On the other side of the wall Hendricks racked the slide on his shotgun.
‘Don’t call me that—’
‘Okay, okay,’ Evan said, not at all happy with the reaction he’d provoked. ‘Get on with your story. Adamson turned up and you gave him a room.’
Hendricks didn’t say anything for a minute. Evan reckoned the immediate danger of being shot had passed.
‘I thought he’d learned his lesson,’ Hendricks said after a while. ‘He’d had a really rough time in prison and I thought that was the end of it.’
‘But it wasn’t?’
‘No. I had a few beers after work that day and when I came home I found him here with the kid. I couldn’t believe it. Less than a week since he’d got out of prison. Stupid bastard.’
There was the sound of another kick.
‘How did he do it?’
‘I had an old campervan at the time, just sitting in the barn going rusty. He didn’t have a car so I let him use it. He picked the kid up as he walked home from school. Bundled him into the back and that was it.’
‘And you told the police you never saw the boy leave the school campus to throw them off the scent.’
‘Something like that. I didn’t see him leave that day, as it happens.’
‘Convenient you remembered that. Helped ensure they spent the whole time chasing their tails.’
‘The police don’t need any help doing that.’
‘Why did you protect him? Why didn’t you turn him in?’
‘Like I told you, I owed him. I couldn’t do that to him.’
Evan could think of a more persuasive reason.
‘Nobody would have believed you weren’t involved, would they? Not with your record.’
‘No, they wouldn’t, the sanctimonious bastards.’
He was working himself up into a frenzy at the injustice of it all.
‘I hate this shitty country sometimes. They all talk about rehabilitation. What a crock of shit. You only ever get one chance and then your card’s marked forever. I fought for this country and look what I got in return. Bastards.’
‘You’d have gotten another chance if you’d turned him in. Proof that you were a reformed man.’
‘I wish I had now.’
‘Now that you’ve killed him anyway, you mean.’
‘He’s not dead, not yet anyway.’
The casual matter-of-fact way he said it chilled Evan’s blood. The guy was insane. On the one hand, he was deeply hurt by society’s prejudices and the injustices he’d suffered at the hands of the penal system—and on the other, he’d buried two people alive. Now he was about to add two more.
‘What happened after you found them here?’
‘We couldn’t let the boy go so we kept him down here. Fed him and looked after him properly.’
‘And sexually assaulted him. Once, twice a day? Was that part of looking after him properly?’
‘That was Adamson. I didn’t have anything to do with that. The guy’s got a problem. He’d stick his johnson in a bucket of worms if they were wriggling nicely.’
‘But you didn’t try to stop it.’
Hendricks snorted.
‘You obviously don’t know Jack Adamson. You don’t get in his way when he’s like that. Not if you’ve got any sense.’
‘Right. So there you were, all living happily together, some more happily than others, until . . . what? Until his father turns up on your doorstep?’
‘That was Adamson’s fault as well.’
‘It would be. You are so misunderstood.’
Hendricks ignored the jibe.
‘He panicked. The boy’s father was going around to everyone asking if they’d seen the boy. He didn’t suspect us, we were just one of the houses on his list.’
‘What did he do?’
‘Beat him half to death. Adamson’s answer to most of life’s little problems. He’s not the sharpest tool in the box.’
‘He sure sounds like an all-round nice guy.’
‘That’s good, because the two of you are going to be spending a long time together.’
‘Why this?’
Evan waved his arm to include the awful scene in front of him, even though Hendricks couldn’t see him. He was sure Hendricks knew what he was talking about.
‘It seemed like a good idea at the time. Easier than killing and burying them and risk some animal digging up the remains.’
Evan was appalled at the casual way he weighed up a welcome saving of effort on their part against the lingering deaths of Robbie and Daniel Clayton, and came out on the side of the labor-saving option. Not to mention the fact that he now proposed to bury two more people alive in the interests of tidying up the loose ends.
‘Anyway, I can’t sit here shooting the breeze with you all day. It’s time to move your new best friend in.’
Chapter 43
HENDRICKS DRAGGED ADAMSON’S INERT body across the floor towards the hole. Evan tightened his grip on the bricks, the edges sharp in his palm. He heard a barely audible shit escape from Hendricks, followed closely by a low moan.
