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Jorja loved Peter. She loved him more than any other man she could think of. The only ones that even came close were her dad and grandpa Joe. Her dad was a bit distant but she knew he loved her. Grandpa Joe meant the world to Jorja. She remembered being picked up as a small child in the strong, war-scarred hands. Even still Peter was king of them all. He was the bad boy, the guy that people looked at and shook their head sadly when he flew by on his old motorcycle. Peter believed in living wildly. Always courteous to Jorja’s dad and grandpa, once out of the house his girlfriend could see the switch flip in his mind and he became the man she feared but mostly loved.
Jorja’s dad watched as she stormed out of the front door early in the morning. The low rumbling of Peter’s motorcycle sounded out in the driveway as Jorja’s dad, Ryan, swished the remaining orange juice in his glass.
“We both know that he’s a bad influence on her, Ryan, but we have to let her figure out on her own that he’s a damned fool.” Ryan’s father, Joe, stepped into the kitchen from the study. He continued wiping an oily carburetor from Ryan’s beaten-up LeSabre parked in the driveway.
When Jorja was little she loved watching her dad and Grandpa Joe tinker with cars. She stormed out of the house because her dad had suggested she stay home and help work on the car instead of go see Killer Mutilators 3 at the County 7 Theatre. Ryan rubbed his hands nervously as he thought about what she would be doing during the course of the day. It would be the third time she spent all day and most of the night with Peter.
“I know, dad. I guess I don’t want to lose her too...” Ryan trailed off as he cleared the knot in his throat and chased it with the remaining juice.
“You won’t. She’s smart, that one is.” Joe set the carburetor on the table and started washing the breakfast dishes. “I give her another week and she’ll open her eyes and see him for who he is.”
“I suppose so.” Ryan fiddle with the car part and wiped a single gray tear that collected below his eye.
Ryan had been entertaining a thought that kept his stomach on the verge of becoming unseated. Was he really scared of his daughter’s boyfriend? Surely not! He had ran several missions in Vietnam, saw things that no grown man should ever see, even though he was no more than a child at the time. He had lived in the household of Joseph Ferguson, long-time army combatant that saw action in WWII, Korea, and the beginning of Vietnam. His dad had run a tight ship of a household. Ryan looked back at it and secretly thanked him.

But despite all this, some days when Peter Hopkins came in to call on his daughter there was a look that Ryan caught for a mere moment. A look of icy malice. Was he just being overprotective? Maybe he wasn’t giving Peter enough credit or a chance to disprove his reputation. Ryan knew Peter’s father, the town sheriff. Both were cold men, Peter and Danny Hopkins. But Ryan shouldn’t be personally scared of the young boy. No, he decided, he was only concerned for his daughter. This conclusion helped him sleep at night.

Just as he had expected, Jorja hadn’t come home that night.
It was when she didn’t come home in the morning that Ryan Ferguson began to panic. He had called the theater and all of her favorite haunts. There was no word of her. Her friend that worked at the burger joint down on Washington street said she had come in with Peter at 10 PM and left an hour later. When Ryan called the Hopkins house Danny said that his son had come home around 2 or 2:30.
“Did he say anything when he got home, Danny?”
“Nope, sorry. I fell asleep in front of the TV last night and I heard him come in. He went right to bed and woke up about an hour ago to go play pool at McMurray’s with his stupid friends.” “Thanks for your help, Sheriff.”
“No problem, Ryan. Let me know when she comes home. I’m sure it’s no big deal.”

Ryan’s knuckles went white gripping the hard plastic of the phone. His head buzzed with accusations, theories, and cries to his God for mercy for his sweet little daughter. The screen door slammed much like it did the morning before as he ran to his battered green LeSabre. It fired right up thanks to the clean carburetor from the day before.

