by Erik Carter
Mira’s arms quivered at her side until she’d finished screaming.
Ahhhhhhhh!
It was piercing. It echoed off the walls.
“You said that bitch’s name! I can’t believe you said her name! Don’t you realize that I love you, you goddamn fool? I loved him, too. Clyde. I killed his whores, and I killed the son of a bitch himself. And now I’m gonna kill you.”
She raised the knife over her head, both hands on the handle, and approached the mattress.
And then there was a deafening roar.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Mira stumbled back, grabbing her stomach. There was a massive, bloody wound. She dropped the knife. Her back smashed into the cave wall.
It had been a gunshot. Horribly loud, sending another jolt of discomfort through Dale’s battered body. His ears rang.
Four people entered the cave, guns drawn. At the front was Alberta Ventress. Her Smith & Wesson Model 29 had a plume of smoke coming from the end of its long barrel. Behind her were three men—Taft, Nash, and the sharply-dressed black man Dale had seen at the Arlington.
Taft made eye contact with Dale. A look of concern flushed over him, and he dashed over to the mattress, bent over next to Dale.
Ventress kept her gun leveled on Mira, cautiously approaching her. The black man, though, threw caution to the wind. He holstered his gun—a Walther PPK—and dashed over to Mira, dropping down beside her as Taft had done with Dale.
Dale craned his neck around Taft—who was gingerly examining Dale’s wounds and asking him something about how he felt—to see what was happening.
The black man had his hand on Mira’s shoulder. There was a streak of bright red blood on the man’s expensive suit. Mira twisted violently.
Taft’s voice.
“Conley? Conley, buddy, can you hear me?”
Dale turned to him. Nodded.
Allie stood behind him.
Dale and Allie were on a beach. Tybee Island, Georgia. It was the first trip they took together, a test of their relationship.
Downtown D.C. Connor’s Deli. Best chicken salad ever. The kind of place only locals know. Allie plucked the grape slices out of hers. Dale questioned her on this. He didn’t get it. Who the hell doesn’t like grapes?
The boardwalk. In Maine. They were walking again. Dale had bought her the beach glass bracelet. She was ecstatic. On his arm. Thanking him. Kissing his cheek.
Dale saw movement. Turned. The black man was tending to Mira. He must have had first aid training. Ventress stood behind them, looking down, watching.
Mira twitched. Screamed.
Clearly dying.
This made Dale’s eyes moisten.
She’d cut him up. She’d poisoned him. She’d tried to kill him. She’d murdered four people. But she and Dale had been bonded. Even if his judgment had been impaired by the poison, they’d joined physically. And they’d survived together, hiding in this cave from forces in the outside world. He’d tended to her injuries. They’d shared their stories.
And even though she had been a monster in the truest sense, Dale knew that had her life’s hand of cards been only the tiniest bit better, she might have ended up in a completely different and more peaceful situation. Even with the killer lurking in her brain. Dale was a believer in listening to people, in believing in them. That’s why he hadn’t rejected Nash the moment he found the guy’s dark secrets, hadn’t cast him aside like the rest of the world had.
At the thought of Nash, Dale looked away from Mira.
Nash.
He needed to find Nash.
He scanned the cave. And found him.
He stood a few feet away. Looking down. Leering. Watching with awe at the last violent moment’s of Mira Lyndon’s life.
He looked frightening.
Chapter Sixty-Four
This was it. It was finally happening.
Nash was finally getting to watch a sexy, young woman twisting in agony. Only moments away. Moments away from her end.
A breath shuddered out of his mouth, and he felt his eyes roll back slightly in his head. A wave of cool sweat. Lightheadedness. His fingers tingled. His crotch bulged.
But he couldn’t deny that there was part of him resisting it, questioning the appeal, wondering if the fantasy was best left a fantasy…
Mira Lyndon’s cries were high-pitched, and they echoed harshly off the hard, stone walls, piercingly loud, so loud that they hurt his eardrums, each yelp digging into him like a sensuous dagger.
Those screams were intermingled with moans, and little whimpers, some tears. It was delightful, delicious, the—
There was a voice behind him. A faint voice.
“Nash.”
He turned.
It was Dale. On the bed. Taft was crouched beside him, examining the shackles on his hands, trying to get him out.
