Fire in Bone: A Jake Pettman Thriller

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Fire in Bone: A Jake Pettman Thriller Page 10

by Wes Markin


  He shrugged off his backpack and leaned against the edge of the ditch, which drew level with his shoulders. The conversation between Bobby and Henry, with Mason on the fringes, continued for quite some time. On occasion, his friends worked really hard to get him to contribute. This saddened him. Even now, when his discomfort around them was clearer than ever, they persevered. It seemed like a determined display by two altruistic boys. Or was it something else?

  It didn’t bear thinking about. Although not thinking about it just made it more potent.

  Eventually, the conversation turned, inevitably, to last night’s game of truth and dare.

  “Let’s play again,” Bobby said.

  Henry nodded.

  And there it was. It wasn’t altruism, after all. They had sinister motivations.

  “Do you want to play too, Mason?” Henry asked.

  “No.”

  Henry smiled and winked. “We’ll go easy on you.”

  The disgusting innuendo. Their grotesque efforts to flirt with him. He didn’t know whether to scream at his betrayers or burst into tears. In the end, he didn’t opt for either. He just remained there at the edge of the ditch—numb, frozen, and pathetic.

  The game went in the same direction as it’d done the previous evening, and despite Mason’s very best efforts to shut out the trauma, he just couldn’t. Tears streaked his face. This was a sin. What would his mother and father say? They were god-fearing, and they would feel compelled to act on this situation. They would beat him, lock him up for days on end, and all because he’d tried, for the first time in his lonely and pathetic life, to build a friendship.

  As they rolled on the rug, they became hungry animals, panting and consuming. He tried to keep his eyes closed but couldn’t. He saw their hands sliding into each other’s clothing.

  A boot landed on the ground near his head. He looked up at Liam standing at the edge of the ditch. His elder brother wore his favorite khaki army pants and jacket, like the soldiers he’d revered since an early age but would never emulate because of his medical condition. Liam smiled, exposing swollen, toothless gums.

  Mason said, “You followed—”

  Liam silenced him with a finger to his mouth and pointed at the two boys.

  Mason spied his friends, completely lost in each other.

  They’d managed to pull off each other’s shirts and were ravenously kissing. It was starting to look aggressive.

  Mason glanced at Liam and recognized their father’s claw hammer in his hand.

  Liam shushed him again and lowered himself into a seating position on the edge. He slid off so he was standing beside Mason.

  Mason grabbed his arm. “Please … don’t.”

  Liam shook him off, grinned, turned forward, and took a deep breath.

  Bobby, who was currently lying on Harry, had his head turned in Mason’s direction as his lover probed his ear with his tongue. His eyes snapped open the moment Liam pounced with the hammer held high.

  “Stop!” Bobby managed to roll free as he shouted.

  Harry stared up, his eyes widening as the hammer came toward him.

  Mason managed to close his eyes, but he was too late to close off his ears to the thudding sound. He could now hear Bobby scurrying away.

  “Please, please … I don’t want—”

  Even with his hands over his ears this time, Mason heard the thud of Liam striking Bobby. Mason allowed himself to slip down the side of the ditch, pulled his knees to his chest, and crossed his arms around them.

  “Please …” Bobby said.

  Another thud.

  Bobby gurgled.

  “Jesus. You’re fucking stubborn, not like your boyfriend.” Liam said. “Turn so I can get to the back of your head.”

  Thud.

  Mason kept his eyes closed and shook. He had very few happy memories to retreat to but opted for the first time his father had allowed him to drive a tractor, and then commented on how he was a natural. The retreat was short lived. Liam’s hands were on his shoulders. He opened his eyes to see specks of blood dotting his brother’s cheek.

  “All done,” Liam said.

  Tears streaked Mason’s face. “How could you?”

  “No, Mason, how could you? They’re faggots. Why are you here?”

  “I … I …”

  “It’s okay, brother. That’s why I followed. To look after you.”

  “They were my friends.”

