cyber Cheryl Davis coughs nervously, smoothes her skirt with shaking hands. She's so excited-after almost three months of emails, instant messages, exchanging pictures, and even talking on the phone the last couple of weeks, she's finally going to meet Roger. She checks her makeup in the airport bathroom mirror. Thinks about Roger. He is so nice, so sweet. He listens to her, he loves her. She knows her parents will be upset, knows they won't understand, but they'll see. They will, they'll see how wonderful Roger is, how much they love each other. And then it will be okay, it won't matter that he's 30 years older. It won't matter that she's only 13. Roger says love doesn't care about age. She knows he's right. Walking to the boarding area, she feels herself panicking. Roger told her she had to be calm, had to look calm, or someone would suspect. Just hand them her ticket, get her boarding pass. That's all she had to do. Then just get on the plane. Enjoy the flight. She is excited-she's never been on a plane. But she is so scared. If she gets caught, her parents will ground her for fifty years, she just knows it. Taking a deep breath, Cheryl approaches the desk. She hands her ticket to the agent, flashes a big smile. The agent smiles back, checks the ticket, then hands Cheryl her boarding pass. Tells Cheryl boarding has begun, she may go ahead, find her seat. Cheryl murmurs thanks, boards the plane. Roger Porter smiles, looks at his watch. Five hours. In five hours, that sweet little piece was going to be his. He reaches down, rubs his cock excitedly. Five hours--after almost three months of working, her, leading her, ingratiating himself. Stupid, stupid girl. Tasty little virgin, never been kissed. He laughs-never kissed, and probably never will be. She'd been so easy to convince, so easy to totally bullshit. She'd even agreed to let him tie her and put her in the trunk when he picked her up in the field near the airport. She was to walk there, then he would bind her and put her in. He'd told her that it was necessary so that, if they were caught, he could take the blame. Told her he didn't want her to get in any trouble if they were discovered. And the innocent, nearly idiotic girl had bought it. She was just too good to be true. Roger walks to the cellar door, smiles at the locks in the heavy hard wood. This place was a find---a couple miles outside of Wendover, totally isolated on the edge of the Eagle Range. An old blast house from a defunct mine, the above ground portion is in shambles, but the cellar proper is in perfect shape, two rooms. He pulls out his keys, opens them one by one, then descends the stairs. Smiling as he passes through the "sitting room," he surveys his equipment, hung so neatly on the walls in the next room. The heavy wooden tables, the sawhorses, the rack. Knives, ropes, dildos, jaw spreader. He frowns at the faint blood stains on the floor. He'd scrubbed and scrubbed, but the concrete was permanently discolored. That girl, she had been pretty damned good. But Cheryl, she was going to be beyond all of them. Cheryl looks out the plane window, fascinated. She's enrapt, everything is so tiny! She can see little cars on little roads, like ants scurrying along strings of floss. The fields, like a beautiful mosaic, browns and golds, yellows and greens. Big cities reduced to tiny, sprawling shapes. She squirms-she really has to pee. She sneaks a peek at the man next to her. He makes her nervous, keeps looking at her chest, her legs. She doesn't want to have to climb over him. She doesn't want her legs brushing his, her butt in his face. So she waits. She can hold it. She thinks about Roger. He is so smart, he took care of everything. Told her what to put in her note so her mom and dad wouldn't suspect him, wouldn't know where she'd gone. Told her how to empty her history files, delete everything, even the names of the chatrooms. Showed her how to permanently delete old emails. He even bought her new clothes and makeup so she wouldn't have to take anything but her purse. She's brought Max, too--the stuffed rabbit her dad had given her last Easter. She gives Max a squeeze, he makes her feel better. She swallows hard-she will not cry. She misses her mom and dad, but Roger said that she could call them after they'd gotten settled in. That he would talk to them, make them understand. So she'd pretended to go to school that morning, kissed her dad goodbye when he dropped her off. She'd almost cried then. She's almost crying now. Roger walks along the aisles, examines the lacy lingerie with a critical eye. He has Cheryl's