IPB-120 The Helpless Captive by Author Unknown


Chapter 1


Neon lights oranged the sky as the town's avid move-goers queued up in 
zig-zagged lines anxious for the late afternoon matinee to spill out of 
Elston's sole movie, which only last year had been converted from a 
1940's dance hall.

Auburn-haired Kathy McGuire gave her husband's hefty paw an extra 
squeeze and leaned her head forward to peek at the promotion poster 
that advertised this week's movie, the only local entertainment around 
except for George Mason's bango trio that played twice a week in the 
basement of the country club. The post depicted a teenage couple seated 
on a Harley Davidson; the boy's high booted heels dug into the ground 
to support the massive weight of the machine while a girl with long 
blonde hair clasped her hands around the boy's stomach, letting her 
hands drift down to the vee of his pants. The square-jawed youth was 
turning to hand the girl a poorly-rolled brown cigarette.

"Any idea what this movie is about, honey?" Kathy asked demurely in her 
hushed voice, knowing her husband didn't like to discuss anything in 
public.

"Cop show," he sputtered with a jerk of his head.

"Oh, I thought maybe it would be a romance or a musical," Kathy pouted, 
stepping back at her husband's side and staring straight ahead. The 
orange of the twinkling neon caught the bored expression on her 
delicate features. As if I even had to ask, thought the young woman 
with a twinge of bitterness. Cop shows, violence, death, and justice 
... that's all he cares about. With a sudden empty ache, the question 
skipped through her mind: What would her husband have been, if not an 
undercover policeman? What else could a suspicious, brusque man like 
Art McGuire contribute to society, except for an occasional 'bust' on a 
drug or prostitution ring?

Drawing her lips into a taut line of disgust, she stared up at her 
husband, studying the dominance of his strong jaw line, the rippling of 
his cheek muscles as he worked his lower jaw against his upper. He's 
hard at work again, realized the finely-boned wife with a smattering of 
guilt for feeling neglected. Mentally, she caressed the taut muscles in 
his neck, the tightness in his shoulders. The pressure of work, a job 
never completed, impossible to complete until the last criminal was 
behind bars, showed in the furrows of his high, straight forehead.

Did it really matter that she wasn't getting her own way? No, she 
conceded, it couldn't override Art's devotion to his work. His 
determination. His sense of justice. For it was those qualities that 
made Art who he was--a well respected member of the police force, a man 
who loved children, hated to see them throw their futures away for a 
few adolescent kicks. What he failed to give his wife in the way of 
affection, he sacrificed whole-heartedly to the cause of purifying 
America's youth. That, she could not complain about.


End of Page 1. See ipb-120.txt for full story.