  “They were sick, and they’d have made you sick too.”

  “This is wrong.”

  “It’s not about what you wanted. It’s about what could’ve happened, and I prevented it. Now, get up. We’ve got a long day ahead of us. We must get started. I’ve had an idea, but we need Dad’s pickup.”

  “You can’t bring a pickup here!”

  “No, but we can bring it up to the old mill. Then, if we can find some kind of trolley, it would really help us get them—”

  “You’re insane!”

  “I’ll accept that from you,” Liam said and kissed Mason’s forehead. “Because for you, I’d do anything. We’ve got each other, and it’s all we’ve ever really had.”

  “Please, we can’t … We just can’t.”

  “We can. And we will.” He stood back. “Now stand, soldier! Now!”

  Mason rose to his feet and noticed his brother looked so proud of what he’d done.

  “But before we go”—Liam reached into his pocket for a pair of pliers—“I’m going to take what I don’t have and what they don’t deserve.”

  11

  MASON SAT IN the corner of his lounge while the daylight died. With one hand, he clutched Kyle’s flank, and with the other, he stroked the angular, bony head. Mason had already cleaned the feces and vomit off the dead animal, so it looked almost content, as if were merely sleeping. “Cruel bastards. Cruel, cruel bastards.”

  Mason stroked until the darkness settled completely on the lounge and the poor animal was cold. Despite his overwhelming sadness, he didn’t cry. He was a man calloused by great tragedy in his life and had learned to control outward displays of emotion. Even when he’d found out that Anthony was in Jotham MacLeoid’s killing pit, he’d wept only briefly.

  He heard the back door open, then slam shut. He remained seated.

  “It’s all right, Kyle,” he said. “You aren’t missing much in this world anyway. You’re better off wherever you are.”

  The kitchen door opened, and light flooded his lounge. Mason shielded his eyes while they adjusted, then looked up at his older brother.

  “I’ve seen it all now,” Liam said. “Sitting in the dark. I thought your self-pity was the thing of the past.” He switched on the light. “I thought we’d seen the back of it when you found your new friend.” He nodded at the dog in Mason’s lap.

  “Kyle’s dead.”

  “Come again?”

  “Dead. Poisoned. I found him in a puddle of shit and vomit.”

  Liam sighed. “The Davis brothers.” He closed the kitchen door behind him.

  “It’s happening again.”

  Liam approached the sofa. “Life is an echo.”

  “I’d prefer it not to be.” Mason stroked Kyle’s head again. “I can’t survive it again.”

  “Why not? You have something very different this time.” Liam sat on the sofa and interlaced his fingers behind his head. “You have me by your side.”

  Mason shook his head. “I don’t want that to be the answer.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m too old to go to war. I’m tired.”

  “Then let me look out for you.” Liam smiled, exposing his toothless gums. “You know I live for it. What’re big brothers for?”

  “Where’ve you been anyway?”

  “Out walking off the disappointment of earlier.”

  “And what if someone saw you?”

  “They didn’t, and even if they did, so what? They’d just think I was a tourist.”

  “This place hardly gets any tourists an
ymore. They’ll notice. Be careful.”

  “Jesus, Mason! Tiptoe here, tiptoe there. You’re a Rogers! Be proud. How did you ever cope while I was away?”

  “Just fine.”

  “Now we know that isn’t true—”

  “Listen! I had to knock Peter unconscious because of you! He’s a good man. He’s never done anyone any harm.”

  “You saved his life, brother. Imagine if he’d seen me.” He smiled again.

  “You’d have enjoyed that, wouldn’t you, you twisted prick?”

  “I enjoy what is necessary. I don’t understand what’s so wrong with that.”

  “Lots … Jesus … If you weren’t so fucking noisy back here, all these things wouldn’t be necessary.”

  “Being noisy almost eradicated one of your problems. Gabriel Jewell. And let’s be honest, that’s one massive problem.”