measurements memorized, knows exactly what look he's after. But the sizes, they're confusing, they vary. He flags a saleswoman-a lovely blond thing. Hey eyes her appreciatively. Too old, for sure, but still a fine piece. He imagines his cock in her throat, her eyes huge with fear, a knife at her throat as she gags. He has to ask her to repeat what she's said. His cock is hard. With the blonde's help, he picks up all Cheryl will need for clothing. Sweet little lacy things, garter belt, stockings, high heeled shoes. White lace panties, matching demi bra for her sweet little 32 B tits. He can already see them under her school uniform. Already hear her muffled cries. He touches his cock as pulls onto I-80, drives toward the airport. Rubs, squeezes. His hands shake. He is more aroused than he's been in months. Since the last one. Cheryl sits in her seat, waits as the other passengers pile into the aisle, shoving and complaining, struggling to retrieve their overhead baggage. She thinks she can wait, then go to the bathroom on the plane before she leaves. She doesn't want to go in the airport-she hates when people can hear her pee. She squeezes her legs together, hopes they hurry. Roger parks his car in the middle of the dusty field. A row of trees helps block the view from the highway. The ground is salty, white and grey. He watches the jets floating in and out of Salt Lake International. She's on one of them. Maybe she's already on the ground, on her way. He laughs giddily. It's a long drive back, too bad she won't get to see the flats, the floating mountain. The last thing she's going to see before he gets her back is this ugly field, and his grinning face. Stupid girl. Cheryl approaches warily, not sure she's come the right way. She has her shoes in her hand, her feet are sore. She stops, picks another sticker from her foot. Roger spots her, waves happily. She smiles, waves, begins running toward him, forgetting the hard, spiky ground under her feet. It's all okay now. Everything is perfect, she is so happy. They embrace warmly. Roger kisses her on the forehead, smiles at her. She looks at him-he doesn't look much like his pictures, he's sort of flabby, looks older. But she doesn't care. They are together. He tells her they'd better hurry, before someone sees. She agrees, asks what she needs to do. He tells her to lay on the ground, face down, he'll take care of everything else. She kneels, then stretches flat. She's giggling, thinks this is funny. Her giggling stops when he binds her wrists tightly behind her. She complains about the pain, he tells her it will only hurt for a few minutes, that it's got to look real or no one will believe she was unwilling. Binding her ankles together, he runs an appreciative hand up her outer thigh. She laughs nervously. It tickles, but she's not sure she should let him touch her like that. Rising, he grabs duct tape from the trunk.. Kneeling again, grabs her by the hair, begins winding the tape around her head. She begins to whine, tell him it hurts. He forces her mouth closed, covers it with tape. Her eyes, her jaws-he wraps her head in tape, leaving only her nose and the top of her head uncovered. She is struggling now, whining through her nose. He hauls her up, drops her in the trunk. Throwing the roll of tape in after, he slams it shut, then hops in the driver's seat, pulls out of the field, onto the highway. Her little black shoes, purse, and Max, the stuffed Easter bunny, lie forgotten on the gray, sandy soil. Cheryl's mom hangs up the phone distractedly. The principal. Cher hasn't gone to class yet. She bites her lip-Cheryl's always been a good girl, good grades, never skipped, never in trouble. She debates calling her husband, Cheryl's dad. On the one hand, this is unusual for Cheryl, it worries her. But on the other, girls do things like this sometimes. She decides to wait-if Cher doesn't come home by the usual time, she'll call. But she's sure she will. Roger drives, careful to keep his speed below the limit. It would hardly do to get pulled over for speeding. Her struggles had stopped almost immediately. He hopes the heat hasn't killed her. It's July, it's damned hot in the desert. He smokes one Camel after another, stubbing the butts out nervously as he keeps an ear out. He hopes she'll move, give him some sort of sign. Cheryl sobs through her nose, writhes on the hard, hot metal of the trunk. She's being stupid, she knows. Roger wouldn't hurt her, he just wants to make sure she doesn't get in trouble. But it's so hot, and the tape is pulling her hair. Her wrists hurt, her arms hurt, and she