Gitchie Girl: The Survivor's Inside Story of the Mass Murders that Shocked the Heartland by Phil Hamman & Sandy Hamman Page B

revolting bulk. “Your underpants too!”
    Sandra froze. Her mind couldn’t process these words as his coarse hands groped at her body. His evil voice and harsh touch made her feel that fighting back was useless. Trembling, she began unsnapping her jeans and felt bile rising from her stomach. J.R. felt she was moving too slowly, so he shoved her hands away and yanked her pants off. He threw himself on her like a beast, and a sharp pain pierced her body. His labored breathing was hot against her neck, and he swung his forearm aggressively, knocking her head against the door of the pickup in the process. J.R. grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her head up, staring into her panicked eyes.
    The pain continued, the violence escalated. From somewhere deep within, a survival instinct kicked in, mentally removing her from the situation, and she immediately felt a sense of detachment. It was as if she were floating and looking down on her body. Her mind was reaching to make sense of what was happening. The girls at school are not going to believe this when I tell them what happened! The thoughts didn’t match what was happening to her body, but then it seemed as if only a moment had passed and just as quickly, the loathsome man was lifting himself off of her. She heard the door slam behind him and found herself alone in the silent, dark cab of the pickup. The open door had let in a stream of cool, fresh air yet his repugnant scent still lingered at the tips of her nostrils.
    Demoralized, Sandra sluggishly pulled her underwear and pants back on, crossed her arms over her stomach, then with one hand reached up subconsciously and pulled her long hair to the front, stroking it over and over and pulling lightly to smooth out the tangles that had formed moments ago. She felt defiled. The man was just outside the door leaning with his back against the truck and waiting for his partners’ return. A white-hot flash of terror spread from the pit of her stomach through her trembling body. She thought she might vomit but choked back the urge. It gave her a small feeling of control. Sandra’s experiences at the hands of a cruel foster family and heavy-handed nuns had taught her that adults in charge often abused their power. In her traumatized mind, she still wanted to believe that he was a cop. This was what she had to live through to get out of the charges and avoid spending the rest of her teenage years in a detention center.
    When the Boss and Hatchet Face emerged from the darkness a short time later, the three men stood near the pickup. A strange energy had developed among them now, and they all seemed to be talking at once then occasionally breaking into uncontrollable laughter. They’re talking crazy, Sandra thought . Their conversation jumped from one idea to the next, and every other sentence was punctuated with a wild whoop or laugh. It sounded as if they didn’t know where to go next. Stay here. No, go to the lake. Go to the farm. Nearly an hour had passed since they’d arrived at the abandoned house, and their words pounded in her ears. Sandra closed her eyes and took deep breaths to stave off the shaking. It was hard to think straight.
    The three killers walked toward the abandoned house and stood in a circle, speaking in hushed voices out of earshot of Sandra.
    “You screwed up!” Hatchet Face directed his words at the Boss.
    “I didn’t have time! I—”
    “I’ll do it,” J.R. offered in a steady voice.
    “Shut up! I’ll take care of the girl. I have a club, or I have my shotgun.” The Boss already had blood on his hands tonight. He was ready to take down another innocent victim to eliminate any witnesses.
    “Let’s take care of her right here,” Hatchet Face countered.
    The Boss ignored him. “I’ll take care of the girl. We’ll meet back at the farm.”
    They returned to the pickup where Sandra had been left waiting. “Look,” Hatchet Face told her, “I talked to the sheriff on the radio, and he