A heavy odor of smoke, body sweat and beer hung acridly in the air as Ryan stepped through the door of McMurray’s Tavern. It was 10:30 AM and the doors were open to anyone willing to play pool; even minors were allowed so long as they promised they were only there to shoot pool and not to drink. This of course was not the truth with Peter and his three scabby friends. Four half-empty beer bottles lined the sides of the stained green felt table. Many other bottles had been haphazardly lined up in the same manner and then knocked over in a drunken haze.
Ryan caught himself before speaking to them. All four boys were larger than he was and each had a belly full of drink that would deaden any pain Ryan might be able to inflict if the situation called for it. He expected one of the might have a knife; it was probably Peter himself. Being the Sheriff’s son, he got away with anything and everything, including underage drinking.
“Peter.”
“Hey, pops. Want to play some 9 ball?” Ryan caught a shine in his drunken eyes.
“No. Where’s my daughter? Peter, where’s Jorja?”
Peter snorted and spat in the corner. “I dropped her off around 1 or so. Why?”
“She never came home. What happened last night?”
“We went and saw the movie. It was pretty gay, if you ask me. Let’s see... drove around, ate at a diner, went to the park, came here for a few drinks, went to a burger joint, then, uh, I dropped her off.”
Ryan followed along in his mind. It didn’t add up.
Peter caught Ryan’s attention by offering to ask around.
Ryan nodded silently and pushed his way out the heavy oak door to the parking lot. As the LeSabre’s motor turned over, a tinny ringing started in Ryan’s pocket. He pulled out his phone as he pulled out of the gravel parking lot. The little display read “HOME”. Ryan caught his breath as he hoped desperately to hear his daughter’s voice once he pressed the SEND button.
“They found her, son.” It was Joe, his dad. His voice seemed a bit strained as though it were on the verge of tears.
“What? Who found her? Where? Is she alright?”
“Jerry Jones was driving down 98^th street when he saw something in the ditch.” Joe’s voice wavered. “It was her, son. It was Jorja.”
Ryan nearly swerved into oncoming traffic.
“She’s alive, but she’s in a bad way. They have her at Saint Mary’s. I’ll meet you outside."
Ryan said he was on his way before hanging up the phone but he wasn’t sure if it was aloud or in his head.

If Jorja’s dad had counted, he would have noticed he broke seven traffic laws on his way to the hospital on the other side of town. He wasn’t counting, though, but was thinking in fragments, doing his best to stay on the distorted road that he could barely see through the tears. No... not her too... Cindy, now her... I won’t let her go... Oh, God...
The LeSabre hopped the curb as Ryan Ferguson threw it into park outside St. Mary’s Memorial Hospital. This was one of the few times that Ryan had ever seen his father openly cry. Joe was standing just outside the door with a wrinkled kleenex in his hand and damp tear marks on his sleeve. Ryan caught Joe crying when his dad’s wife had died of breast cancer, When Jorja’s mother lost her battle with leukemia, and now this time with Jorja.

They went up to the second floor, room 17. The sight of all of the tubes that were connected to his little daughter screamed out to Ryan. Desperately he wanted to look away but couldn’t bring himself to do so. A young doctor with a stethoscope and a chart walked in and told the two men how she was faring. She was asleep; the doctor explained that she was most likely in a coma due to strangulation. Deep purple marks hideously crossed her petite neck.
“Will she wake up?”
“We think so. It seems that whoever did this had his way with her and then choked her until she stopped moving.”
Ryan’s knees played at buckling. “I’m sorry, did you say had his way?”
“Yes, I’m sorry to say that your daughter was raped. There was a lot of damage.” The young doctor paused a moment. “She might not be able to bear children in the future.”
Jorja’s dad and Grandpa Joe stood over the white hospital bed listening to what the doctor was telling them. It was hard to take it all in.
Several minutes later a police officer came in and jotted down all the information he needed. He assured them that the assailant would be apprehended with haste and tipped his hat as he backed out the door.
Ryan filled out the proper paperwork. The doctor gave the same assurance and stated that he would leave them with the girl for a moment while he filed the documents.
Joe stood at the foot of the bed, not daring to go nearer, perhaps thinking that the closer he got the more damage might be inflicted. Jorja’s father nearly ran the length of the small room and pressed his flushed face against her own bloodied cheek. He could feel a faint trickling of breath against his skin and mouthed a small prayer, either for her benefit or condemning the God that would let this happen to his baby girl. He half-laid there several minutes more just soaking in her presence.
His stomach gurgled and he realized that he had not eaten yet. The doctor came back to check up on them and soon he found himself heading toward the hospital cafeteria with his father in tow.
Ryan and Joe sat down to plates of snotty mashed potatoes and gravy. The thick metal spoon swirled the gravy and never found itself heading toward Ryan’s mouth.
“Why didn’t we say anything to the doctor or police officer about Peter?”
Ryan let slip the fork with a loud clang. “Where have you been, dad? No one would believe it was the sheriff’s son!”
“Sure they would! No one is above the law, you know that.”
“Remember when that trucker was found nearly beaten to death at the truck stop on I-73? A few people that were there said that Peter was trying to steal the trucker’s rig when the trucker came out of the stop. Those people were hushed quickly and if I remember correctly everyone was okay with the case being unsolved! Don’t you get it? He can get away with murder because everyone is afraid of his dad! He just about got away with murder here, too. With my daughter!” Ryan’s bony fist plowed down onto the table, sending forks flying and eyes in the room darting away.
“Calm down son. Trust in the law. It’s what we can rely on.”
Ryan wiped flung potatoes from his shirt as he shook his head in disbelief, anger, and a little fear.