struggles to roll on her belly, then cries harder when she realizes that hurts worse, but she can't get back on her side. She cries for Max, wishes he was here. Drenched in sweat, she hopes they get to Roger's house soon. Roger pulls off the highway just past Wendover. A left turn takes you to the Eagle Test Range, but a right takes you into the desert, into the red, inhospitable mountains. The road is rough, but familiar. He feels calmer now-she's fine, he knows it. He's always had good luck. Bumping down the dusty, desolate road, he breathes deep, centers. Goes over the plan in his mind. It's going to be perfect, just perfect. He'll play her nice first, convince her to put the lingerie on. It's so hard to get stockings on a girl who's fighting, and he doesn't want to chloroform her. He wants her awake, wants to see her eyes when she realizes. When he does her. He pulls past the corral, parks at the small campsite. The "house" is about a quarter mile beyond where the road ends. He dreads carrying her, but knows he must. He parks, grabs the duffle bag from the passenger seat. Her stockings, her panties, it's all here. Opening the trunk, he smiles as her perspiration soaked form moves, a moan escapes her nose. He begins to talk to her, soothing. Tells her they're almost home now, that he's going to carry her so she doesn't hurt her feet. He eyes the license plate. He's never sure if he should remove them or not. If he doesn't, someone could trace the car to him. But if he does, someone might get suspicious, call the sheriff's office. He shakes his head, decides to pull them. Finishing, he scoops her up, throws her over his shoulder, closes the trunk. He bends, grabs the duffle bag, and sets off up the trail. Cheryl lies still over Roger's shoulder. It digs into her hips painfully, but she's relieved to be out of the trunk, glad of his voice, his reassurances. It was wrong of her not to trust him, she feels so bad about doubting him. They'll be there soon, and then he'll untie her, and they can be together. It will all be okay, she knows. Cheryl's mother looks at the clock for the hundredth time. No denying it, Cher is late. Picking up the phone, she dials. Her husband is in a meeting, does she want them to interrupt? Yes, she says. Please. Roger sets down the duffle bag, fumbles with the keys. He's winded, his heart is pounding. Thinks he needs to do this more often, get in better shape. He tells Cheryl they're almost there. Just hang in, he says. Let me get the door open, then we'll get you loose. Pushing open the door, he lays her on the ragged sofa, face down. Striding around the room, he turns on the lanterns, silently thanks Coleman and their 6 volt lamps. He returns to the door, nabs the duffle bag, then relocks it. All the locks are doubles-keys needed for in and out. He grins, returns to kneel next to the sofa. Carefully, gently, he begins removing the tape. He knows that, despite his care, he's pulling her hair. He apologizes, tells her it's almost over. Finally freeing her head, he smiles at her kindly. She blinks, squints, then smiles back. He sets to work freeing her arms and legs. Tells her they're going to tingle and hurt for a bit, but then she'll be fine. She nods, whimpers as the blood returns to her limbs. Cheryl's father paces angrily, phone in his hand. He looks at Cher's mom, then begins shouting into the phone. No, his daughter has never done this before. No, she isn't with friends, they've called all her friends, none have seen her today. No, they will NOT wait 24 hours, something is wrong. She is a good girl, she would never do something like this. No, she hasn't run away. Her computer? No, they haven't looked at her computer, why? Fine, fine. He hangs up the phone, goes to Cher's room. Jiggling the mouse, the screen saver disappears, revealing Cheryl's note. Cheryl buttons her blouse nervously, looks down at her legs, now clad in white lace stockings. She feels confused, unsure. She wants to make Roger happy, yet she doesn't understand why he would want her to wear these things-he'd already promised her that he wouldn't push for sex until she was ready. He'd already told that he wasn't after that, he loved her for her. He asks if he can turn around. She says yes. He looks at her appreciatively, tells her how lovely she is, how much he loves her. He approaches, pulls her into his arms, kisses her head. She leans into him, he grasps her wrists, pulls them up behind her back roughly. She cries out, pulls back, her eyes meeting his. He jerks her arms further up, smiles. She screams. Cheryl's parents sit together on the