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Subject: {ASSM} The Innocent Fugitives Ch23 {Varkel} (bg snuff)
Date: Tue, 27 Feb 2001 19:10:03 -0500
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The Innocent Fugitives
a Novel by Varkel
Copyright (C) 2001, Varkel



Chapter 23: Bursting Bubble


Once relieved of the anal pressure, Alan began to appreciate the 
girl's response.  Her arms had been squeezing them together for 
some time, almost tight enough to interfere with his breathing, 
and her chin was tucked into the junction of his neck and 
shoulder.  She was moaning shrilly into his ear as her mouth wet 
his neck and her panting breath ruffled his hair.  Now that the 
man had released them, he felt her heels drumming the backs of 
his thighs.

His own climax arrived suddenly.  He strained into her, hands 
extended to clasp her buttocks, and delivered his second 
ejaculation with moans that harmonized to hers.

Her passion subsided with his.  She simply lay beneath him, 
panting as hard as he, perspiration sticky between chests and 
bellies.  Relaxing slowly, she did not complain of his weight, 
which was about the same as her own.

He found that if he took care not to shift the still inflamed 
organs, letting penis soak in vagina was restful and far from 
disagreeable.  Breathing easier, he was almost asleep when the 
girl's body twitched.  She raised her head to look past his 
shoulder, asking, "Where's Pinkie?"

Alan roused enough to respond, "He got off when he squirted."

"You were glad of that, weren't you!"

"Yeah."

"Did he hurt you worse than Tom?"

"It felt like ... like he was sticking to my insides."

"Sticking?  That's odd.  He was real slippery in me."

"It still hurts.  Like a cut."

"A cut?"

The boy put back a hand.  "Ooo!" he exclaimed, probing himself.  
He brought the hand forward and held it above her, turning his 
head to inspect it also.  Two fingers dripped seminal fluid with 
a red tinge.

The girl's eyes widened.  "It _is_ cut!  How could he do that?  
Wouldn't it cut him, too?"

"I don't know."

"Tom didn't cut you, did he?"

"Huh!  If he had I wouldn't be here."

She took a deep breath.  "Maybe neither of us should be here."

"Oh, I'm sure it'll get all ..."  He saw that she was frowning.  
"What do you mean?"

"I've got a bad feeling."  She raised her voice.  "Pinkie?"

Listening hard, they could hear a video cassette recorder 
whirring in one corner of the room and faint traffic noises from 
outside.

"Maybe he's in the bathroom," Alan suggested.

"Wonder if there's two bathrooms."  The girl pushed the lad to 
one side and rolled out from under him, rising to swing her legs 
off the bed.  "I need to go --"  She froze with a gasp, staring 
down at the floor.

Alan stuttered, "Wha-what ..."  Rising up, he saw a man's foot 
and lower leg on the floor beyond her shoulder.

The girl propelled herself off the bed to kneel beside the body.  
Hawker lay on his back on the floor.  His face, very pale now 
above the beard, was drawn in a grimace of pain, eyes fixed on 
the ceiling, bloodless right hand clasping left upper arm.  She 
moved the hand and arm out of the way and pressed her ear to his 
chest.

"What's wrong with him?" asked Alan fearfully from the bed.

"Hush!  Let me listen."

The boy held himself still, waiting for her conclusion.  In a few 
seconds she rose to her feet, turned and locked round eyes with 
his.

"I think he's dead."

"D-dead?"

She nodded, taking a deep breath, and said more positively, "He's 
dead.  Let's get our clothes on."

The boy got off the bed but paused to stare at the prone figure.  
"Dead?  How can he be dead?"

"I don't know.  Did he say anything when he pulled out of you?"

"No.  Are you sure he's dead?"

She shrugged.  "I don't know.  He feels cold and I don't think 
his heart is beating.  That means he's dead, doesn't it?"

"On TV it does," he agreed.  "But maybe we ought to call somebody 
to make sure."

"That's true."  She looked around.  "There's a phone.  You get 
your clothes on."

She marched across the room to the backup telephone mounted on 
the wall.  The boy followed right behind her, ignoring the order 
to dress.

The receiver emitted a dial tone.  She punched 911.  Almost 
immediately a harried female voice commanded, "State the nature 
of the emergency."

Bobbie cleared her throat.  "I think --  A man might be dead."