  “Christ, that’s why you’re in this mood? Because you didn’t get your sick hands on him?”

  “Say all you want, Mason, but you resist the inevitable. These things are—to use the word again—necessary.”

  “The teeth? Are they necessary?”

  Liam looked away. “Asking me that! You of all people!”

  Mason laid Kyle’s stiffening corpse beside him and stood. “I had to dispose of those teeth for you. I ground them to dust. You talk about what you do for me, big brother, but what do I have to do for you?”

  “The longer we wait, the more our problems mount—Jake Pettman, Gabriel Jewell, and now the Davis brothers again.”

  “I will handle all of them.”

  “How? By pleading? By crawling on your fucking knees?”

  “How incompetent do you think I am?”

  Liam raised his eyebrows. “Look at Kyle.”

  “Fuck you. That isn’t my fault.”

  Mason turned for the door to the shop.

  “Remember what Dad used to say,” Liam said. “Don’t leave a problem for tomorrow that you can solve today.”

  “Dad is long gone, and I’ve seen how you solve problems. There has to be another way.”

  “Let me know when you find out what it is. I’m all ears, but don’t take too long. Who knows, next time, it might not be a dog. Next time, you might come back to find me dead.”

  Mason reached for the handle. “I think you can take care of yourself, Liam.”

  Stunned by the sudden heavy snoring, Kayla stopped stroking Gabriel’s hair and held her breath. Is this my moment?

  Earlier, after he’d raged at her to speak, she’d caved.

  “Thank you, thank you,” he’d said over and over, slipping to his knees and placing his head in her lap. “When I was a young boy, I used to stroke my sister’s hair, and sometimes she would do the same for me. Will you stroke my hair, Kayla?”

  She’d been in no position to refuse. She’d never seen Gabriel so volatile, and having seen her brother’s throat cut in front of her, she knew what this man was capable of. So, she’d stroked his hair.

  After her captor had fallen silent, she realized she’d never seen him in such a vulnerable position before. However, what opportunity was there, really? She was sitting at the end of her bed and had no access to weapons. All she had were her hands, and how could these frail, small things be a weapon against this giant of a man?

  So, as she’d stroked and he’d moaned, looking more content than she’d ever seen him, she’d felt overwhelming despair, because she’d not heard him close the door at the top of the stairs, yet, here now, with only one chance, she was clueless. Until the unbelievable happened, and sleep took him.

  Stroking his thinning hair with one hand, she reached for the pillow on the bed with the other, then drew it toward them. She let it hover over his head. It would be easy to press it over his ugly face … But then to hold it there? Impossible. He would wake and break me in two.

  She held her breath, ceased stroking, reached underneath his head, and lifted it slightly. She paused. Her heart pulsed in her temples.

  The snoring continued.

  She slid the pillow down so it was sandwiched between her legs and his head. Again holding her breath, she eased herself to the right, sliding her legs free of the cushion so it lowered itself to the ground and took his head with it. She panned from legs to the opened door of her prison. Was this really happening?

  She raised her knees and started to stand—

  The snoring stopped.

  She froze half with the palm of her hand pressed to the wall to steady herself and watched him. Her lungs were close to bursting from the air she held inside them.

  He reached up and rubbed at his nose.

  Was he going to wake? She stared at the door. So close. Biting her bottom lip, she tasted blood. Run? Close to tears, yet desperate for freedom, she stood upright. It was now or never.

  The snoring started again.

  She released the air in her lungs and breathed. When she looked down at him, she was relieved to see that he remained undisturbed by her sudden gulp of air. Then, without looking back, she moved for the door.

  The adrenaline of leaving that place for the first time in over a month flooded her. The urge to scream for help was overwhelming, but she was uncertain if anyone outside the house would hear her. When she beheld the stairs she had to climb, nausea swept over her. So many times, she’d listened to that hulking man ascend and descend them. The steps were loud, creaky, and they would wake her even from the deepest of sleeps.