Adamson was coming around.
It was his one and only chance. If Hendricks was dragging Adamson it was likely he had his back to the opening. Ignoring the pain in his ankle, he hobbled quickly up the steps and looked out. Sure enough, Hendricks had his back to him, leaning over the supine form of Adamson. It was the first time Evan had seen Adamson. He was tall and sinewy and on the back of his head his ginger buzz cut was caked with dried blood. It seemed to be Hendricks’ trademark.
Adamson’s legs twitched and he let out another low moan. Hendricks picked the shotgun up again and prepared to send his so-called friend back into oblivion. He lifted it up and brought the butt down with a wet, fleshy thud onto the back of Adamson’s head.
Hendricks straightened up again just as Evan drew back his arm. He hurled the bricks at the back of Hendricks’ head, putting everything he had into it. Hendricks heard the movement behind him. He turned his head and met the flying bricks full-on. He staggered as they caught him solidly on the cheekbone splitting the skin open.
Evan didn’t wait to admire his throw or even see if it connected. Hendricks’ shocked gasp of pain was all he needed to hear. He vaulted onto the jagged bottom edge of the hole, steadied himself momentarily and launched himself through the air at Hendricks’ back. One hundred and ninety-eight pounds of enraged muscle and bone slammed into Hendricks, the impact sending the shotgun flying from his hands as they both crashed to the floor in a wild tangle of thrashing limbs.
He grabbed a handful of Hendricks’ hair, pulled his head back and slammed his face into the floor. He got a good grip with his other hand and ground Hendricks’ face into the dirt. Hendricks cried out and bucked and twisted under Evan, flipping them both over, Evan ending up on his back with Hendricks on top of him.
He lost his grip on Hendricks’ hair as Hendricks jerked his head forward sharply then powered it backwards again smashing into Evan’s nose and mouth. With the back of his head planted firmly on the floor Evan’s face absorbed the whole force of the impact. Pain exploded, filling his whole head with a searing white light as his nose shattered for the second time in under a week. His top lip burst open against his teeth, the metallic, coppery taste of blood in his mouth. He whipped his head to the side, chose the wrong direction. Hendricks’s second butt caught him on his chewed ear as if it was laser-guided.
Evan reached around, jabbed his gritty thumb into Hendricks’ eye, before he could do it a third time. Hendricks howled with pain as Evan dug in deeper feeling the eyeball slip under his thumb. He felt the skin in the corner of Hendricks’ eye tear and hooked his thumb viciously to rip it open. Hendricks rammed his elbow backwards into Evan’s ribs again and again. Evan grunted in pain as something cracked. His thumb slipped out of Hendricks’ eye, his nail raking the torn flesh.
Hendricks rolled off him onto the floor. He lay on his belly, panting like a demented hound. Blood trickle
d from his eye, mixing with the dirt and grime that covered his face. Snot ran from his nose and thick drools of saliva dripped from his lips and ran down his chin. He let out an inhuman scream as he pushed himself up, shaking his head violently. Drops of blood and snot and saliva flew everywhere. His good eye glared murderously at Evan.
Out of the corner of his eye Evan saw the bricks he’d thrown a few feet away. He rolled over, stretching to reach, then lunged at them, his cracked ribs shrieking in protest. Hendricks saw what he was after and grabbed hold of his shirt, tried to pull him back. Evan’s nails clawed uselessly at the bricks. Hendricks hauled on Evan’s shirt pulling himself up onto him and brought his elbow down into the middle of Evan’s back. Evan grunted as the air erupted out of his lungs and Hendricks climbed further onto him.
Adamson’s leg was only a foot away. Evan grabbed it with both hands and heaved, pulling himself forward an inch. He threw his arm out, got his fingers around the bricks. Hendricks lunged, clamped his hand round Evan’s wrist. Evan smelled the rancid odor coming from his armpit inches from his face. Twisting his head to the side, he sank his teeth into Hendricks’ arm, bit down as hard and deep as he could. Hendricks screamed, let go of Evan’s wrist. Evan bit down harder, shaking his head madly like a demented dog worrying a juicy bone.