"State the location."

"Number Twelve ...  I don't know the street.  It's off the 
alley."

"State the name of the injured party."

"Hawker.  I mean, Professor Hawker."

"State your own name."

With a look of calculation Bobbie removed the receiver from her 
head.  In a moment it made squawking noises.  Gently she returned 
it to its cradle.  She grabbed the boy's arm.  "We got to go.  I 
mean it.  Right now!  Come on, get your clothes on."

Alan donned his clothing swiftly but the girl discovered a 
problem immediately.  "Where are my panties?"

She looked in vain under the chairs, under the bed, among the 
disarrayed bedclothes.  She stared at Alan and asked plaintively, 
"Didn't I have them when I came in?"

The boy, tying his shoes, said with wrinkled brow, "I saw Pinkie 
put something in the tray drawer."

In a moment she had found them.  But she froze, staring into the 
open drawer.  A large color printout of her own face stared back 
at her, eyes twinkling, lips formed closely around Hawker's fat 
glans.  She pulled out the picture only to find another beneath 
it, now showing her body fully nude and kneeling on the bed with 
a smug smile, arms akimbo, Hawker's three-pronged dildo mounted 
firmly between her legs.  With a gasp she shuffled through the 
stack of pictures, not noticing as the lad came to look over her 
shoulder.  Each was some pose from her previous visit.  Most 
included Hawker's penis or buttocks as well.

"Hey, is that you fucking _him_?" asked the boy in wonder.

Bobbie looked up, wide-eyed.  She took a deep breath and snatched 
the whole clutch of pictures out onto the tray, slamming the 
drawer shut.  Spreading the panties, she stepped into them 
quickly, in her haste tripping herself and falling across the 
prone body.  Audibly gritting her teeth, she rolled away, jerked 
up the underpants, jumped to her feet and dashed to the chair 
with the remainder of her clothes.  "We got to go, we got to go!" 
she muttered in a frenzy of haste, fumbling into the garments, 
trying to ignore the distant but strengthening sounds of sirens 
outside.

Alan held her parka for her.  Without bothering with hood or 
zipper, she snatched up the stack of pictures and shoved them 
into her book bag.  "Let's get out of here!" she cried, lurching 
to the doorway above the stairwell, the lad behind her.  They 
nearly flew down the stairs.

However securely the electronic locks may have guarded against 
entrance from the alley, they unlatched readily to a simple twist 
of the inside knob.  Bobbie snatched the door open and the two 
youths emerged into winter's early dusk.  The streetlight at the 
near end of the alley was already turned on, though the sky was 
still bright.  They had hardly taken the first steps toward it, 
however, before a large vehicle whirled around the corner into 
the alley.  Red and white lights flashed brightly above it.  Its 
siren blasted their ears and its headlights pinned them.  Their 
eyes reflected white as deer's in a highway.

"The other way!" cried Bobbie, spinning on her heel and clutching 
the boy's hand.  They broke into a run as the engine revved on 
the emergency vehicle.

At its far end the alley paralleled a parking lot where they 
might lose pursuit by twisting among the cars.  The youths set 
out to run doggedly towards it, perhaps another 300 yards, long 
shadows dancing ahead of them in the pursuing headlights.

Suddenly another vehicle turned in at the far corner.  This one 
possessed flashing blue lights and a siren with a different 
cadence.  It accelerated toward them.

"God, the cops!" cried Alan.

Bobbie halted immediately at the nearest door.  Its knob was 
locked.  The red-lighted vehicle, now identifiable as an 
ambulance, had stopped at the door with the number, twelve, but 
the police car came on with a rush and a snarling engine.  Bobbie 
ran back towards the ambulance, trying the door in the next 
building.  It was also locked.  Then the police car screeched to 
a stop beside them.  Its passenger door popped open and a hugely 
stout policeman loomed over them.

"Where you kids going?" he demanded.

Bobbie straightened up and faced him.  Alan stood just behind 
her, his shoulders hunched fearfully.  She declared firmly, 
"We're trying to get out of the way."

"Good idea!  Where do you live?"

50 yards away the ambulance had parked close to the building, 
engine running, lights still flashing but siren stilled.  People 
were exiting by both front doors, but room existed to dash around 
it.  Bobbie spun on her heel and snatched Alan's hand to jerk him 
stumbling after her.  Looking back over her shoulder, she saw 
that the big man was too slow to catch them.