Dale looked weak. Not terribly far from death himself. His eyes were barely cracked open, but he had them focused right on Nash.
“No,” Dale said, small and hoarse.
Nash didn’t have to ask Dale for clarification. He knew exactly what Dale meant.
Nash glanced back at Mira Lyndon—getting a quick view of her twitching—and then looked back to Dale again.
“She’s dying, Dale.”
“Yeah, she is, pal. Don’t watch.”
Nash couldn’t believe it. This was his moment. Finally. Something that was supposed to be his reward for waiting so very long. And yet he could sense the beginning of an argument, something to spoil his moment.
“I didn’t do it,” Nash said. “There’s no harm in me watching.”
He looked back to Mira Lyndon. There must’ve been a fresh wave of pain for the girl because now she wasn’t just twitching—now her torso was writhing back-and-forth, almost hopping, little convulsions of agony. And it made Nash—
“Nash!”
He turned to Dale again.
“Don’t,” Dale said.
“I didn’t do anything wrong!” Nash shouted. He wasn’t going to let Dale ruin this for him. “I didn’t kill her! It’s not illegal to watch someone die.”
As he looked at him, Nash saw Dale gather a bit of strength. He got up on an elbow, put his hand on Taft and leaned around him, getting a bit closer to Nash, looking Nash in the eyes. “It’s not the law we’re talking about, Nash. It’s your soul!”
Nash could hear Mira Lyndon’s screams behind him, and he hated Dale then for pulling him away from them. It was like being dragged from your final symphony, your masterpiece, just as you were composing it.
“You’re chained to a wall in a cave, half-dead, and you’re still trying to be a hero, still trying to run my life.”
It was true. That was exactly what Dale was being. A half-dead hero.
Someone like Dale would never quit. And someone like Nash knew that someone like Dale was right.
Nash should have listened to Dale all along. He realized this.
And there had been that voice in his head telling him it wasn’t right. His voice, not Dale’s, saying he shouldn’t enjoy the woman’s death.
But then there was a fresh round of screams.
Nash’s head started to turn to her again, denying the moralistic voice inside him, and—
“Nash!”
He quickly turned back to Dale.
“Listen to me, Nash,” he said earnestly. “I don’t know much about spiritual matters—and maybe it’s the arsenic talking—but I do know that if you watch that woman die for enjoyment, you’ll no longer be a sick person trying desperately to get well. You will truly be a monster. Leave the cave, Nash. Go.”
Nash didn’t respond. He stared at Dale.
His eyes flicked to Mira Lyndon.
Twisting on the floor.
Moaning in agony.
Fulton and Ventress tending to her.
He looked back to Dale.
Took a breath.
And nodded.
He turned and stepped to the mouth of the ca
ve. Behind him, he could hear the woman’s torment, but as he walked, her screams grew fainter and the sound of the rain grew louder.
He stepped outside. The pouring rain instantly drenched him again, and he felt cold.
There were just the smallest hints of Mira Lyndon’s screams behind him. But mostly he heard the pounding of the rain in the trees.
He looked up into the dark sky, squinted his eyes against the raindrops. So many and falling so hard that it almost hurt his face. But it also tickled.
He smiled. And laughed.
It rushed over him. The rain. Freezing cold. So cold that it made him laugh louder.
The noise was loud, pounding through the trees, but if he concentrated, he could still hear the sound of individual raindrops hitting individual leaves, even over the howling wind, the shaking branches.
It was a peaceful sound.
And he realized that, for several moments, he’d heard nothing from the cave.
No pain. Nothing dark.
He'd only heard the raindrops. Over everything else. Those laughably peaceful raindrops.
And then there was a sound from the cave. Fulton’s voice.
“She’s gone.”
Chapter Sixty-Five
Several days later.
Dale and Nash were at the Alistaire. They both wore fluffy, white robes, and they were in a tiled hallway lined with ferns. The air was moist. Nash walked beside Dale, who was in a wheelchair. Behind Dale was Camila, pushing his chair.
“Now, I’m making an exception for you,” Camila said, “so don’t get me in trouble. Keep those bandages away from the water.”
Dale twisted his head back, looked straight up at her from below. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Camila leaned closer, glanced over at Nash, and then whispered to Dale, “You’re an adorable patient, by the way.”
Nash shook his head.
