Ruin

by Jette Harris

  "Karyn," Ginny said in a soft but commanding voice, "who did this?"

  The girl only cried harder and buried her face against her knees.

  The screams faded. The man on the table fell still. The people surrounding him removed their hands, relaxing only slightly. Thatch felt his phone vibrate against his thigh and cringed behind his mask. He always left his cell phone in his office while on shift. Always. He must have been distracted when he came in today.

  (Fuck, I need a Sabbatical.)

  He ignored the phone. “Ready?” he asked the woman sitting by the man’s head.

  A few seconds passed before the anesthesiologist replied, “Now, Doctor.”

  Thatch placed a finger over what had been the man’s ankle less than an hour ago. Now it resembled the scrap pile in a butcher shop. He could not find a pedal pulse. He side-stepped and slipped his finger under the knee, which was in far better condition. He felt a thready popliteal pulse.

  “Perfect,” he muttered. He drew his fingers over the man’s knee in a slicing motion. “We’ll go with a knee disarticulation,” he announced. “Let’s get this leg off.”

  ****

  As soon as the OR door was shut, Thatch tore off his PPE. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed he did not have any blood on his face. He hurried through SICU to his office, and shut the door behind him. He was not about to pull his phone out in front of anyone. It was unprofessional enough that he had it in the OR in the first place, where it continued to vibrate throughout the procedure.

  Thatch could not imagine who would need to get a hold of him so desperately. Nick was upstairs in the pediatric ward, and knew better than to attempt to reach him on his cell. It must have been a mistake, or a misguided telemarketer. Thatch’s throat constricted when he sat down and saw Flint Ranch on the screen.

  Ginny. Of course. There must have been an accident; That’s the only thing it could be…

  He used his office phone to call her back. “What’s wrong?”

  Ginny spoke in a low, hurried voice. Thatch could feel his blood pressure drop as he went pale. It slowly spiked again as anger billowed in his chest. He covered his mouth with a hand until Ginny paused.

  “Is she the only one?” he asked. “Did she say anything about others?”

  He nodded as Ginny replied with uncertainty. He checked the clock, then covered his eyes with a hand.

  “I’ll be there first thing in the morning, five or six.”

  The line went dead. Thatch did not move until it beeped at him. Clutching the handset, he rose it to slam it into the receiver, but stopped himself. He clenched his jaw and dumped it into the cradle.

  Thatch ran his hands over his hot face. He could not believe this was happening right under his nose. (I need a fucking Sabbatical. I need a fucking Sabbatical.) He had a little over a year until his next Sabbatical. With a deep breath, he shook his head. The possibilities of what could occur the next morning began to play through his head.

  When he finally walked out of his office, he was smiling.

  Jason walked the trail, lazily kicking aside rocks and branches. A cigarette hung from his mouth, but kept going out from the cold. He reached the far end of the enclosure and paused to re-light when the hairs rose on the back on his neck.

  Dr. Thaddeus Adams, owner of Flinch Ranch, sat on a picnic table. A rifle lay across his lap, and a coffee can sat by his side. Jason smiled, but his brow furrowed. He had a soft spot for the older man, although he could be so stupid, so blind. Adams was never there; He rarely visited the ranch, and never on a weekday.

  “I’ve always wondered why there was a picnic table here.” Jason lit his cigarette and picked up the coffee can. It was empty and rusting. There were at least five bullet holes through it in a tight grouping. “No one ever uses it for picnics, even when the temp isn’t in single digits.”

  Adams smiled up at him. “I’d love to show you.” He pointed to three posts standing in the ground between the table and the fence.

  Jason tossed the can from one hand to the other as he carried it to the posts. “And I always thought those were for horses.”

  Adams barked a laugh. “No, never.” He pulled the clip from his rifle, then popped it back in. “This table is the fifty-yard mark.”

  Jason flinched at the sounds the gun made. Standing in front of an armed man made him nervous, even if it was a man he trusted. He had seen Adams pick off a coyote running at full-speed once; He knew what the doctor was capable of.

  “We weren’t expecting you until after Christmas, Doc.”