sofa, talking to the police officers who've come. They've given them pictures, answered their questions. Is Cheryl sexually active? No, of course not. Does she take drugs, drink? No, no, we'd know if she did, she's a good girl. The neighbors come in, show the flyer. Is this okay? Yes, it's perfect, thank you so much. The neighbors leave, heading out to distribute the flyers. Should we call the TV stations? Yes, yes, okay, we'll do that. Shane Marston bends down, picks up the dusty purse. He looks at his younger brother, then opens the purse. Make-up, a small mirror, plane ticket stubs. A small, bright pink wallet. He opens the wallet, pulls out a junior high ID card. Cheryl Davis, South Wilmington Junior High in Wilmington, North Carolina. His brother says some girl probably just forgot them, but Shane shakes his head. No, this is creepy, there's something wrong with this. He pulls out his cell phone, calls the Salt Lake County sheriff's department. Cheryl dangles helplessly from her wrists, which have been tightly bound behind her back. She is squealing with the pain, whining through her nose, her mouth filled with a bright red ball gag. Her ankles are secured to rings in the floor, spread wide, her feet suspended inches above the floor. Her eyes are huge, she watches Roger, terrified. He is naked, his cock huge, purple, bobbing before him as he works busily, humming tunelessly. He pauses often, smiles happily at her. The camera is set up, the tape in. He focuses the lens on her, then pushes record. Grinning, he walks toward her. Cheryl's father hangs up the phone. Someone found her purse. No, in a field in Salt Lake City. Oh, my God. Salt Lake City? Why? How? They found her shoes, too. And Max. Cheryl's mom begins to sob. Oh, God, please, don't let her be dead, please let her be okay. Sterling Morton drives slowly toward Wendover. The deputy rubs his eyes-how is he supposed to find anything out here? The glare from the salt flats makes his eyes water, his head hurt. She could be anywhere. The tire tracks showed a turn west onto I-80, but from there, who knows? He's already been to Stansbury Park, Grantsville, and then Delle. Spoken to the local law-except in Delle, which consists of two trailers, a defunct motel, and a gas station that may or may not be a going concern, depending upon the day. He thinks about his daughter. She's 14, could this happen to her? He's angry, knows the girl is probably already dead. He drives on, radios the Wendover police again. So spread it out, start checking those back roads. Did you really expect her to be at the Peppermill, pumping nickels into a slot machine? Roger steps in behind Cheryl's suspended form. She is whining, crying through her nose. Her eyes. He feels a chill along his spine as he thinks of her eyes, wide, comprehension slowly dawning. He reaches out, lifts her skirt to touch her pretty ass through the lace. He kneads, then pinches hard. She squeals, then begins thrashing. Grabbing her sweet, white panties, he tugs, tears them to the side. He grasps her hips calmly, presses the head of his cock against her pink pussy lips. Smiling broadly, he positions himself, then yanks her back. Cheryl screams, pulls against her bonds, writhes as he pushes mercilessly into her, ripping her virginity from her. He moves fast, hard, slamming into her, tearing her flesh, making her bleed as he fucks her furiously. She is sobbing, gasping, whimpering as he rapes her. He begins to laugh, his pace quickening as his climax approaches. Throwing his head back, he lets out a shout and explodes inside her. A flood of hot cum fills her, mingling with her blood, running down her thighs. Roger pulls out, wipes his cock on her stocking-clad thigh. Cheryl moans, cries as his seed trickles from her wounded pussy. Mike Navarro drives down the bumpy road, a cigarette clenched in his lips. He hates this, it's the one part of his job that he truly despises. His department tells the public they round the horses up and put them up for adoption for their own good, to keep them from overgrowing available grazing land. But he knows that's bullshit. They round up the horses to keep the asshole ranchers happy. It may be called public land, but fact is, it's owned by the ranchers and their lousy range maggots. Mike pulls up to the corrals. Today he'll be checking the fences, repairing any damage the winter or local kids may have done. He hopes things are in order-he'd love to get some shooting in while the light is good. Climbing from his truck, he looks up the dusty track, sees the dark blue sedan parked near the campsite. He eyes