same way Blanche and Lester had a few hours before, sliding down the escape chute to the parking lot below.
The college student was familiar with the area where Dr. Camp lived, as it bordered the university and he'd passed the street often on the way to school. The old truck roared to life and he slammed through the gears, ignoring the lights and signs, hoping that a cop would show up to give him a hand, but as was usually the case, never one around when you really needed one. He pulled up to the immaculate home, not quite sure what he would do but knew he had to try something. With the case in his hand he approached the door of the two-story home. A new Lexus was parked in the driveway and the yard was well maintained with mature trees and beautiful rose bushes lining the walk from the curb to the front door.
Seymour stood at the front door, case in hand, and knocked. He waited, but his patience was non-existent so he rapped and kept knocking until a disheveled man swung the door open and grabbed the young man by the collar, shaking him violently.
'What do you think you're doing, you dipstick? Are you insane?' the agitated doctor said.
Seymour stared into the eyes of a man pulled from his bed in the middle of the night, bloodshot, and full of anger. Dr. Camp stood a few inches taller than Seymour even in his bare feet. His blonde hair was graying at the temples but retained its youthful color even though he was well into his fifties. He wore a housecoat, which he had failed to do up, his undershirt and boxers visible, the undershirt pulled tight from too many dinners out and nights snacking on peanuts and M amp;M's in front of the television. The mature man shook the younger and once convinced he'd shaken some sense into him allowed Seymour to answer his question.
'I'm Seymour Wood and I need your help.'
'Are you a moron? Do you know what time it is?'
'I'm sorry, but my girlfriend has been taken by a madman and all I could find that might lead me to her is this case of yours.'
Somewhat calmed from his original disposition the doctor told Seymour to show up at the office first thing in the morning and he'd be happy to help him with his problem, but for now he better be on his way before he called the police. He released the younger man and slammed the door in his face before Seymour could say anything more.
Undeterred and with blood crusted to his face and hands, Seymour returned to the truck, pulled the Sharps rifle from behind the seat, leaned through the passenger window and took a cartridge from the glove box and loaded the weapon. The long, powerful shell slid into the chamber with a solid sheathing of the brass and a finality that came when the chamber was locked closed. Seymour made the walk back to the door and rapped loudly again. The doctor answered more quickly this time but was startled to see the young man standing with a large bored rifle pointed at his chest.
'Hate to do this to you but you've really left me no choice. You're coming with me, now!'
'But I'm not even dressed.'
'There's no time, I need you to look up a prescription on these glasses and tell me whom they belong to. Is that possible?' Seymour asked.
'You sure you want to do this son, you're going to be in a world of trouble come tomorrow morning.'
'I'm sure.'
'Then yes, I can figure out whose glasses those are but it'll take some time. Let me get my pants and keys but I’d be a lot more inclined to help if you’d put the gun away.'
'You promise you'll give me an hour before you call the cops?' he said, the gun still pointed at his chest.
'Do I have a choice?'
'No, I'm afraid you don't.'
'That's what I thought, I'll get my keys.'
Minutes later the doctor returned, the robe gone and his pants on, Seymour slid the rifle behind the seat and started the old pickup.
'Hang on Blanche, I'm coming, just hang on a little longer,' he thought, as they raced through the streets of Valdosta headed to Dr. Camp's Optometric office.
A constant, droning hum, originating somewhere underneath her, was all that Blanche could make out through the fog that was her welcome back to reality. Her shoulders and knees ached; laying on her side the realization that her wrists and ankles were bound brought her cognition to full alert. Waves of nausea swept over her. She closed her eyes and tried to focus on what had happened. Seymour…Seymour lying on the floor, his head bleeding; a man, 'Rob', no, the War Vet wrapping her in his arms was her last memory. What had happened? Where was she! The taste of duct tape did nothing to reduce her need to vomit. Sheer will alone prevented bile and her dinner from spewing from her nostrils.
The sound of the tires spinning and the rocking of the van provided a false sense of security to the wounded Stalker. His perforated side continued to ooze blood from the smaller entrance wound as well as the wider exit hole. The gauze, that had previously helped to staunch the trickle of blood, was saturated, the metallic smell of blood mixed with adrenalin driven sweat filled the van. Although light headed, Lester was euphoric. He'd done it! There had been obstacles but he'd managed to overcome them all, with a wonderful package wrapped up in the back, just waiting for him to unwrap it.
'Mmph, mmph!' Blanche grunted through the tape that pressed her lips firmly against her perfectly straight teeth. She could see the dark interior of the van, no upholstery, just the metal sidewalls and cold floor. A pair of doors blocked her escape as she contemplated her options. Her mind raced through the extensive volume of romance thrillers that made up her cerebral library. Surely, somewhere she'd seen a heroin escape from a similar predicament. The thought of Seymour lying in a pool of blood swirled in her mind causing her to retch, a small acidic trail of yellow liquid ran from her nose and over the silver duct tape.
'You awake back there?' The Stalker asked.
Blanche suddenly heard the voice of her assailant coming from the front seat. She held her breath and prayed that it would just go away. The stinging in her nose caused her eyes to water as she fought back the tears and the overwhelming need to breakdown.
'Play dead! Be quiet and pretend to be asleep,' she told herself. 'Seymour will come. Seymour will come! He has to!
'I know you're awake, Blanche.' There was silence as he waited for a reply from the frightened librarian. 'Don't be afraid. This is going to be great, believe me. This is just the beginning of something meaningful for both of us. I know you feel it the same way I do. I've seen it in your eyes. You need me as much as I need you.' Again he waited for some recognition from the cargo space of the van.
The foreboding reality of her situation finally hit home and she sobbed through the gag, tears spilling down her face and liquid running from her nose.
'Believe me Blanche, this is going to go much better for you if you just give yourself to me, completely and without hesitation. I don't see this playing out well for you if you don't.'
'What is he talking about? What does he mean?' she thought, between the sobs and restricted intakes of air.
'I can tell you one thing, and you better listen up, I will not be dealt the same hand Virginia May dished out. You hear me? Do you hear me!' he hissed through clenched teeth, as the pain in his side shot up and into his brain.
'Virginia May? What the hell was he talking about? I've got to get away and now!'
She looked around, everything appearing distorted, as the tears deflected the light entering her crystal blue eyes. The door handle was not beyond her reach as she lay on her back. Quietly she raised both feet and attempted to pull the handle downward, opening the way to her escape. Her lack of coordination, a combination of the ether and fear, prevented her from accomplishing the task. However, the band that held her ankles together looped around the door handle, tying her up like a prized halibut in a fishing souvenir photo. Panic set in! She thrashed about, just like the catch would, prior to getting pulled into the boat and its' death.
