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"I know but you can do anything you like. He
welcomes it, don't you, little dog?" Monkton reached down
between French's legs and squeezed his testicles brutally.
Bruce winced when the man cried out in pain.
"See? You want more, Darcy?"
Darcy French nodded.
Fuck. Bruce remembered peeking through the slats
in the closet to see his father standing over Clay as he was
stretched out on the bed. The belt hit him between the legs
several times as he cried, and then his father hovered over
him, unzipping his pants as he flipped Clay over on the
bed, smacking him with the belt. "Time to give Daddy a
ride," he'd said with a laugh.
Bruce had stopped looking then. He'd covered his
ears and hidden his face in the corner of the dark closet.
Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop. All this time, he'd
been running from a killer, and running from the man
who'd sexually abused both him and Clay when they were
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obscenely young. A monster. My father is a monster. What
does that make me?
When they rose from the table, Darcy French being
forced to crawl on his knees in front of them, Bruce
reached out and grabbed the poker as he passed the
fireplace. He gripped it in his hand, ready to strike as the
man in front of him turned around and looked at him.
Bruce put it behind him.
"Walk in front of me," his father said. "I don't want
you to get lost."
Bruce quickly switched the poker to the front.
When Darcy went to look up at him, he barked, "No one
fucking told you to turn around. Keep crawling, worm." He
didn’t need either one of them to spot the poker in his hand.
"That's it," his father said from behind him. "You
got the hang of it now."
* * * *
August drove like a bat out of hell, only slowing
down once to see Coach Richardson being put into a squad
car by two officers Joe had sent out to his house, or what
was left of it. He made it out to the lake in half the usual
time, slowing down as he passed his old house and
stopping. He'd walk the rest of the way. He knew it well.
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He'd go through the path in the woods and around back.
Please, Bruce. Please be alright.
August shone a flashlight to the ground as he
pushed past the trees. He glanced around him. He could see
the moonlight shining down on Blood Pond, making it
shimmer and look almost alive somehow. When he saw
something that looked like a log up ahead, he slowed his
pace, his heart in his throat. It wasn't a log. He knew that.
He could smell something like the scent of rotting meat.
Was it the Ludlow kid, his head in the pond already? Was it
Alice? Oh God, maybe it was… Bruce? No, he couldn't
handle that right now. He approached slowly, his heart
pounding in his chest, his gun clenched in his hand. He
retched when he saw the remains of what had to be the
Jameson boy. "Jesus Christ."
They had searched these woods thoroughly when
the head had been found in the pond. They would have
found the body. Someone had dumped the rest of that kid
here after keeping it somewhere else a while. He retched
again and covered his nose.
He kept moving. There was nothing he could do for
that poor boy now. He looked around cautiously, ready to
shoot and ask questions later. He could see the house now,
just beyond the trees from where he stood. There was a
light burning through the dining room window, and a stack
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of boxes piled on the front porch. He quickly crossed the
lawn and crept around the side to the back. There were
lights there too and a small porch with a few stairs leading
to the back door. There was no basement. He looked
around for vehicles and noticed a car and a motorcycle
parked on the other side of the house, hidden by trees. Tire
tracks indicated that someone had left recently, someone
driving a 4x4, which is what Coach Richardson drove.
He knew realistically that he should wait for
backup, but there was no time. This maniac had Bruce and
the Ludlow kid in there.
August quietly climbed the steps to the porch.
Carefully he turned the door handle, holding his breath
until he realised that it was unlocked. He slipped inside and
quietly closed the door behind him.
He moved noiselessly down the carpeted hallway,
voices now coming to his ear. One of them was definitely
Bruce. His gun poised, he stopped dead when he heard
Bruce say, "I really like them this age, so young and tight."
August frowned. He was startled to hear that come
out of Bruce's mouth. Why in hell was he talking like that?
"We're going to make such a good team," another
voice replied, an older voice, calm, confident. "Take off the
gag. Let me show you how to make him scream."
August didn't wait any longer. He swung around the
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corner, gun drawn, and found himself staring at Bruce.
"Thank God, August," Bruce cried out. "You're
alive."
An older man with a great resemblance to Bruce
stood behind him, blond and handsome, a charming smile
on his face. He had one arm wrapped around Bruce's
shoulder from behind, casually crossing his throat.
Desmond couldn't see what was in his hand or if he had
anything in the other hand.
The gesture looked innocent enough, a father
hugging his son, but August knew it was anything but.
There was a body lying on a table behind them. He
could see the bindings on the feet. Beyond them was an
open window. The lace curtain was flapping gently in the
breeze.
A small voice came from behind the table, and a
naked man with fogged-up glasses crawled out on his
knees. "Please," he begged, "don't kill me."
"Who in the fuck are you?" August demanded.
"Darcy French. I… please…" He began to sob.
"Get over there in the corner and shut up," August
told him.
"Sorry, I forgot to take out the pet," Bruce Monkton
smirked.
"Get your hands up now, Monkton, and let him go,"
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August barked, the gun aimed at the man's forehead.
"Now, August," he said, tilting his head, "is that any
way to treat your father-in-law?"
"You're not my fucking father-in-law. Let Bruce go
and get your hands up."
"He's free to go," he said, lifting up his hands and
then instantly grabbing Bruce again. This time a knife with
a twelve-inch, stainless steel blade was poised at Bruce's
throat. "He can go to hell and so can you," he said softly,
pressing the blade to Bruce's throat.
"Don't hurt him," August said.
He shrugged. "What goes around comes around. Let
me go, and I'll give you back your precious fucked up boy."
"Shoot him!" Bruce cried out. "Shoot him, August!"
"Shut up, loser." The man pressed the knife harder,
drawing blood now. "Or I'll take your head off. What a high
that would be."
"Fucking shoot him!" Bruce cried out.
"Shoot me and I'll take off his head right here, right
now," he threatened.
"Never mind me. Kill him, kill the son of—"
The knife sliced through the flesh of Bruce's throat,
and August fired off a shot.
Bruce fell, clutching his throat, and Monkton turned
and jumped out the window.
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August went to Bruce. "Are you alright?"
Bruce nodded and got to his feet.
August looked down at the floor and saw the blood.
He had hit Monkton, but it must have only been a graze.
He'd been so afraid of hitting Bruce.
He spotted a towel on the counter and handed it to
Bruce. "Hold this to the wound." He grabbed his phone and
punched in 911. "Get an ambulance out here to forty-five
Lake Road and patch me into the local police station."
August checked the pulse on the Ludlow kid as he briefly
filled Joe in on what was happening.
"Thank God, he's alive." Bruce swallowed.
"Manchester police are twenty minutes away," Joe
said on the other end of the line. "Get that son of a bitch,
August."
Bruce was holding the towel to his throat now, but
he was standing. "I'll look after the kid," he said as August
tucked his phone back into his pocket then looked at Darcy
French. "And that creep. He won't be any trouble, will he?" [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]