But his voice wasn't.  "Stop those kids!" he screamed.

Bobbie faced front just in time to run directly into the arms of 
an ambulance attendant.  She pushed, then beat on the man's 
chest.  "Let me go!" she screamed.  "Help!  Let me go!"

Adroitly the man pinned her arms.  "Take it easy, sonny," he 
ordered.  "The cop's not going to hurt you."

The man's strength was overwhelming.  She ceased to struggle, 
looking around instead.  Alan had also been captured.  The police 
car arrived to face the ambulance, each pair of headlights 
shining brightly upon the intervening space, and the big cop came 
panting up as a slimmer policeman got out and stepped into the 
light.  "What've we got here?" he demanded.

Bobbie's captor called to someone at the door of Number Twelve.  
"Can you get in?"

"Locked and no response yet," was the answer.  "Looks like a 
pretty good lock, too."

"Maybe we ought to try the front?  Hall, you got your radio?  
Scoot around and spin the knob."

Another attendant, presumably Hall, argued, "The caller said it 
was on the alley."

"I know, but --"

"Wait a minute!" interrupted the big cop, studying Bobbie 
suspiciously.  "You, kid, what door did you come out of?"

"Door?"  She raised her eyebrows in a sneer, ready to swear they 
were just passing through the alley on the way home.

Perhaps the big cop expected that.  His glare spun to face Alan 
and his choice of words was oddly appropriate.  "This is a matter 
of life and death.  What about it, kid?  If you don't want your 
ass reamed big-time, you'll tell me where's the dead man."

"Shut up, Alan!" Bobbie snapped in warning, but the boy's face 
blanched in the bright headlights.

He answered hesitantly but loud enough to be clearly understood, 
"Upstairs, in Number Twelve."

All the adults froze.  "Oh, shit!" murmured Bobbie.

"What's he look like?" demanded the cop.

The lad gulped.  "Lying on the floor.  Dead."

"You got a key to the door, Alan?"

"N-no, sir."

"How'd you get in there?"

"He let us."

"So you saw him die?"

The boy's eyes widened.  "I didn't _see_ him!"

The big man turned to Bobbie.  "You got a key?"

She had felt her captor relax.  She shrugged out of his arms and 
stood straight, chin high.  Eyes flashing in the horizontal 
beams, she declared firmly, "I don't have to answer your 
questions."

"You'll be sorry if you don't," the man warned menacingly.  When 
she merely stared, he added, "You killed him, did you?"

She sniffed and turned her head away.

An attendant swung close, bearing a huge red ax.  "Want me to 
bust it?"

"Go ahead," said the slim cop.  To the big one he suggested, "We 
better hold these two."

"Right.  Give me your cuffs."

Crash!  Then another, as the ax splintered the door to Number 
Twelve.  The youths, turning to watch that desecration, found 
themselves suddenly handcuffed together.  The big cop forced 
Alan, with Bobbie stumbling after, into the backseat of the 
patrol car, where he shackled her free hand to the heavy mesh 
screen between front and rear seat before slamming the door.  He 
threw their book bags, which they had been dragging by the 
straps, into the front seat and hurriedly joined his colleague 
inside the now breached building.  The car's engine was running.  
At least they were out of the cold.

Each regarded the other fearfully.  Alan finally asked, "What if 
they look in your book bag?"

The girl snarled.  "Will you shut your mouth, you stupid fool!  
If you hadn't blabbed, I'd've made them think we were just taking 
a short cut."

"Huh?  But my ass is sore and that big cop was going to fuck me."

She gritted her teeth and raised a fist.  "You may be pretty, but 
you're so stupid you make me sick!  He sure as hell wouldn't fuck 
you while all those guys were watching.  But he might later on 
when they take us in, thanks to your big mouth."

He shrank away from her.  Searching for a defensive argument, he 
proved less stupid than she thought.  "I bet they would've let us 
go if you hadn't made us break and run."

It worked.  She took a deep breath and fell back against the 
seat, turning her face away.  After a while he asked plaintively, 
"Do you really think he'll fuck me?"

"One way or the other, especially if you keep talking."

"They can't hear us now."

"Can't they?  How do you know they're not recording what we say 
in this car?"


