Jake and the Girl with the Pretty Legs by J.C. Laird (bill gates books to read txt) š
- Author: J.C. Laird
Book online Ā«Jake and the Girl with the Pretty Legs by J.C. Laird (bill gates books to read txt) šĀ». Author J.C. Laird
Rachel watched until he had disappeared around the corner. She hadnāt known what else to do or say.
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A week passed, and the clear, high desert nights of Albuquerque had become increasingly cold. It was late, after eleven pm, but Rachel had had a late dinner with her boyfriend, Jon, and she needed her daily run. Wynne said she was crazy to be jogging around town that late at night, but Rachel, in her baggy grey sweat suit to combat the cooling October night, was fearless. Besides, she had her trusty Mace in her pocket.
She stuck to the well-lit areas around campus and the adjoining neighborhoods. But she was cold and decided to take a short-cut back to her apartment. She detoured between the two O.M.I. buildings near the loading dockāa route she had taken dozens of times.
But this night, it was a terrible mistake.
The first attacker, wearing a hooded sweat shirt, came out of the darker recesses of a doorway and hit her low, like a football player, driving her into the adjoining buildingās stucco veneer. Her head thudded off the wall, the sledgehammer of pain buckling her knees, black stars on a brilliant white background exploding in front of her eyes. The manās fist crashed into her jaw, and the stars grew bigger, threatening to meld into total darkness. Her legs failing her, she began a slow slide down the wall, but still managed to maintain her hold on consciousness, trying to concentrate on getting enough wind back in her lungs to scream.
Mauling hands were pulling, yanking her sweatshirt and bra up, over and covering her head, pinning her arms above her. More hands, a second person, was pulling at her sweatpants, trying to pull them off as she sat dazed on the cold cement, propped weakly against the rough wall.
Her sputtering mind latched onto one horrific wordā¦rapeā¦she was going to be raped! She would have screamed, but her jaws wouldnāt work anymore; all that came out was a hoarse, raspy moan through her clenched teeth and bleeding lips. Her mind lurched, stumbled, prayed, āHelp me Godā¦help me pleaseā¦the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not wantā¦ā
Suddenly, miraculously, the grasping, grabbing hands were gone from her body. There were sounds of scuffling, swearing, fighting. A scream, someone tripping over her. Her mind registered that someone was trying to help her.
Rachel slowly slumped over onto her side, gasping and gagging. The pain was so intense in her head and jaw that she thought she might vomit. She curled up into a half fetal position, bringing her knees up to her chest, but was too weak to work the sweatshirt down from over her arms and head. It was so dark and she was so cold. She couldnāt hear the sounds of fighting anymore.
Then someone was covering her nakedness with something warm. She mercifully slid into unconsciousness, thinking and feeling no longer an option.
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She could hear voices, words, disjointed sounds. Slowly, they began to coalesce, sticking to her consciousness. She opened her eyes, squinting at the red and blue flashing lights swirling through the darkness. Her head was throbbing and her jaw hurt. Slowly, things came into focus.
Two police cars were parked near the loading dock entrance, their emergency lights slicing through the night. An ambulance was backed onto the down ramp, a stretcher with a moaning, inert shape awaited its loading.
Rachel pushed herself into a sitting position, resting against the rough stucco wall. Two male EMTās standing next to her, waiting until the second ambulance was ready for her, immediately knelt down. The older of the two spoke. āTake it easy, young lady, you might have a concussion; why donāt you lie back down?ā
Other than her head, jaw and swollen lips, everything seemed to be normal. āIāll be okay.ā A wave of nausea washed over her and it hurt to talk, but she wanted to know what was going on. āDid they catch the guys who attacked me?ā
With an audible grunt a heavy-set police officer, whom she hadnāt seen at first, knelt down beside her. āThe other ambulance is hauling away the two guys who assaulted you. They were beaten pretty badly, but we canāt take credit for that. They confessed to attacking you, but said some young guy in an army uniform came out of nowhere and beat the hell out of them. A campus police officer on foot patrol heard yelling and screaming, came to investigate and found you and those two punks unconscious, but no sign of any army guy.ā
The grey-haired cop reminded Rachel of her father. He was still talking. āAny chance I can have that blanket and picture now?ā he said.
Rachel glanced down. Her sweat suit was back in place and a dark wool blanket was now covering her lower body. In her left handāand clasped tightly to her bodyāwas a threadbare, brown army blanket, and in her right, a photograph. Both hands were cramped and sore.
āYouāve had a death grip on that old blanket and picture ever since we found you. Youāve been semi-conscious, but refused to let go of either. Someone had covered you with that blanket; I donāt know where the picture came from, either.ā The officer reached out and touched her arm. āIām Officer Mike Jenkins and Iāve been with the Albuquerque Police Department for thirty years. You have my word that Iāll take care of the blanket and picture and get them back to you.ā He stood up and reached down.
Rachel reluctantly released the old photograph from her stiff fingers. The blanket she brought to her face, the coarse surface a caress against her cheek, inhaling deeply the faint odor of sweat and musk. The tears came silently; she handed the blanket to the officer.
Glancing from the photo to the smiling, but tearful, young woman before him, he asked, āDo you know the soldier in this picture?ā
āIām only twenty-four, that pictureās like forty-five years old.ā
āAnd you know this how?ā Officer Jenkins looked from the old army blanket to the photo, then back at Rachel.
She remained silent.
He sighed. āI donāt think I even want to know. Weāll get a description of the good-Samaritan from the perps and try to locate him.ā
Rachelās smile faded a bit. āI think heās gone, officer. I think, maybe, he was just on loan.ā
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Imprint
Text: John C. Laird
Images: istockphoto.com
Editing: Alexandra Laird
Publication Date: 03-02-2012
All Rights Reserved
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