He’d heard.
A few minutes later.
Dale was really enjoying the feeling of the hot water on his left calf. He could definitely understand what all the hullabaloo was about. He only wished he could get all the way in like Nash, who was submerged to his neck, a couple feet away from him.
Most of Dale’s right side was covered in white bandages that peeked out from under the robe he had draped over himself as he sat at the edge of the pool. This was part of his bargain with Camila, allowing him to enjoy a limited experience with the world-famous water. She didn’t want customers seeing his wounds. They were pretty gross, even covered.
“Sadler’s going to take the plea bargain,” Nash said. “He and the DA’s office never really got along, apparently. They’ll lessen the sentence if he confesses. Obstructing justice, falsifying evidence, a whole slew of other charges.”
“Even if his sentence is shortened, he’s gonna meet up in prison with guys he put away,” Dale said. “He’s not gonna have it easy.”
Nash nodded his agreement. “And just maybe he’ll end up getting it the way he and Clyde Bowen gave it to all those women at the cave.”
Dale looked out over the spa. He and Nash had the place mostly to themselves, only a couple other people in the far pool. Distant splashing.
The echoey sounds reminded Dale of the cave.
“No matter what happens to him,” Dale said. "I know he’s not gonna end up fractured like Mira.”
"Is that what you want to happen?”
“No. Not at all,” Dale said. “What I want is for people like you and Mira to never get fractured in the first place, to instead get the help they need.”
Dale thought about Mira. He was going to be haunted by her. Not just their experiences together. Not just the torture. Not just her unrelenting sexiness, a sexiness that still aroused him, the thought of it, even after the unspeakable things she’d done to him.
But rather the potential. There was a potential in her that Dale could see from the moment they met. There was something more genuine in the depths of this serial killer than he’d seen in many—hell, most—“normal” people he’d met in his life. Mira Lyndon had been dealt a bad hand. Had she gotten an ace or two … who knows what she could have been.
And that’s how Dale thought about Nash as well. Most people, once they learned his secret, looked at Nash and saw the monster. But Dale saw the same man he’d known before. Another person holding a shitty hand of cards. Dale had tried to slide Nash a few aces before they parted ways in Chicago, and Nash had refused. But he was hoping that he would accept this time.
“Say, Nash. The BEI will be more than willing to offer you another head-start on life. I hope you’ll take it.”
Nash turned to him. “I think I will. And I’m going to get help, too. Real help this time. I’ll find the right shrink. Someone like you. Someone who’ll really listen. I apologize for rejecting your help the first time. That was … prideful of me. I shouldn’t have doubted your intentions. And I’m sorry.”
Dale gave him a smile.
“Water under the bridge, buddy,” he said and splashed the steamy surface in front of them with his foot. “All is forgiven.”
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Also by Erik Carter
Dale Conley Action Thrillers Series
Stone Groove
Dream On
The Lowdown
Get Real
Talkin’ Jive
Be Still
—
Box Set: Books 1-3
Box Set: Books 4-6
Barnaby Wilcox Mystery Series
(Coming Soon)
The Clements Kettle
The Preston Emerald
—
Box Set: Books 1&2
Get Real Acknowledgments
For their involvement with Get Real, I would like to give a sincere thank you to:
My ARC readers, for providing reviews and catching typos. Thanks!
Dad, for fielding an exorbitant amount of police, legal, firearms, and 1970s questions.
April Snellings, for “April Magic” line-editing on Chapter 1.
Ferdinand, for sleep paralysis information and perspective.
Mom, for some more insight into those crazy ’70s.
My friends and family, for the support.
Talkin’ Jive Acknowledgments
For their involvement with Talkin’ Jive, I would like to give a sincere thank you to:
My ARC readers, for providing reviews and catching typos. Thanks!
April Snellings, for editorial polish on the first few chapters.
April and Jami, for introducing me to John Hendrix, the historical element of this Dale tale.
Mom, for some more ’70s female fashion info.
Dad, for some technical assistance.
My friends and family, for the support.
Be Still Acknowledgments
For their involvement with Be Still, I would like to give a sincere thank you to:
My ARC readers, for providing reviews and catching typos. Thanks!
Aunt Amy, for fielding medical questions and going above and beyond to get me the answers I needed.
My friends and family, for the support.