* * *


In thirty minutes other vehicles had arrived, completely blocking 
the alley although the ambulance had departed.  The slim 
policeman returned to their car and eased it carefully between an 
unmarked car and the wall of the house across the street.  As he 
swung into traffic, he said loudly, "This is Car 37, bringing in 
the kids from Twelve Ardens Street."

A hollow-sounding male voice responded, "Use Procedure 66."

"Will do."  The man chuckled, grinning around at his two 
prisoners.  "That means bring you in through the underground 
garage.  The papers have already got wind of this."

"Got wind of what?" asked Bobbie.

"What do you think?  This is a rich one.  A real professor at an 
upscale private school, one with lots of published papers, lying 
naked and dead in his love nest with two young boys running away.  
The reporters'll go nuts!"

"But she's not --"

Bobbie screamed, "For the last time, Alan, will you shut _up_!"

"She's not what?"

When Alan remained silent, the man added, "She who?"

Receiving no answer, the man laughed sneeringly.  "You boys think 
your part in this won't come out?  Then you must be crazy.  
Everybody already knows you're not innocent.  Did he fuck both of 
you?"

He laughed again at their silence.  "Better clench those assholes 
shut.  You'll get a glass pipe up them first thing at the 
station."


* * *


Tom awoke groggily when someone turned on the overhead light.

"God damn it, Tom," a woman's voice began menacingly, "this time 
I think I'll kill --  Oh!  That's not Bobbie!"

He recognized Jenny, staring with huge eyes down at Allison, who 
had turned on her belly in her sleep.

"Bobbie is a blonde!" Jenny added unnecessarily.

"What are you doing here, Jenny?" Tom demanded, rising up.  He 
looked around for the cover but apparently they had kicked it off 
in their passion.

"Bobbie hasn't been home from school.  Have you seen her?"  
Jenny's eyes were fixed on Allison, who rose on an elbow, her 
dark hair momentarily in her face.  But her small breasts and 
mature nipples were those of a woman instead of a child.

"No, we have not," Tom grated in reply.  "How did you get in 
here?"

"Your door was unlocked.  And I know you, you child molester!"  
Suddenly her face developed a sneering grin.  "That's not a 
virgin's blood.  Good god, Tom, you'll fuck anything with a hole 
in it, won't you!"

He clambered to his feet, naked, within inches of her, fists 
clenched.  "Get out of here, Jenny!"

She erupted in a peal of sarcastic laughter.  He struck at her 
face, opening his fist at the last second, but Jenny was well-
practiced at such a _pas de deux_.  She ducked back nimbly, 
avoiding his blow.

Her sneer distorted her mouth.  "You pitiful excuse for a man!"  
She whirled and departed, charging back up the stairs two at the 
time, leaving his door ajar.

Allison was sitting up when he returned to the bed from closing 
the door and setting the impromptu lock.  Her expression was 
quizzical.  "She sounded jealous, Tom."

"Jealous!" he repeated explosively, shaking with fury.

"Who is she?"

He sighed, but before he could answer Allison added, "Has she 
been in this bed?"

He took a deep breath and sighed again, sitting down on the 
bedside.  "It's not a pretty story, Allison."

She hitched herself around to sit beside him.  Her arm went 
across his shoulder.  "I'm a child molester, too, you know, as 
well as being your fiancee.  That Jenny has really lost you, I 
hope, but maybe you ought to tell me about her anyway."


* * *


Deciding that resistance was futile and probably dangerous, 
Bobbie unzipped without hesitation in the room with the large 
mahogany table, in fact a conference room instead of the cold 
concrete one normally used for such investigation, because after 
all these were clearly children.  When she lowered her britches, 
the casually watching uniformed guard craned his neck, did a 
double-take and opened his mouth to warn his colleague, who was 
preparing the second rectal rape kit for the examination.  Alan 
had straightened up to rebuckle his belt.

The examiner turned around at that same moment and directed, 
"Bend over the table, young man, like your --"  His voice choked 
off, eyes widening.

The uniformed policeman said, "That's just it, Carl.  This ain't 
no young man."

"Good god!"  The examiner drew hastily back.  "Pull your britches 
up, young lady!"

He studied her in horror, shaking his head as she obeyed.  "Why 
didn't you tell us?"