Several days went by. Jorja was still unconscious but was breathing more steadily and showing signs of recovery, the doctor reassured Ryan. The police had looked into the matter and resolved it quickly with a conjecture that it was a trucker that was passing through. There was nothing on Jorja’s person that could be linked to anybody through DNA. Nothing. The only thing they had was the shape of the hand marks on her neck; the assailant’s large thick hands were the only evidence they could pull from both the body and the scene where she was found. The police were happy with their findings and considered it a closed case. “Just be happy that she’s alive.” The police officer had told Ryan. A fiery furnace burned in Ryan’s core. The man in the blue uniform and the badge might as well have spit in Ryan’s eye.

The pastor from the Lutheran church on Walnut Street stopped by one evening. He had fluffy graying hair that drooped down to his Roman collar and brushed against the big round metal glasses he wore. Jorja had attended the church with a friend rather regularly. Ryan himself never really went but still considered himself a believing man. Well, he did anyway. Pastor Dobbins had tried to console him, saying that we can’t question God’s purpose or the things that happens in the world. By the time Dobbins was quoting from the book of Job Ryan chased the small man out of the house with a nine iron that he had pulled out of the closet. He had had enough. Sitting there listening to the man’s message of loving neighbors and perfect plans had set his insides on fire. The only thing that he could think of doing was wash out that fire with another. He pulled a bottle of cheap brandy from the cupboard and started drinking it without a glass.

Grandpa Joe found Ryan with a half-empty bottle of brandy on the floor by the television. Black and white reflections danced on the bottle as the images from the 50’s music collection infomercial played silently on the TV. Joe pulled his son to the couch and poured him a glass of juice.
Ryan groaned. A huge brandy-flavored jackhammer was pounding in his head. The last thing he remembered was calling out to Jorja and her mother, who were standing in the doorway. Peter came up behind them and cracked both of their skulls with a rusty tire iron. The teen dropped the bloodied metal instrument and it landed with a dull thud on the bodies of the women that Ryan loved. He tried to get up to stop Peter, but the brandy had turned into glue and kept him in place on the floor. The murderous Peter started laughing, showing perfectly white teeth. The grin grew until Ryan was staring at a laughing skull. A howling shriek shot off in his head, then his father had awoken him.
Ryan’s stomach lurched as he remembered the dream. “Dad, what are we gonna do?”
Joe sat there for a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe the cops have it right with the trucker theory.”
“No it was Peter. I feel it. More intense than anything I’ve ever known. His story didn’t seem legit.”
“The police thought it did.”
“Of course they did! Sheriff Hopkins can make their life a living hell if he wanted to.”
Ryan’s eyes glanced over to a Harley Davidson magnet on the refrigerator.
“The motorcycle! He said he dropped her off at 1 AM. I was here in the living room waiting up on her. I uh, fell asleep but the motorcycle would have been loud enough to wake me up. He lied about that...what else did he lie about?”
Joe nodded slowly. “Well, while you think about that I’m going to go see Jorja. I pray every morning that today’ll be the day she wakes up. Maybe today’s the day.
Joe Ferguson walked out the door and drove away. Ryan buried his face in his trembling hands. If only he weren’t so petrified of Peter. In his mind he danced around the idea of taking the law into his own hands but when it really came down to it, that wasn’t the sort of man he was. Ryan sobbed into his brandy soaked hands. It was the only thing he could do.