it, makes a note. Probably folks hiking, but he'll check it out if it's still here when he's finished. Cheryl's father kisses her mother goodbye. He is flying to Salt Lake City. He's not sure what he can do, but he has to be there. The police have taken Cher's computer, say there are ways to get information, recover addresses and the like even after they've been deleted. They've contacted her ISP, asked for records of all account activity. He blinks back tears. His brother puts an arm around his shoulder, lets him lean as they descend the stairs. Backing out of the drive, Cheryl's dad looks at the house, wonders how things could have gone so very wrong in just one day. Cheryl screams thinly behind the ball, her eyes huge, tear-filled as she watches Roger bring the needle toward her breast. She is tied, spread eagle, on an X shaped board, the lacy demi bra lays torn open, hanging below her arms. She wriggles, writhes, trying to escape, but he captures her breast with one hand, then pushes the needle through her nipple. She is choking with the pain, squealing, her head whipping around. Pressing, Roger grinds the ring through her nipple, snaps it shut, moves on to the next breast. Sterling Morton nods thanks, picks up the phone. He is at the Elko County Sheriff's department in Wendover. Podunk outfit, undermanned and under-equipped. But helpful all the same-they've suggested contacting the BLM. Told him that, when it comes to a presence in the desert surrounding Wendover, the BLM is it. He talks for a few minutes, then asks the folks in the office if they have a fax machine. They do. He sets to work, faxing a copy of the poster to the BLM. Cheryl's father leans against the plane window, murmurs into his cell. Someone saw her, saw her crossing the field, approaching a dark blue sedan. He is crying, praying with his wife. No matter what, no matter what has happened to her, God, just please, let her be alive. He wants a cigarette. He hasn't had one in 12 years, but he needs one now. He needs a carton. He vows to buy one the instant the plane touches down. Cheryl tries to snap her head away, tries to evade Roger's grasp. She is on her knees, her head pulled back hard, hair and rope twisted together, holding her wrists high up her back. Roger grasps her head easily, forces her jaws open to insert the spreader. He cranks it quickly, efficiently-he's an old pro, this is easy as pie. But it's fun to let her think she's posing a problem. He drives her jaws wide, and she whines with the strain. He steps back, looks at her. She still has her cute little school skirt on, the tops of the stockings just peeking out. Her little breasts are red, thin lines of blood running from the piercings. He smiles, reaches down to tug at the rings, feels his balls tighten, his cock stiffen as she screams through her wide open mouth. Grasping his cock, he grabs her hair, pushes past her trapped lips. He moans as she begins to gag, her throat working frantically as he shoves relentlessly into it. Wrapping both hands securely in her hair, he begins to fuck her face, angrily, furiously. Cheryl chokes, struggles not to vomit as he cuts off her air, slams into her face. She closes her eyes, tries to concentrate on breathing between strokes. She knows, knows he's going to cum in her mouth. She struggles not to cry. Everything hurts, her pussy, her breasts, her jaws, her arms, wrenched up behind her. She wants to go home. Her eyes tear up as his pace quickens. She wants to go home. She groans as his tool begins to swell, twitch in her throat. He climaxes, spewing forth hot, sour cum, flooding her mouth, her throat. Cheryl struggles to swallow, fighting the urge to throw up. Roger pulls out, splatters the last of it on her face. She whimpers, flinches as his spunk hangs, loops on her cheeks. Mike Navarro climbs into his truck. Damned kids, stealing fence rails for firewood. He frowns-the light on his cell is blinking, he's missed a call. He lights a smoke, flips open his cell, checks his messages. He calls in, nods. Then he looks up the road at the sedan. Tells his boss he'll call him back. Cheryl's screams have become hoarse, weak. With every blow of the crop, she feels herself slipping closer to unconsciousness. Tied to the hook in the ceiling, her arms are over her head. Her breasts, her belly, her legs-no part of her has been spared the whipping. She prays he'll die. She prays she'll die. She can only think of one thing-home. She sobs weakly, her jaws still spread painfully. Roger paces around her, each blow carefully considered. He smiles at her heavy-lidded, glazed