"Would it have made you let me go?" she responded with a sneer.

"You: Alan!  Come with me."  Taking the boy's arm, the examiner 
whirled out of the room, leaving the uniformed policeman 
chuckling.  Bobbie grinned smugly at him.

"You're a cool one," he admitted with a touch of admiration.

She asked, "Will you take me to the bathroom?"

"Not me," he replied positively.

She blinked her eyes at him sideways.  "Then how about just a 
sink?  I've still got some ink on my fingers."

He laughed.  "Wait.  They'll bring in a matron."

Five minutes later two women, one in uniform, entered the room.  
"She's all yours," said the male guard as he left.

The uniformed policewoman took her position, standing at parade-
rest against the wall.  The woman in a lab smock, gray-haired, 
approached Bobbie.  "I am Hester Allen," she announced, studying 
the girl, "and you are Bobbie Smith."

"If you say so," Bobbie responded indifferently.  "If you guys 
have already been in my book bag, why didn't you notice I was a 
girl?"

"They're only now going through it.  I want to apologize, Miss 
Smith, on behalf of the department for any embarrassment you 
might have felt just now."

Bobbie almost snickered.

"But I must point out that you could have avoided all of it with 
just a few words to us.  You are wearing long pants.  Yes, they 
have a feminine cut, but the arresting officers wouldn't notice 
that.  What is it, your winter school uniform?  'Pilgrim Hill,' 
eh?  They wear uniforms, as I recall.  Why wouldn't you tell us, 
Bobbie?  What did you hope to gain?"

The girl stared sullenly, saying nothing.

"Have you been raped, honey?" asked the woman sympathetically.

Bobbie sniffed, looking away.

"Well, then, please lower your britches and panties and lean over 
the table."

The woman spread out the kit on the table as the girl complied.  
The policewoman watched with interest, moving around to the wall 
behind Bobbie.  The girl, chest resting on the table, looked back 
over her shoulder and smirked as her hands pulled herself open at 
both orifices.  "What do you think?" she asked archly.

The policewoman's lip curled.  "Looks like a dirty little girl to 
me."

"That's enough!" commanded the examiner, advancing with her 
probes.  In a moment she raised up, regarding the pipettes under 
the bright light.  "Seminal fluid in your vagina, without a 
doubt.  The dead man's?"

"Can't you tell?" asked Bobbie disdainfully.  "You know 
everything else.  Can I get up?"

"Just a moment.  The sample from your rectum has a petroleum 
base, I'll bet.  A lubricant, isn't it?  Did you also have anal 
sex?"

Bobbie asked, "Want to check my armpits, too?"

Carefully securing her samples, the woman said, "So that's how 
it's going to be, is it?"  She sighed.  "You can get up and 
straighten your clothes, but remember, there's a place in the 
this city for girls with your attitude."

The girl sneered, "Full of lezzies?"

"Watch your mouth!" barked the policewoman.

The woman cocked her head.  "How is it possible that a girl of 
your low nature is attending such a nice school as Pilgrim Hill?"

Bobbie shrugged.  "You've got me there."

A knock on the door attracted the policewoman's attention.  She 
stuck her head out and conversed with someone in a low voice, 
returning into the room with several pages of printout.  A flash 
of color suggested what they were to Bobbie.  The policewoman 
confirmed it with the statement, "Copies of stuff in her book 
bag."

Both adults paged through them with stony faces.  At last the 
gray haired woman turned one up on the table.  It was from the 
top of Hawker's tray drawer, showing Bobbie's mouth conforming to 
his glans.

"Do you claim that's not you?" asked gray-head.

Bobby was expecting that question in some form, but the simple 
denial she had determined to offer was not her style.  She 
shrugged.  "Lots of people look that much like me."

"And this one?"  The woman laid down the view of the kneeling 
nude with dildo inserted.

Bobbie stared back from her own stone face.  "I don't have to 
answer your questions."

The woman's brow wrinkled.  "But it makes no sense!  What do you 
possibly have to conceal?  Are you afraid we'll think you killed 
him?  We know now that he died of a heart attack, probably while 
engaged in some excess with you and the boy, certainly not your 
fault.  You're a pretty girl with your future before you, 
attending a nice school, most likely living in a very nice home.  
Will you at least tell me why you won't talk to us?"

The girl's face set.  They waited but she stood silent.