  “I know,” Adams replied. “I wasn’t expecting this, either.” He raised the rifle to a tree and peered through the scope. He adjusted for the gentle breeze that rattled the empty branches. “Ginny called me.”

  “Doesn’t she call you all the time?” Jason laughed. “I mean, you are her boss.”

  “Oh, no, no.” Adams shook his head. “Ginny runs Flint Ranch. I own it. She only calls me when something goes wrong.” He turned the bolt and chambered a round. Jason jumped at the noise.

  “What… What’s wrong?”

  “I was hoping you would tell me.”

  Jason’s mouth went dry. He turned slowly and placed the coffee can on the post nearest him.

  “Not there,” Adams said.

  Snatching the can back up, Jason moved to the next post. “Here?” he asked, voice shrill with fear.

  “No, no, no!” Adams scolded. “Put it on your head!”

  “What?”

  “You heard me!” Adams raised his rifle.

  If Jason didn’t know any better, he would think it was aimed directly at him. He looked around, swallowing. The woods beyond the fence seemed very far away. With shaking hands, he raised the can to his head. When it slid, he dove to retrieve it.

  “Ginny says she found one of the pro bono girls crying in a closet yesterday,” Adams said. “Any idea what she was crying about?”

  Panic tore at Jason’s throat. Despite the cold, he began to sweat. How could he have been so stupid? He had warned Matt about getting so rough. He had seen the bruises on Karyn’s wrists; He should have said something to sweeten her up. “N–No…”

  The can flew from his head before the shot reverberated around them. He threw himself face-down into the dirt. “It was Matt! I barely touched Karyn!”

  “Again!” Adams yelled.

  A sob tore from Jason’s throat. He crawled on his belly to retrieve the can and held it in front of his chest as if it would protect him. Tears streamed down his face. He forced himself up to his knees. His legs shook so violently, it took him several attempts before he could stand.

  “I barely touched her,” he sobbed. “I… I barely touched her…”

  “Whom did you touch?” Adams demanded.

  Jason was shaking so hard, he couldn’t keep the can on his head for more than a few seconds.

  “Who?” Adams pulled back the bolt.

  “Joy…” he whimpered. Joy was eleven years old. The can slipped from his fingers. A lump formed in his throat, making it difficult to breathe. He sank down to retrieve it.

  “And?”

  Jason put the can back on his head, mouth-down, like a hat. “And–and–and…” He couldn’t get the name out. Adams chambered the round. “And Natalie!”

  Adams jerked the rifle down and stared at him in disbelief. Jason had never seen the man look so pale, or so angry.

  Natalie was only six years old.

  Jason raised his arms to grab the can, but before his fingers could touch the cold metal, he was thrown back against the post by a force like a hammer. The air was knocked out of him. His back burned just below his ribcage. Had he hit a nail? He twisted around. There wasn’t a nail, but the post was covered in blood.

  Looking down at his torso, he found cotton poking out of a hole in the right side of his jacket. Slowly, red crept up the fibers, saturating them. Blood seeped through in patches. He pressed his hands over the hole. With a groan, he sank to the groun
d.

  “These children come here to feel safe,” Adams yelled, “in a world where those closest to them have hurt them!”

  Adams left the rifle on the picnic table and stormed toward him. Jason attempted to drag himself away, but his limbs were weak and heavy. Adams pinned him with a boot over the exit wound. Jason screamed. He felt as if there were fire slithering around in his gut.

  “Safe from men like you… and me.”

  “What?” Jason tried to push the boot away, but the pain from the movement was crippling. Adams didn’t reply, but unbuckled his belt. “No! Help me! Help!”

  Adams knelt and forced Jason’s pants down. Jason pushed at his hands weakly. When that failed, he attempted once more to drag himself away. Adams dug his knee in the back of Jason’s leg. Jason’s screams faded into sobs.

  “I’m sorry,” he whimpered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t cause the bruises, Matt did. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I didn’t.”

  “Oh, but I do.”