eyes, the welts rising on her white flesh. They're almost done, he knows. Just one more hole to tear wide open, and then he can finish her. He is happy, impressed with himself. She's been so good. Mike Navarro frowns, dials. The car has no plates, that's not good. Or it's very good. Depends how he wants to look at it. He's pulled his truck in close behind, trapping the car at the end of the track. He is calling the Elko Sheriff's department. He knows this probably isn't the car they're looking for, but he prays it is. He prays the little girl is near and still alive. He lights yet another cigarette. Knows he'll pay hell for it tomorrow. Cheryl's dad shakes the deputy's hand, accepts the hug. He's glad they sent someone to pick him up, he feels confused, disoriented. He nods silently as the deputy tells him what they're doing, what's going on. They climb in the car, the deputy hesitates. Then tells him. They've found a car. No, no, they aren't sure it's his car, but it fits the description. No, not in Salt Lake, in Nevada, outside of Wendover. It's a small gambling town. No, but there is a BLM officer there now, and both Elko County and Salt Lake are sending folks in right now. Yes, they're on their way to Wendover right now. It will take about an hour and a half. Cheryl thrashes wildly, her strength renewed as Roger grinds the steel through her clit. She is on her back, her legs yanked back and wide, secured to rings in the wall, her wrists bound to her ankles. Roger is kneeling between her legs, forcing a metal screw through her. Her screams are shrill, animal-like. She feels her blood flowing, running down into her. Finishing, Roger grabs his hard cock, works it with his hand, tells her what he's going to do now. She is beyond hearing him, her hips twitching and bucking, her back arching. He grasps her thighs, presses his cock against her pink asshole. He rips into her in one cruel thrust, laughing as her screams take on a new, deeper tone. He fucks her hard, viciously, feels her rectum tearing, feels the blood lubricating her. He watches her tits, bouncing painfully with each thrust. He looks at her eyes, blank except for the agony. He knows that each slam into her is grinding that screw in her clit, torturing her. He is perfectly satisfied, he could stay like this forever. Mike Navarro paces impatiently, takes a deep drag off his cigarette. He's been told to wait, but dammit, he's almost sure he knows where they are. If this is that bastard's car, then there's only one logical place he could have taken her-the blast house. He looks at his watch, then looks out over the desert. What if he waits, and she dies? What if she's alive right now, and the sick fuck kills her while he just waits for the cops? He takes one last drag, snuffs out his smoke. Fuck it, he's going to do it. He pulls his gun from the glove box, checks it, then tucks it in his belt. He considers calling in, but then thinks better of it. If he calls in, they'll tell him he can't go in. If he just goes, he won't really be disobeying orders-after all, they didn't specifically say he couldn't go in, they just suggested he stay. He sets off up the trail. Cheryl's dad shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes wide. He's heard of the Salt Flats, but he's never seen anything so empty, so completely desolate. People have formed their names in the salt alongside the highway, using rocks, bottles, cans. His little girl is out here somewhere. Please, God, let her be alive. He looks ahead, sees the small cluster of buildings ahead. This is Wendover. The cliffs backing the town are covered with spray paint. Names, years, crude figures of animals. He looks up, sees a giant, garishly dressed electric cowboy, hand waving toward a casino. It's creepy, surreal, nightmarish. He shudders. Roger plunges harder, deeper, burying his tool all the way in Cheryl's clenching ass. He's telling her how it's almost over, how he's going to kill her soon. He's going to fill her with his cum one last time, then he's going to kill her in a terrible way. He's going to dig a hole and bury her alive, so she slowly suffocates, crushed by the weight of the dirt and rocks he piles on top of her. She will never go home, she will never see her mom and dad again. The last thing she'll see is him shoveling the dry soil over her. He'll leave her face for last, so she can see him killing her. She is sobbing, whining, wordless pleas. He fucks her hard, shaking her as he tells her that she's going to hell for the things she's let him do. He tells her it's all her fault, that she chose to come here, she