The policewoman declared, "Your boyfriend is singing like a 
canary.  He claims you seduced _him_."

Again the girl did not react.

Gray head closed up her briefcase.  "They've picked up your 
parents by now.  Maybe _they_ can get some sense out of you!"


* * *


A peremptory knocking on the door interrupted their argument 
about whether they should call Missing Persons.  Paul and Jenny 
looked fearfully at each other.  The knock sounded again, louder, 
shaking the door.

"All right, I'm coming!" Paul shouted, getting to his feet.  
Somehow he was not surprised when the door opened to reveal two 
uniformed policemen.

"Are you Mr. Smith?" demanded the taller cop loudly.

Paul took a breath.  "Yes, I am."

"You have a daughter named Bobbie?"

"Ye-es."

"You don't sound very sure.  Where's Mrs. Smith?"

Jenny appeared at Paul's elbow.  "I'm Mrs. Smith."

The officer touched his cap.  "How do you do, ma'am.  What are 
your first names, please?"

Paul told him and the man wrote something in his notebook.  "Mr. 
and Mrs. Smith, we'll wait while you get your coats.  You're to 
come with us."

"Where?" Paul demanded.

"To the Craven Street Station."

"Are we under arrest, officer?"

"No, sir.  At least not yet.  But your daughter is.  She's 
charged with First Degree Delinquency, Conspiracy and Concealing 
Evidence."

"At least she's safe -- but, god!  Sounds like we'd better get 
her a lawyer."

"You can call one from the station house.  The sergeant wants you 
to come immediately."

"I'm afraid not, officer.  We have things to do first."

"Do you have other children in the home, Mr. Smith?"

"Huh?  No, no others."

The man's eyes narrowed.  "Mr. Smith, I'm telling you that your 
minor daughter has been arrested and is being held in the 
station.  If you refuse to come with me now, both of you, I'll 
arrest you and charge you with Child Abandonment."

"All right, all right.  We'll come.  Give us five minutes."

The man nodded.  "Five minutes, Mr. Smith, and I warn you, 
another officer is waiting at your back door."

With the door shut, Jenny wrung her hands and whispered fiercely, 
"Good god, what'll we do?"

"Take a leak and get your coat.  Nothing else we _can_ do!  If we 
tell them part of the truth and deny responsibility for her, you 
know what'll happen next.  God knows what Bobbie has told them!  
All we can do is claim she's our kid and see if we can get her 
released in our custody."

"Maybe we should call Bernie.  He has a lot of influence."

Paul shook his head.  "Not unless it's really bad.  What could it 
be?  Probably they've just caught her screwing some boy.  If it's 
a man instead they'll charge him, not her.  Buck up.  This might 
not be so bad, and maybe she'll learn a lesson about discretion."

"Well, I'll take a couple of grand, just in case," Jenny decided, 
heading for their strongbox.

"Okay, but get your coat while you're in there."


* * *


"Shatzer, calling Corley."

The man waited at the corner, hand pressing his parka hood 
tighter to his temple to conceal the two-way radio, watching as 
the police loaded his clients, as he called them, into one of the 
squad cars.

"Shatzer, calling Corley."

A window shade quivered at the basement apartment in the same 
building.  Well, of course the neighbors would be interested in a 
load of --

"Corley here.  Go ahead."

"Scrambling 46."

"Okay, 46."

He took out the radio long enough to key a short sequence of 
buttons.  The instrument bleeped once and popped twice.  He 
returned it under his parka and asked, "Do you copy?"

"Yes, go ahead, please," responded the voice, its cultured 
accents detectable despite the distortion of the small speaker.

"The Chicago cops just paid a call on the Smiths.  They hauled 
them off in a squad car."

A pause ensued.  "What about the child?"

"No sign of the kid.  She's not been seen since she went to 
school this morning."

Another pause.  "The police, you say?"

"Yeah.  Two car loads.  I'd follow them, but Bernie can find out 
all he needs by other methods."

"Thank you.  Finish your shift, Shatzer, until the vigilantes 
show up.  Let me know if the Smiths come back."

"Roger.  Anything else?"

"No.  Corley out."


* * *


"Detective Hatch speaking."

"This is Marley, Hatch, and --"

"Damn it, Marley, don't you know better than to call me here?"

