by Wes Markin
“One problem,” Bryce said.
“Oh, and what’s that?”
“He’s not fucking here.”
Cam sat on the sofa. “He will be.”
After finishing his phone call to Lillian, Jake exited the car, marched up the driveway, and pounded on the door.
Gabriel looked edgy when he answered. His top lip was trembling, and his eyes were darting back and forth too quickly. Jake was yet to see the chief of police display any fear, so he doubted it was that.
“What’s wrong with you?” Jake asked.
“Drank a bottle of whisky last night.”
“That’ll do it.”
“Why are you on my fucking doorstep?”
“Pains me to say it, but I want your help.”
“Want or need?”
“Let’s keep it at want for the moment. I don’t want you having delusions of grandeur.”
“What’s it to do with?”
“Mason Rogers.”
Gabriel took a sharp intake of breath through his nose. “Well, you’ve come to the wrong place. I’m off that case.”
“That’s precisely why I came to you. Not sure those who have commandeered your department want an outsider poking around.”
“Funny that. Neither do I, really.”
“Guess I’ll go elsewhere,” Jake said, turning.
“Okay. What do you know?”
Jake turned back. “Listen, I don’t want you flying off the handle. I just need your help to find him. You’ve spent a huge chunk of your life obsessing over him, so I guess it won’t take long.”
“So, tell me what you know!”
“Once you assure me that we are simply finding him and handing him into the station before any damage is done.”
“Jesus! I assure you! Don’t you think I want this done with too?”
Jake told him what he knew about Mason and his condition. He watched the information sink into Gabriel. He pressed his fist to his mouth, and his eyes darted back and forth.
“So, we’re simply finding him and getting him off the street.”
“Off the street like we got Jotham off the street?” Gabriel asked.
Jake wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic or serious. “Nothing like that. The man is ill. We deliver him, and the truth will quickly follow. You must remember, Gabriel, that we still don’t know if he’s responsible, and if we take the law into our hands, it won’t wash this time—not with the state police on your doorstep.”
“I understand. Let me get my rifle.”
“Jesus. I knew this was a fucking mistake.”
Gabriel stepped out and closed the door behind him. “Pipe down. I was joking. Shall I follow you?”
“No, we’ll go in my car.”
Gabriel turned to lock the door, accidentally dropping his keys. “Shit,” he said, swooping for them.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Never been better.”
Owen shuffled the cards.
“Much better, honey,” Felicity said.
Owen offered his mother a card.
She chose a jack of diamonds, stole a quick look, then placed it at the bottom of the pack.
Owen cut the cards, looked through them, then removed the jack of diamonds.
Felicity resisted the urge to stroke his waxed hair and disrupt his immaculate quiff and clapped instead. “Bravo.”
“So fucking lame,” Brady said.
Felicity glared at him.
“He knows the card you put it next to,” Brady said.
“Go to your room and get your bag,” Felicity said.
Brady shrugged and disappeared upstairs.
She watched Owen shuffle again; if his brother’s comment had hurt his feelings, it wasn’t clear in his expression. Still, no emotion was ever clear in her son’s expression.
She listened to Dom’s loud snoring. There was no danger of him waking. She spied his coffee cup on the table. An elephant would struggle to move after the dose she had administered. She eyed the bags by the front door and checked her watch.
Ten minutes until their life would change forever.
Liam left his car at the entrance to the Davis land and, buoyed and energized over his first two kills of the day, moved far quicker than any old man had business doing through the junkyard. He weaved skilfully past the old vehicles, occasionally ducking and surveying the farmhouse to ensure his approach was going undetected.
Dominic Davis was a stupid man, but stupid men were often more dangerous than intelligent ones, and being a soldier, Liam was not about to underestimate any enemy.
When he reached the bottom of the porch steps, his heart thumped. Going undetected had left him ecstatic.
Steady yourself, soldier.
He closed his eyes and recalled the moment he had beaten those two faggots to death with a hammer. He’d been calm and ruthless in the execution. There was nothing wrong with enjoying it, but too much emotion can unsteady even the strongest soldier.
He opened his eyes, took the hammer from his backpack, and climbed the steps to the porch.
Brady came downstairs with a duffel bag. He put it on the floor with the others and regarded Felicity with tears in his eyes. He turned to Owen and put his arms around him. “I’m sorry, O. It was a great trick.”