The first thing Joe noticed when he pulled into the parking lot was the old black motorcycle. Peter’s motorcycle. Joe raced up to the second floor and halfway down the hall to room 17. Sure enough Peter was in there, standing over Jorja’s body. The door was cracked and Joe pressed his ear to the door to hear was he was saying.
“Hey baby. How you feeling? We had a pretty crazy night, didn’t we? It was our big night, the night we finally would, well you know. I’ve been waiting months for you to get around to a point where I wouldn’t get slapped for bringing it up. So you see why I just couldn’t take no for an answer when you backed out at the last second? We were there, honey. We were drunk, we were ready, but you go and prude out on me. How could you do that to me, babe?” The teen stopped to brush the matted hair from her face. “I didn’t want to hurt you, but I have needs. I think you’d understand. You know, you squealed a little but you were a good girl after a little while. Becca and Rachel, they never stopped screaming.” Peter’s face shone as a wry grin slid open. “I didn’t tell you about Becca and Rachel? I had them before you came along. I didn’t wait so long for them, damn prude you are, and luckily they stayed quiet. They’re still quiet, actually, out in Green Acres cemetery. Those truckers and their libidos, harming young girls and leaving them for dead. That’s a pretty good story. Shifts the blame pretty well. Either way, nobody’s gonna point a finger at me. That’s the important part. We’re not gonna tell our little secret, are we?” Peter dipped low and whispered into her ear. Joe fought to catch what he said. “You better hope you never wake up.”
A nurse came to the door and Joe stood, motioning for her not to say anything. She walked into the room and greeted Peter, who introduced himself as Jorja’s boyfriend. Joe stood just outside the door, listening. Peter told the nurse that he was going to stay with her for a little while because he was concerned for her. Joe had already seen himself in his mind throwing the door open and rushing the teen, beating him mercilessly. But Joe walked away. Feverish, burning embers threatened to scorch his soul. As he passed nurses and patients in the hall he half expected them to gasp at the flames that poured from his body.
Joe knew that he had driven home because he stood at the front door, though he didn’t remember doing so. Pure hatred ravaged his insides. Its heat seethed through his veins and seemed to billow from both his eyes and the toothy grimace that he now wore. Inside, he passed a mirror that told him that he looked the same as always, but he knew that he was different, forever blighted by rage. He rummaged around in the closet just off his study until he found what he was looking for. He could faintly feel the cold steel against his skin as he walked out to his car.

The motorcycle was still in the parking lot when Grandpa Joe returned to St. Mary’s. He quietly glided up to Jorja’s room and found himself standing above the form of Peter Hopkins. The boy had fallen asleep on the couch by the bed. Only a quiet “wake up” escaped from the old man’s pursed lips but Peter stirred sluggishly. Joe watched from somewhere deep within as he began kicking the leg of the couch until Peter was fully awake. The normally boisterous teen wet himself as an old Colt .45 was pressed against his flat nose. On the other end was Jorja’s grandpa. Peter’s and Joe’s faces were mirrored in the same ugly grimace, Peter’s of sheer terror and Joe’s of ripe bloodlust.
Joe’s lips moved again. “I woked you up because I wanted you to know who killed you.”
Peter would have begged if something cold hadn’t already touched his temple and sprayed blood all over the room.

EXCERPT FROM SHELBYVILLE CHRONICLE

– Joseph Ferguson was arrested today for the shooting death of 19 year-old Peter Hopkins, son of county sheriff Danny Hopkins. Ferguson stepped into the hospital room at St. Mary’s Memorial Hospital where his granddaughter was being treated and Hopkins was sleeping. Ferguson awoke the teen before firing his Army issued semi-automatic pistol that he had carried during his service in WWII, Korea, and Vietnam. Authorities say he stopped to reload the pistol twice, putting 20 bullet holes in the teen and one in the wall. Officer Roy Mendez says that it was a gruesome sight. On-sight security officers came into the room and subdued Ferguson who did not offer any resistance. Ferguson admitted to shooting Hopkins at the scene of the crime. Ferguson accused Hopkins of raping his granddaughter and leaving her to die. Authorities quoted the man saying, “I’ll gladly rot in hell knowing that this son of a [expletive] won’t be doing this to any other girls.” –

P.S. I despise Blogger's formatting system. Why do I spend hours creating indents (why do I have to do this in the first place? Shouldn't indentations typed in Word transfer over easily into Blogger) just for the to disappear when I post?