"Yeah, I know better.  Don't worry.  I'm calling from the safe 
office.  The number's showing on your screen, right?  Well, 
listen: jot it down and call me back.  Bernie needs some hot 
info.  One of his top girls has maybe been arrested.  How about 
checking on it and giving us the low-down."

"What's her name?"

"Jenny Smith."

"That ain't much of a working name!"

"She don't have a working name.  I tell you, she's special."

"You're in the safe office?  Hold on.  I'll check the computer...  
That's funny.  No Jenny Smith tonight.  When was she arrested?"

"The cops hauled her off 45 minutes ago."

"That's damn strange.  I tell you, she ain't here."

"Try Paul Smith."

"Okay...  Nope, no Paul Smith either."

"Damn it, Hatch, our man saw them --  Hey, try the kid.  Try 
Bobbie Smith."

"Okay...  Hmm.  No Bobby with a Y, but ...  Good god! ...  Jesus 
H. Christ!  Don't tell me this kid works for Bernie."

"No, she's hanging out with Jenny and Paul.  You got something, 
have you?"

"If I held this receiver away from my ear, Marley, you could 
probably hear the commotion on the next floor.  They's about a 
hundred newspaper reporters camped out down there, wanting poop 
on the Hawker case.  And that little girl is mixed up in it right 
to bottom of her tight little cunt."

"Cunt?  You mean it's like that?"

"Too bad, too.  She'd've probably made Bernie a great trouper in 
a few years."

"Hatch, I'm flipping on my recorder.  Read what's on your 
screen."


* * *


Allison snuggled closer and kissed his cheek.  "You can't go back 
to sleep, can you, Tom?"

He turned enough to kiss her nose.  "No, dear, I guess not.  I 
keep expecting the cops to come for _me_!  You heard what they 
said to Paul and Jenny.  It's inconceivable that Bobbie wouldn't 
tell the cops everything she knows.  She's only twelve, for 
Christ's sake."

"But you only did her twice, didn't you say?"

"Yeah, once with Alan and once when Jenny caught us.  But I know 
how it works.  By the time the cops get through with the leading 
questions, it will seem she's been fucking me hourly ever since 
she moved into the building."

The woman smiled.  "From what you say, she would have, too, if 
you hadn't been so hard to seduce."

"Now don't _you_ start believing it!"

"No, Tom.  Every word you tell me will always be gospel.  What do 
you say, we go get a bite?  I saw a fast food joint around the 
corner."

"And disappoint the cops when they come?"  Grinning, he looked at 
his watch.  "It's after nine.  Guess we'd better.  I think it 
closes at ten."

Allison got out of bed, turning back to regard its stained sheets 
and the towel they had applied.  She shook her head.  "If you'll 
point me to your linen closet, I'll change the bed."

"Linen closet!"  He chuckled hollowly.  "There's a Home-mart in 
the next block.  I'll pick up another set if it's open."

"You mean you only have one set of sheets?"

He shrugged.  "Why not?  I can do without sheets on the bed while 
I'm waiting for them at the wash-o-mat."

Again she shook her head.  "You do need me, Tom!"

He watched with interest as she inserted a tampon.  "How long 
does it last?"

"Several hours.  I'm not a very heavy bleeder, usually.  I'm 
curious to see what sex does.  I've heard it can increase the 
flow or dry it up."

He smiled, squeezing her breast.  "Menstrual ex-virgins, both of 
us."

She cocked an eyebrow.  "Are you sure, Tom?  How did you know you 
wouldn't mind it?"

"I won't mind anything of yours, Allison."  He stroked her bare 
buttocks.

She sighed.  "We'd better get dressed.  I really am hungry."

He nodded with leer.  "Right.  It's not so hard to get undressed 
again, is it?"

As he removed the chair to permit their egress, she asked, "How 
do you lock it when you leave?"

He grunted.  "I don't.  Fortunately there's not much in here 
worth stealing."

"You ought to get that fixed, Tom."

"I know it.  Maybe I'll --  Ulp!"

A man in a rumpled business suit was standing before Tom's 
entrance with fist upraised to knock.  He said immediately, 
"Could I ask you a few questions?"

"Who're you?" Tom demanded.

"Marvin Whitley, reporter for the City Inquirer.  It's about 
Bobbie Smith.  May I ask your name?"

