Slow Burn, Chapter 9/21

CHAPTER NINE

Another half a mile ought to do it, thought Rebecca Boyd as she checked the counter on the treadmill.  An even five won’t be bad for a quickie.  She panted a little as she kept pace with the fast-moving surface beneath her running shoes.

Time on the treadmill technically wasn’t contributing anything to the stand-up operation for Paradiso Street Fire Station.  But Becky had managed to convince Lieutenant Thompson that exercise breaks could be considered vital physical training; thus they were not only allowable, but a commendable way of spending some on-the-job time.  The fact that Becky would be doing much the same thing if she was off the clock hadn’t figured into the argument at all.

The petite girl used running as a pseudo-Zen meditative state, when all anxiety seemed to melt away.  In those precious moments when it was just herself, her music, and the road – or on days like today, the treadmill – she could forget the press of daily concerns.  Distractions like the rent, the disastrous breakup with Kevin, her latest tiff with her mother – all were gone.  And she often found that when she was finished with a run the knotted tangle of problems didn’t seem quite so intractable.  It was as though unchaining her mind for a while allowed her subconscious to come up with solutions she might otherwise have missed.

For all of these reasons, Becky craved the release a run provided, and squeezed one in whenever she could.  It was also why Becky had worked so hard to convince her local gym to donate enough equipment to outfit a small workout room here at Paradiso – Captain Hawkins had been endlessly pleased about that.  It might have even contributed to the lieutenant’s grudging leniency toward Becky’s exercise breaks.

Thompson, right.  The meeting.  The timid young medic, the new one, had broken Becky’s concentration when she came in to issue the summons for yet another interminable meeting.  Becky had promised to hustle along soon, then politely told the kid to buzz off.  Ah well.  I’ll still catch the tail end.  I just hope the lieutenant gives me a chance to shower and change into my dress blues before the press conference.  The girl currently wore a fitted green Under Armour top and tight black running shorts.  Her wavy red hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail.  Don’t want to be a sweaty mess for our big debut.

The shuffle on her music player pulled up “The March of the Cameron Men.”  Sweet.  She thumbed the volume upward and started humming along faintly.  This should carry me through the last quarter mile.  Then I’ll be finished.

It was the last tranquil moment.

Her earbuds and music had blocked out the sound of the door creaking open at the rear of the room.  Ybarra peered around the corner, saw the girl had her back to him, and grinned.  He crept up quickly, careless of any small sounds he made – the room was otherwise quiet enough for him to hear the girl’s steady breathing, but he guessed she couldn’t hear him at all.

He sidled close, till he was just behind and to the left of the treadmill.  He readied the taser, then glanced up at her one more time.  He smirked and replaced the device in its holster.  Then he shifted his balance and struck out with a sweeping kick.

The blow caught Becky totally by surprise.  Tripped, she was suddenly falling without warning.  She landed sharply on her front, forcing a shocked gasp out of her lungs.  Almost immediately she shot backwards, propelled by the fast-moving treadmill beneath her.  She rocketed off the back of the machine, still twisting, to try to get ahold of herself.  She rolled and fell hard, striking her head on a barbell stored along the baseboard.

Becky’s senses were reeling from this new blow; the room spun crazily in her vision.  She caught a short glimpse of a Hispanic man crouched by the treadmill, but she was too addled to process much.  She coughed, trying to breathe after the wind had been knocked out of her.  She lifted her head once to utter a meaningless syllable – “Unnnhh…” – then collapsed face down on the floor.

Ybarra leapt over to her in a flash.  He grabbed her by the hair and lifted her drooping head, prepared to jab her in the face with the taser.  But her eyes were already closed.  He studied the fine features of her pretty face for a moment.  Then her hair tie slipped out, and his grip was for naught – her head dropped to the floor again with a thunk.  The painful sound made the man snicker.

His hand was still on the back of her head, where he felt an egg-shaped lump rising.  His fingers were damp with her sweat as he took hold of Becky and turned over her petite, glistening body.  He copped a feel or two; these provoked a faint moan from the senseless girl, but little else.  “Facil,” he said, smirking.

Much as he enjoyed manhandling the trim girl, Ybarra did not relish the thought of wrestling her down the narrow staircase he’d ascended.  At that moment he had a burst of inspiration.  He retrieved a roll of duct tape he’d noticed previously, then dragged the girl toward the firepole in the upstairs hallway.

She yielded languidly to his every prod and tug as he positioned her on the floor next to the hole.  First he grasped her legs, enjoying the sensation.  Not an ounce of fat on them!  He wrapped them tight around the pole, securing her thighs and ankles with the tape.  Next – taking care not to let her slip down yet – he lifted her arms above her head and past the pole, one on each side.  He crossed her wrists and taped them as well.

Following this, he lifted her torso erect and pulled her in close until she was hugging the pole and suspended over the floor opening.  He eased her down through the gap, assisted by gravity.  As he prepared to release her, he rocked her shoulder and imparted a slight spin to her body.  Then he let go.

He watched from above as Becky’s limp form, free of the narrow gap, leaned backwards until her upper half hung away from the pole, arms still stretched above.  Her head hung back the farthest, mouth agape, red mane trailing below.  Her legs, held in place by the rope, still firmly gripped the pole; said grip slowed her descent to a slow, graceful one.

Ybarra hadn’t been sure it would work that way.  He’d been half sure that the girl’s sweat would act as a lubricant on her thighs and send her hurtling to an excruciating crash at the bottom.  He would have been fine with that, of course – but he liked this better.  It reminded him of a strip routine he’d seen in Reno.  Thank God for friction.

Becky’s senseless body spun softly in gentle circlets as she slid downward.  Her garnet tresses traced in trailing arcs below.  Finally her rear hit the floor with a light thump.  Her upper body remained much as it had been – arms suspended above, back arched pleasingly away from the pole.

Not bad, thought Ybarra, quite self-satisfied.  Work smarter, not harder.