Felicity felt tears in her own eyes. She put her hands on Brady’s shoulders. “I’m proud of you both, I really am, and I’m so sorry for everything I’ve put you through.”
A knock sounded at the door.
Her blood ran cold.
“Upstairs!” She pushed her children toward them.
Another knock. More insistent this time.
She waited until her children were on the first step before turning to face the front door. She looked through the spyhole.
An empty porch.
She secured the chain across the door, then partially opened it. “Hello?”
No answer.
Who the hell was it? Cam and Carson back early? No. They wouldn’t play games.
It must be Oliver. He must have gotten spooked, waiting at the creek, and had just come all the way in to get them. She slid back the security chain and opened the door. “Oliver?”
She felt a hand on her back. It almost made her jump out of her skin. She looked back and saw Owen. “I said upstairs, honey.”
Owen didn’t move.
She sighed and stepped onto the porch.
An older, wiry man stood to her left in an army uniform. He was wearing a cover, so it took a moment to recognize him.
“Mr. Rogers?” When she glimpsed the hammer in his hand, it was already arcing through the air. Her collar bone cracked. She thought of the night before when Cam had dropped that glass. Wanting to cry out, her mouth fell open, but everything was too fast and painful.
The next blow hit her chest, and she felt a rib shatter. She dropped to her knees, screaming, and lifted her head in time to see Mason raising the hammer.
Owen stepped in front of her.
No! She reached for him.
Owen’s head snapped to the side when the hammer hit him in the face.
She beheld the profile of her baby’s beautiful face as he coughed and spat fragments of teeth. NO! She looped her arms around Owen’s waist and tugged him backward from Mason.
The bastard managed to swing again.
Owen’s head jolted down this time. The monster had caught him on the top of his head. He fell backward onto her.
She took his weight, then let him roll to the side. “Please … Please, don’t hurt my boy.” Felicity lay on her back. She looked sideways at her coughing son, who was clutching his mouth and making a horrendous noise.
“Hurt. That’s all you’ve ever done. Your family,” Mason said, “Hurt, hurt, and hurt.”
She looked back.
He was smiling. He wasn’t going to stop. He was enjoying himself too much. He lifted his foot and stamped on Owen’s stomach four times.
Her boy�
�s hands fell away from his mouth. Blood and broken teeth speckled his cheeks.
She tried to lift her arm to grab at him, but a shattered collar bone and rib restricted her movement, and her hand flailed uselessly.
Mason knelt beside her son with the hammer raised above his head. He brought it down with great force, and she heard his face being smashed.
She closed her eyes. No, no, no … This can’t be real. She heard the hammer come again and again and felt Owen’s warm blood on his face. “Stop …” She opened her eyes at the soldier.
He looked like a man possessed, swinging and swinging, most of his face and uniform red with blood.
She heard the crunching of tires. “Help …” Her head fell to the side, and she saw her husband’s car stopping beside the chicken coop. “Help …”
Carson, the man she’d been planning to leave for a better life, was now her only hope of continuing one. He was out of the car, charging toward the house. “Felicity! Mason, leave my family alone!”
Her head burned as Mason’s fingers tightened around her hair. She felt herself being dragged through the door. She caught a glimpse at the remains of her beautiful baby’s face, and, as the bastard slammed the door after them, she wished for her own death.
Carson looked at Owen and howled. He tried to steady himself against the wall, but it did no good. He started slipping to his knees. Felicity … Brady …
They could still be alive. He straightened upright and reached for the doorhandle. Locked. His car keys and house keys hung from a chain on his belt. He thrust the key into the lock and burst through the front door. He saw the pile of bags. He had no time to consider the significance.
A blood trail stained the floor where Felicity had been dragged. It arched around to the kitchen sink. Here Mason stood, his face streaked with blood, presumably Carson’s son’s. His army uniform also glistened red.
On her knees, before him, Felicity, also covered in blood, trembled and wept.
Carson looked around, desperate for something to attack with. He remembered the knife rack which was nearer to where he stood than Mason. He darted toward it, slipped free a knife, and turned to face them.
“Beat you to it,” Mason said, holding up a long kitchen knife and smirking. He pulled back hard on Felicity’s hair.
“Please, no!”
Mason cut Felicity’s throat. There was a hiss of arterial blood.
Carson charged with the knife raised. He didn’t let the sight of Mason raising his gun slow him.