"Thomas Horger," replied Tom without thinking.

"Pleased-to-meet-you," mouthed Whitley, scribbling on a notepad.  
"Bobbie lives in the first floor apartment, right -- the one with 
cop standing guard?"

"Cop?"  Tom blinked.  "I didn't know they left a cop."

"But you knew the cops had come, right?  What happened?"

"I, ah --  What's your interest in this?"

"I told you: I'm a reporter for the City Inquirer."

"But she's just a little girl.  What's she done?"

"Didn't you hear the cops say?"

"No.  Something about delinquency and conspiracy.  They took her 
... people away in a squad car."

Whitley's brown eyes widened.  "Her 'people,' you say?  Weren't 
they her parents?"

"Well, ah, actually I don't --  Say, what's really going on?  You 
must know what they think she did."

The man grinned.  "You can read about it in tomorrow's paper.  
All right, I'll tell you some of it if you'll answer a few more 
questions."

"First tell me what she did."

Whitley thought for a moment before stating, "She and another 
kid, a boy, were having sex with a professor from their school 
when he suffered a heart attack.  How long have the Smiths lived 
here?"

"Since September.  A boy, you say?"

"Yeah.  Alan, uh, Shindle.  Do you know him?"

"N-no, can't say --" Tom began unconvincingly.

Allison interrupted.  "You remember, Tom.  She was playing with 
him on the stairs the other day, making a racket.  But I thought 
his name was Ivan."

"Oh, yeah," Tom muttered.  He looked at her instead of the 
reporter.  "I remember now.  But she called him Alan."

"Okay, we've seen him," Allison said to Whitley, "but that's all.  
What about him?"

Whitley replied, "All I know is, they say he was in on it.  Have 
you seen anything unusual with Bobbie or the parents?"

"No!" declared Tom firmly.

"Do you know if she's a latchkey kid?"

When Tom only stared, Allison answered, "Aren't they all, these 
days?"

"So you didn't see her come home this afternoon?"

"We didn't see her," Allison replied, "but that doesn't mean she 
didn't."

"Okay."  Whitley made another note.  "Have you talked to her?  
Can you tell me what kind of person she is?"

Allison of course had never seen Bobbie.  Realizing this, Tom 
answered, "She's a pretty girl, about twelve or thirteen, maybe.  
But I don't really know her.  I've seen her around, that's all."

"Did you talk to her, Mrs. Hoger?"

"No," answered Allison, adding with a smile, "she's not the kind 
to hold still, is she, dear?"

Tom played that up.  "She's just a kid!  Sex with her professor, 
you say?  I can't believe it.  There's got to be a mistake."

"No mistake about that, I'm afraid," said the reporter, closing 
his notebook.  "Thanks a lot, folks.  I see you're going out.  
Can I drop you?"

"No, thanks, it's just around the corner."

With leisurely steps they followed the hurrying reporter up the 
stairs and avoided the eye of the policeman standing before the 
door of the first floor apartment.  When they reached the street, 
the reporter's car was just pulling away from the curb.

Tom leaned close to Allison as they started toward the corner.  
"What do you think?  Should we hop the first bus out of town?"

"You're worried about Alan," she observed thoughtfully.

"We both should be.  He'll tell them anything they ask."

"Why should they ask?"

"They'll ask the names of everyone he's been with, Allison."

"Suppose they do?  So what?"

"So they'll arrest us so fast we won't know what hit us!"

"But we can beat it, Tom.  All we have to do is stand together.  
No one else saw us with Alan and only the other delinquent kid 
saw you with him.  I'll swear you're not that kind and you'll 
swear it of me.  We were sorry for Alan one weekend -- since he 
can describe your apartment -- and invited him, ah, him _and_ 
Bobbie! -- in to watch TV because his folks had left him in the 
lurch, but absolutely nothing happened!  And if they say 
otherwise, well, what do you expect from kids like these?  
Officer, you'd better find out what they _really_ did that 
weekend!"

He stared at her.  "Allison, you genius, that might actually 
work.  We being engaged to marry will make a huge difference."

"It _will_ work!  Come on, I'm hungry.  Here's what we'll both 
say happened ..."



NEXT:  Chapter 24: A Sudden Transfer
Varangian:  ludmax11@hotmail.com
Kellis:     kellis@dhp.com

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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