  She looked back at the snoring bastard and realized her best bet was to lock him in. Her gaze fell to the staple mounted on the cell door. An open rusted padlock hung from it with the key protruding.

  The snoring stopped again.

  She lunged forward and shoved the door. It was badly fitted, and the floor caused some resistance. She thrust harder.

  “Kayla?”

  The door was stubborn; it was not going to close.

  “No!” The hasp that crossed the door to lock it was not pushed back far enough on the vertical trim and was wedging the door open.

  “What’s happening, Kayla?”

  She could hear him scrambling to his feet. She lashed out at the hasp, and it thumped against the frame. With the obstacle clear, she managed to slam the door.

  “Get back here!”

  She snatched out the padlock, threw the hasp over the staple, then realigned the padlock to slip through. The door shook. The padlock didn’t connect with the staple and, instead, hit the floor.

  He came again, and this time she heard the wood splintering. “After everything I’ve done for you!”

  Spinning, she dove for the steps. If she hadn’t met the wall with the palms of her hands, she would have hit the floor, and then it’d be over. She heard the door crash open behind her. As she charged up the old steps, she kept her focus on the open door on the first floor.

  “You can’t get away!” His voice echoed around her head. He was so close. Within touching distance.

  She was only a couple steps from the summit, trying to ignore the expectation that his hand would land on her leg at any moment. After bursting onto the first floor, she thrust the door backward. There was no resistance this time, and it swung … before bouncing open again.

  Gabriel screamed.

  She noticed his outstretched hand.

  “My fucking fingers!”

  Kayla thrust the door again, but he was wise to it now and recoiled his hand in time. The door slammed shut. She reached for the deadbolt, but it was stiff and refused to move. She got both hands on it and thrust with everything she had. “Close … please close!” It didn’t. Remembering the rifle Gabriel kept with his jackets at the front door, she sprinted down the hallway. She heard the door burst open behind her.

  “I think you’ve broken one of my fingers!”

  “Shit!” The rifle wasn’t there. She felt tears in her eyes. Now what? Upstairs? No time … She could hear him breathing behind her. She was out of ideas. Her hand instinctively flailed for the front door ha
ndle. She knew it was useless, but what the hell. She tugged, and the door opened.

  Fresh air raced in and over her. “Help me!”

  A hand closed over her face.

  She bit hard.

  The bastard yelped and snapped his hand back.

  She flung herself outside. “Help me!” She ran over the driveway toward the streetlights.

  Mason couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  He’d been standing over the road from Gabriel’s house for almost twenty minutes, summoning the courage to knock on the bastard’s door. His plan had been to reason with Gabriel, talk to him in the same way he’d spoken to that female lieutenant, make him see sense—try to make him believe the lies.

  Yes, this route had been a long shot, but anything was preferable to Liam’s plan—if it could be called a plan. Most would see it as an all-out war, not that Mason’s existing plan amounted to much now anyway.

  A girl, early teens at the most, was sprinting from Gabriel’s house, screaming for help

  What the hell is going on?

  “Help me!”

  For a moment, Mason thought the fleeing girl might actually make it. She was halfway up the drive, and Gabriel was only just emerging from his house, but then, as is so often the case—and Mason was very experienced with this himself—shit happens.

  The young girl clipped the sideview mirror of Gabriel’s car and went into a spin she couldn’t recover from and hit the deck.

  Instinctively, Mason looked both ways, preparing to cross the road to assist, but checked himself. This, here, could be an opportunity. For so much of his life, the Jewell family had been second only to the Davis family in poisoning his existence. Now he was witnessing something that might offer him a way out with the Jewells, a way out that didn’t involve Liam and his baser methods.

  He stepped backward to watch.

  Gabriel knelt beside the girl and took a handful of her hair.

  She writhed in his grip. “Help me!”

  The chief of police pulled her head back and slammed it into the concrete.

  She continued to struggle. “Help—”

  He slammed her head again, and she went still.

 

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