  Jason’s words pitched into a scream as Adams tore into him. As the reality of the situation sank in, he became paralyzed. Dr. Adams was raping him! Adams, who never showed any sexual interest in anyone. Adams, who was a fool for horses. Adams, who had put so much time and money into this charity that was the perfect picking ground for easy—albeit young—pussy. Adams had always seemed so weak and homely, yet he pinned Jason effortlessly with a hand on the back of his neck. There was a line of fire, burning pain, from where Adams thrust into him to where he had shot him.

  The pain below faded, but the pain in his belly only grew. It spread like lava. Jason’s tears mixed with the dirt, streaking his face with mud. He flushed as Adams paused and grunted.

  “I’m sorry,” Jason whimpered. “I’m sorry. Please… call an ambulance. Please… it hurts so much…”

  “That’s because…” Adams tugged at Jason’s briefs to wipe the shit from his cock, “the bile from your liver is leaking out and eating away at your internal organs. You have about fifteen more minutes.”

  “I’m dying? You would let me die?”

  “After harming a child?” Adams pulled up his pants and secured his belt. “You betcha.”

  Jason wailed, clutching the burning hole in his belly. Thatch stood there, waiting to watch him die. But Jason turned his head and his eyes shot wide. “Help! Help me! He’s gone crazy!”

  Adams spun. Ginny dismounted her horse and looped the reins around the board of the table. She slid the rifle off. Adams frowned. He stood perfectly still. She paused by his side, looking Jason over with an inscrutable expression.

  “Please… Please… help me. I didn’t hurt anyone.”

  “Matt is in the stables,” Ginny said in a low voice, “shining saddles.”

  Adams nodded and headed back. Ginny stood by Jason’s side and stared down at him.

  “Oh, thank God. Please, please, call me an ambulance.”

  Ginny tilted her head. She turned the bolt in the rifle, chambering another round.

  “No! No, I didn’t hurt them!” He pressed his hands over his face. “They wanted it! They told me they liked it!”

  “They were lying,” Ginny said. She pulled the trigger.

  “Hey, boss,” Matt said when he glanced up from the saddle rack. “We didn’t expect to see you until the new year!”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint,” Thatch said.

  “Not at all, Doc.” Matt glanced over the saddle he was polishing. The job was patchy and uneven. Despite an unerring enthusiasm for everything he did, the results were sloppy and haphazard. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  “To whom, you mean.”

  “Huh? To who?”

  “To whom.”

  Matt chuckled. Wiggling his hands, he said mockingly, “To whom, then?”

  Thatch took the saddle from the rack and placed it farther away. Matt furrowed his brow with a confused smile.

  “To Karyn,” Thatch answered, turning back. Matt’s smile disappeared. “And Joy… and Natalie.”

  “I never touched Natalie,” Matt said in a small voice.

  “No, it takes a special kind of fucked-up to touch such a small child.”

  Matt blanched. He nodded deeply.

  “But a well-developed thirteen-year-old…”

  “It was Jason!”

  Thatch barked a laugh. “You know, he said the exact same thing about you.”

  Matt stepped back with his hands raised. He checked the distance to each door. “Doc–Doctor Adams, please believe me, it was a one-time thing. I made a mistake.”

  Thatch tilted his head. “And Joy?”

  Matt shot toward the back door. Thatch caught him before he could reach the open air and knocked him to the floor. Grabbing the boy’s hair, he slammed the back of his head against the floor.

  “No! Help!” Matt raised his hands to shield his face.

  Thatch pulled them down and pinned them to his chest. He punched the boy as hard as he could until he stopped struggling to pull his hands free. Thatch proceeded with both hands until blood obscured Matt’s features and the body underneath him stopped writhing.

  Thatch panted, catching his breath, then stood. He grabbed a stiff rope and pulled out the stable’s Clydesdale. Bucky towered over Thatch’s six-foot frame. The man moved around him, murmuring to him like an old friend as he secured his saddle. Thatch cringed, but he was intentionally sloppy with the job, just as Matt would have been.

  Matt lurched, sputtering blood. He flopped his arms, attempting to roll over. Thatch looped the reins around a post. Sitting on the boy’s chest, he turned his head from side-to-side. His skull was crushed in several places. No wonder the boy could not move.