gave herself to him. He tells her how he laughed at her, how stupid she was. Tells her she'd better hope he fucks her a long time, because how long he lasts is how long she lives. He stops talking, starts ramming into her with all his might. He lets out a whoop and cums in her bleeding ass, his dick spitting waves of spunk into her. She lets out a sharp, barking cry as the hot cum hits her torn flesh. He pulls out, splatters the last of it on her pussy, her thighs. Rising, he walks to the wall, pulls down a knife. He kneels between her legs again, presses the knife against her ass cheek, smiling at the blood welling, then running. He begins to carve his name in her ass. She passes out. He finishes, then walks back to the wall, pulls down the crowning glories-two huge dildos. He rams them into her torn holes. This is how he wants her found. So there can be no doubt. He wishes he could see her parents' faces when they are told that she was buried alive, her holes stretched by these giant tools. Their sweet little girl. Cheryl's dad is shouting. No, he will not wait here for word, he will accompany them. This is his little girl, if she is hurt, if this man has done things to her, she'll be afraid, she'll be alone. He must be there, he will be there. Reluctantly, Sterling Morton and the Elko deputies agree. They set out, driving west toward the desolate mountain area where the dark blue sedan was found. Mike Navarro stops to catch his breath. He knew those smokes were going to come back to haunt him. He sits, head between his knees, breathes deeply. Then he stops, becomes very still, holds his breath for a moment-he's heard something. A shovel, soil being moved. And something else, fainter. Whining, crying. Dear God, he's found her. Slowly, carefully, he begins to creep toward the sound, his gun in his hand. Cheryl whines, pleads unintelligibly as Roger begins shoveling the soil into the hole. She is hogtied, wide awake and struggling helplessly in the deep grave. The dirt is hot, stings as it hits her tortured flesh. She is shaking her head in denial, her eyes huge, bugging as Roger tosses in layer after layer of earth. Her whines become hoarse, wild screams as he works quickly, the dirt covering her body, drifting around her ears, her cheeks. He throws one shovel load at her face, and she hacks, gags as it goes in her mouth, her nose. Her eyes close tight, filled with biting gravel. She is going to die. She knows. She sobs, shrieks. Sterling Morton frowns. They're here, the BLM truck is pulled behind the sedan, but there's no one here. He looks at the other officers, shrugs, what should they do? They mill, start calling their respective supervisors. Cheryl's dad watches in disgust, then sets off up the trail. Sterling shouts, then follows, waving the others along behind him. Mike Navarro stares, stunned. He's burying her alive, dear Jesus. He can hear her cries from the hole, watches as another shovel full of dirt flies. He pulls his gun from his belt, carefully pulls back the bolt, releases the safety. He takes aim as another load of soil hits her. He squeezes back tears of rage and sorrow as he hears her gag, choking on the dirt. He pulls the trigger. Sterling Morton stops as the shot rings out, echoes through the red rock canyons. He looks at the others, then picks up the pace, running up the trail toward the sound. Cheryl's dad passes him, running dead out, praying, gasping, dear God, please. Mike Navarro cradles Cheryl in his arms. She is naked save her skirt, but he's seen what's been done, what has been put into her. She is trembling uncontrollably, totally unresponsive. Mike is uncertain, what should he do? Should he try to pull them out, or should he try to cover her, leave that to the doctors and paramedics? He looks at her tortured breasts, the sharp welts covering her body under the dust. He struggles with the jaw spreader, removes it. Reaching behind her, he unties her hands. She hits at him blindly, whining, scratching at him weakly. He lays her down carefully, removes his shirt, puts it over her. She's so tiny, the shirt comes almost to her knees. Mike Navarro scoops her weakly struggling body into his arms. He begins to sob as he carries her down the trail. Cheryl's father reaches them first-this giant man, shirtless, carrying his bloodied, whimpering daughter. He takes her in his arms, and her struggles renew. He talks to her, soothing, but her eyes are blank. She doesn't know him. He begins to cry, holds her close to him as he carries her back toward the cars. Back home.
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