Free Last Call by Sean Costello Page B

hand and a portable radio in the other, and Julie cringed as he stomped past her down the steps. He’d locked them overnight in a black box that turned out to be the camper he’d kidnapped them in. Before sunrise he’d dragged Laura into the house and pulled out all of her teeth. Then he’d come back for her.
    About an hour ago he’d led them out here, first handcuffing her to the wooden railing at the foot of the steps, then duct-taping Laura to an old vinyl truck seat in the middle of the dirt yard. They were both naked now, shivering is spite of the heat, and there was nothing around them but bush, no other sound but the indolent buzz of cicadas and Laura’s helpless sobs. Nearby in a chain-link kennel a half dozen Rottweilers paced in silent agitation, drooling and sniffing the air.
    Bobcat set the radio on the bottom step and turned it up loud, grinning at Julie when the announcer said—
    “...goes out to Bobcat—yes, you heard me right, Bob cat—who says he’s a dentist and hunting enthusiast. From The Doors...”
    Then “Light My Fire” blared out of the speakers and Bobcat clamped the Cigarillo between his teeth and started Indian dancing around Laura in the yard, bobbing and weaving to the music. Laura gaped at Julie with terror in her eyes.
    Bobcat said to Julie, “Now Blondie, I want you to pay attention. I’m thinking I can use you around here a while.” He paused behind Laura’s back, removing a can of lighter fluid from his hip pocket, and flashed Julie an antic grin, showing those hideous teeth. Then he bit off the cap and spit it to the ground. “But I can’t abide no troublemakers.”
    Julie watched as he resumed his capering, squirting Laura with lighter fluid as he jigged around, making her cry out, the shrill sound provoking the dogs. He made a few more circuits, drenching Laura’s shivering body, the yips and howls of the Rottweilers all but drowning out her wretched sobs. He stopped when the can was empty, its contents dripping from Laura’s face and breasts and hair.
    Looking at Julie, Bobcat said, “This is what happens to troublemakers on the Bobcat ranch.” Then he flicked the Cigarillo at Laura, the half-smoked butt snagging in her hair. There was a !whuff! of ignition followed by a burst of flame.
    Laura’s screams, like nothing Julie had ever heard, incensed the dogs even more, and Julie cut her eyes away from the horror in the yard.
    Then Bobcat was on her, jerking her head up, making her watch, saying, “Are we clear on this? Blondie?”
    “Yes,” Julie said. “Oh, God...yes...”
    “Well, alright.”
    Bobcat went back to his manic circling, shaggy head bobbing.
    Laura was still now, hunched as if in prayer, engulfed in hell’s fire.
    * * *
    When Trish got back to the unit Jim was still in the chair, his head resting on the food tray now, the sedation working its magic. She pulled up a chair and sat next to him, half-watching a cat food commercial on the tiny TV.
    She’d almost dozed off when a familiar voice said, “Wanna take a break?” and she saw Dean in the doorway, holding two big bags of Chinese take-out.
    She nodded. “Chinese. Smells great.”
    Her father was still out of it, muttering and snoring, and Trish said, “Be back soon,” and followed Dean out of the unit.
    They found a vacant couch with a coffee table in the visitors’ lounge and Dean opened the bags and doled out the goodies—sweet and sour chicken balls, pork fried rice, won ton soup—all the delicious standards. Suddenly ravenous, Trish dug in.
    Once sated, she discarded her plastic fork and said, “What was it like in rehab?”
    “For me it was a blessing,” Dean said, wiping his mouth on a napkin. “I took to it like a duck to water. The way things were going, I’d likely be dead by now without it. You’re thinking about your dad, right? Maybe getting him in?”
    Trish nodded. “Do people like him ever make it?”
    “I go to three of four recovery meetings a week and I see