  “I know this is going to be uncomfortable,” Thatch said, winding the rope around Matt’s arm, “but there’s nothing else to be done.” He stood and secured the other end of the rope to the saddle. “But trust me,” he assured Bucky, taking the horse’s face in his hands, “he deserves it.”

  Thatch kissed Bucky’s nose and walked him to the door. He clicked his tongue loudly. Bucky took off with surprising speed for his size. The rope pulled taut, and the body flew out of the barn, leaving a trail of blood. Bucky and Matt disappeared over a hill. High-pitched screams followed them.

  “Well,” Thatch chuckled, “he wasn’t brain-dead after all!”

  A smile played on his lips as the screams faded. He felt calmer than he had for several months. He inspected a few lesions on his knuckles. At home, he could explain them away with a punching bag. Here, he might be able to get away by wearing gloves. It was, after all, only eight degrees and threatening to snow.

  The dapple on his right snorted. Thatch glanced to ensure she was OK, then jerked his head back up. A girl stood by the horse, her arm up, hugging its throat.

  “Karyn…” Thatch breathed. He swung his head around, searching for other witnesses, but only horses gazed at him. Horses and Karyn.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, sounding more shy than scared. She stroked the horse’s nose, then stepped out of the stall. Her boots and jeans were appropriate for the weather, but her puffy winter jacket was half-zipped, revealing a low-cut shirt struggling to contain her well-developed bosom.

  Thatch’s throat tightened. His hands shook. He had never hesitated to kill a witness, but this was a child. Despite her womanly curves, still a child.

  “What… what are you doing here?” he asked. “Did Matt know you were here?”

  She shook her head and dropped her eyes. She tugged at the seam of her jeans. “I come here sometimes,” she said in a small voice, “to get away. Wh–When Matt caught me, he threatened to tell you. He said you would cut me from the program.”

  (Children are so easily manipulated.) “No,” Thatch said, “that would never happen. You don’t have to worry about Matt anymore.”

  Karyn sniffled. She eyed the pool of blood on the floor and the trail Bucky had left behind. Thatch took a deep breath. He stepped toward her and placed a hand under her chin
. He spoke calmly and evenly.

  “Listen, Karyn… it’s very important no one ever learns of what happened here. I murdered that boy. No matter what he did, I would go to jail for a very long time; You would be your mother’s age by the time I get out.”

  Karyn met his eyes and nodded.

  “You have to say,” Thatch continued, “that I confronted him—just as I did, exact same words—and when I went to call the police, he stole Bucky and ran. Can you do that for me?”

  She nodded again. “I didn’t mean to make any trouble, but Ginny said there would be other girls, and I’m the oldest one in the program…” Her eyes filled with tears.

  “Oh…” He hated it when they cried. Putting an arm around her shoulder, he steered her to a bench. “Look at me, Karyn…”

  She met his eyes, then lowered her head until her hair hid her face. Her shoulders shook. “You have no idea what it’s like.”

  “Yes, I do,” he said in a low voice. He brushed back her hair, revealing several round burn scars marring the skin along her neck and shoulder, leading under her shirt. She shrugged away, turning to him with hard, skeptical eyes.

  “How?”

  “Look.” Holding up his hand, he held out his fingers. His middle finger would not straighten as much as the others. Her mouth opened slightly. Tears began to stream down her face. Thatch wrapped his arms around her and pulled her head against his chest. “I want you to know,” he whispered the words he had once desperately needed to hear, “that none of this is your fault. You didn’t want it. You didn’t ask for it—or mean it, if you did. Even if—” He choked on his words. “—even if you enjoyed the attention, or if it felt good, those things are still not–your–fault.”

  When her shoulders stopped shaking and her sobs subsided, Karyn rested her head on his shoulder. “Dr. Adams, did you know Jason was doing it too? He was… I think he got Matt into it.”

  “I’ve already taken care of Jason.”

  He was surprised when she smiled. “What did you do to him?”

  “Don’t concern yourself with that.”