He couldn’t breathe, not with his mouth full of Hendricks’ flesh, his broken nose full of blood and mucus. He held on as long as he could, then released his bite hold just as Hendricks jerked his arm savagely away. The sudden release sent him sprawling backwards off Evan onto his back. In one fluid motion Evan rolled over and brought his arm round in a wide arc. It should have smashed the heavy chunk of brickwork into the middle of Hendricks’ face, but Hendricks turned his head to the side at the last second, the bricks barely grazing his head as they pounded into the floor.
Hendricks rolled away. He scrambled onto his knees, dived for the discarded tool belt. He grabbed a chisel and turned as Evan slammed into him knocking him flat onto his back. The chisel flew out of his hand. Lying on top of him, Evan pushed himself up until he was sitting astride him. Hendricks scrabbled desperately to get a grip on the chisel again as Evan raised the bricks to smash them into his face.
Hendricks caught hold of the chisel, slashed wildly with it. The razor-sharp blade sliced through Evan’s forearm opening the flesh like a ripe melon splitting. The bricks spilled out of his hand as a stinging, red hot pain seared through his arm. He grabbed hold of Hendricks wrist with one hand, seized the fingers gripping the chisel with the other. Hendricks tightened his grip but Evan worked his fingers under Hendricks’ little finger and bent it back sharply, snapping it cleanly at the first knuckle.
Hendricks howled and dropped the chisel. Evan grabbed the bricks, raised them above his head with both hands ready to drive them through the middle of Hendricks’ face.
‘No, please,’ Hendricks whispered, unmistakeable, absolute terror in the eye Evan hadn’t ravaged.
A desolate, strangled cry escaped Evan’s bloody lips. He imagined Robbie Clayton’s utter despair as he tried to comfort his son, to tell him that everything was going to be okay—they’d soon be out of here and home again, laughing together in the bright sunlight. Imagined him holding the boy’s head against his chest, stroking his hair and running his hand down the back of his head, feeling the delicacy of his small neck in his hand, and thinking thoughts that no father should ever have to think. How long did he ignore the foul thing that now lived and grew in his mind? How long before he finally accepted what he’d known all along he’d have to do? How long before the boy’s pitiful crying became too much to bear, and he told himself it was kinder this way, he’d do it for an old dog that couldn’t walk any longer, for Christ’s sake, so why not his son? Evan saw him sitting where he still sat now after all these years, hot, stinging tears streaming soundlessly down his face as he held the boy’s neck for the last time and tensed. Did his son feel him tense, feel something change in the way his father’s gentle fingers touched his skin? Did he perhaps try to look up into his face? Stretch out a hand and touch the rough stubble on his chin? Feel the wetness on his father’s cheek? Thank God for the merciful darkness that meant he didn’t have to see Daniel’s eyes searching his own. And thank that same heartless God for sweet, ever-loving nothing as he closed his eyes, his jaw tightening, self-loathing washing down through his intestines and up through his throat as he gave a sudden, sharp twist of his hands and snapped his son’s neck like a dry twig. Evan heard the howl of anguish that climbed out of his mouth, like it had waited his whole life to do so, as he felt his son’s dying body twitch, his legs spasm and kick weakly against his own, felt an indecent wetness seep into his lap as he soiled himself. And Evan prayed with him to a merciless, nameless deity that had entered the world aeons before men’s flawed notions of a loving God, to take him now and still his tortured mind. All this Evan saw and felt and heard in that single heart-sickening moment between the ple— and the —ease of Hendricks’ shameful cry for mercy. He let out an inhuman shriek and drove the bricks down with all his might. Five long years of his own pain and anger and anguish melded with Linda Clayton’s lifetime of despair and her dead husband’s living hell, combining to power his fists all but clean through Carl Hendricks’ toxic flesh and bone.
There was a dreadful, sickening, but oh-so-satisfying crunch as Hendricks’ nose and cheekbone shattered. He felt teeth break under the impact, felt the jaw dislocate, twisting obscenely, breathed in the foul odor as Hendricks’ body sought to expel its own viscera. He drew in a monstrous breath, his chest flooding with righteous rage, calling on reserves of strength that came from who knows where deep within his core, and brought his arms up, his blood dripping onto the remains of Hendricks’ face, to deliver a second crushing blow—
But it was all over.
Hendricks lay still underneath him, his face an unspeakable bloody pulp, a dreadful keening sound escaping from between his broken teeth.
Chapter 44
EVAN THREW THE BRICKS at the wall. They hit the locked door he’d tried earlier and bounced off again, landing close to Hendricks. It wasn’t a problem, Hendricks couldn’t have picked them up if his life depended on it. He climbed shakily to his feet, his head spinning, legs barely able to hold him. His ankle gave way with a sharp stab of pain and he dropped onto his knees with a heavy thump. Bright red blood poured eagerly from the deep cut on his arm, staining the dirt floor. He crawled to where the shotgun lay, dragged it with him over to the wall, then sat with his back against the wall to recover, the gun across his lap.
It had taken less than a minute but he couldn’t have told you what happened. His mind was a blank. The last thing he recalled was being in the cell. He looked at Hendricks and was appalled at what he’d done. If Hendricks hadn’t been such a murdering sack of shit, he might have thought he’d gone too far.
He rested his head against the wall, his mouth hanging open, his breathing heavy and labored. The adrenaline comedown hit him like a freight train on speed. His hands shook as a tide of nausea rapidly overcame him. His head ached terribly. He was acutely aware of his injuries as the adrenaline leached away. The deep gash on his arm refused to stop bleeding, his broken ankle equally demanding of his attention.
He closed his eyes, focussed on a quiet place outside of himself, let the pain filter through him unhindered. He forced his lungs to breathe slowly and deeply until he felt a little better, the nausea gradually subsiding, receding into the background. His legs still didn’t feel as if they would support him so he sat a while longer, listening to Hendricks’ wheezy breathing as it bubbled wetly through his bloody lips. Adamson hadn’t made a sound and Evan wondered if Hendricks had killed him with his second savage blow.
He opened his eyes, stared straight ahead. He’d made quite a dent in the locked door on the opposite wall when he hurled the bricks away. And now that the lights were on, he saw the key hanging on a nail hammered into the door frame. He stared at that door for a very long
time, tried to push away the uninvited thoughts that crowded into his mind, thoughts that made the events of the past minutes pale into insignificance.
He made another attempt at getting up. It was too easy this time, the horrors that gathered apace inside him lending a new-found, unwelcome strength to his limbs, pushing the blood through his veins at breakneck speed, the oxygen infusing his muscles, all aches and pains long since forgotten as the adrenalin claimed him for its own once more.
He stood over Hendricks, the shotgun a makeshift crutch, felt nothing apart from a detached loathing, not even the grim satisfaction of minutes earlier.
‘What’s in that room?’
Hendricks rolled his head from side to side, his good eye wild with terror at Evan’s words—words that might be the last he ever heard. A faint, sibilant no, no, no, no, no slipped between his lips in a sac of pink drool.
Evan couldn’t wait a moment longer. He hobbled away to stand before the door. He tried to clear his mind, drive away the toxic thoughts that whispered their filthy lies to him. He snatched the key off the nail. Jammed it in the lock. Turned it. There was a smooth well-oiled click. He dropped his hand, his head, his will to live.
Hendricks moaned behind him, the sound galvanizing him. He took hold of the smooth, dust-free handle of a door that was used on a regular basis. He turned it sharply and threw the door wide open.
Sarah’s face filled his tortured mind, a million jumbled images of what he so desperately wanted to see assaulting his battered sensibilities.
The room was empty.
His shoulders slumped, his breath started up again. He didn’t know whether to laugh or scream or cry. Thank God there wasn’t another vile vignette to match the one in the adjacent cell—one far more personal to him. And what else had he hoped he might find?
Unlike its neighbor, this one had no steps down, but it had a light, as if the unfortunate guests were at least offered a choice of different facilities. He flicked it on and shuffled into the middle of the small room. There was nothing, not even a metal bed frame. He turned in a slow circle. No, that wasn’t true—something in the far corner caught his eye. A flicker of silver, half buried in the loose dirt floor. He picked it up and dusted it off, turned it over in his hand, the metal smooth to the touch. He read the first line:
The Evan Buckley Thrillers: Books 1 - 4 (Evan Buckley Thrillers Boxsets) Page 23