Liam shot Carson dead center. It was comical to watch the worm claw at the hole in his chest as he leaned against the fridge. It was even more comical to watch him die on his feet, then fall face forward. Liam smiled. Carson had been a pleasant surprise. He’d assumed he’d still be manning the store at this time. Now he wouldn’t need to take a short detour to kill him later, saving him time and providing him with some comic relief.
He noticed Felicity twitching. He kicked her out of his way, unconcerned about wetting his feet on the pool of blood growing around her. He was already covered in it from that little Davis bastard anyway.
Three down, three to go.
He checked his watch. Cam would already be at Mason’s store, eager to get his grubby paws on everything his naïve brother had spent his life working toward, which left the fat child, Brady, and the even fatter old man, Dominic, primed for slaughter.
He paused and listened. He heard snoring from the other room. He noticed the bags at the door and recalled Peter and the young man at the creek. My, oh, my! He smiled at Felicity’s body. “You were planning on leaving! In fairness, that does take some guts. In a way, that makes me kind of sorry I killed you. Saying that, I’ve probably saved you a whole heap of trouble. Your father-in-law, Cam, is a sonofabitch. He’d have hunted you down, and it would have got messy. Maybe not this messy, but messy all the same.”
He left the kitchen for the living room. He strolled toward the sprawled-out fat man on the sofa. “Jesus. What did she drug you with? You’re practically grey!” He smiled. “I could sit here and wait for you to wake, Dom. Explain to you what I’m doing, but then, is there any point? You were always thick as fuck, and it’s your brother who really knew what was going on.”
He shot Dom in the head, and the snoring stopped.
Now Brady.
He returned to the kitchen, spied the front door, and toyed with the idea of going back for his trusty hammer. Part of him had really enjoyed opening the mute boy’s face like a melon. Yes, this sounded coarse, but he was a soldier! There was nothing wrong with taking pleasure in your work.
Deciding time was of the essence, he left the hammer and took the stairs two at a time. Again, not bad for an old man. In fact, he felt fitter than he’d been in years. God bless adrenaline.
It was a big house, and the hallway at the top was long. Several closed doors ran down its side. He held his breath, which was a little tricky after his exertions, and listened.
Nothing.
He worked partway down the hallway, paused, and listened.
Still nothing.
He reached the door at the end, and, keeping hold of the patience that had served him well in his mission so far, he paused to listen again.
A shuffling sound came from within.
He reached for the handle.
Wincing and clutching a rib that was either broken or badly bruised, Peter eased himself into the driver’s seat and propped his rifle against the passenger seat. He glanced at the creek, where the corpse of Oliver Sholes was floating. After closing the door, he squeezed his eyes shut and yelled with pain. Peeling off that bulletproof vest when he’d woken had taken every ounce of his willpower and strength, but now he had to find more.
Lives depended on it.
As he started the engine, he thanked his lucky stars. Yes, the pain was excruciating, but venturing into his house and slipping on his vest had been a masterstroke. If he hadn’t, he’d be dancing off downstream with Oliver.
He sped down the dirt road at a speed his pickup had not seen in years, and, as he drove, tears streamed down his face. Not because of his rib but because the truth about his best friend was the greatest wound of them all.
Liam grinned when he saw the terror on Brady’s face. He’d been crying hard, and his face was covered in snot and tears. Behind Brady, the bathroom window was tilted open. Liam laughed. The fat lump had clearly been trying to slide himself through the small gap the tilting window allowed.
Brady pointed an air pistol at Liam. “Stay back.”
This made Liam laugh harder. “Really?”
“Yes, I’ll shoot you.”
“I can handle a pea-shooter. If you don’t believe me, go downstairs and see what I’ve done to your family.”
Brady flinched. “I’m a good shot. I’ll take out your eye.”
Like the rest of the house, the bathroom was large, and Liam doubted the plump little fucker was that good. Liam lifted his gun. “I don’t need to aim for your eye.”
Brady fired.
Liam listened to the pellet bury itself into the doorframe around him. “You said you were a good shot.”
Brady cried. “Please.”
“Tell you what.” Liam lowered the gun. “To show you that I’m not all bad. I’ll give you one more pop.”
Brady took the cue to reload.
“But if you miss again, it really is game over. I’ve no more time left to play. By the way, game over is when I put one in your forehead. Deal?”
Brady didn’t bother responding. He lifted the gun and, this time, didn’t miss.
No time for stealth. Peter approached the farmhouse at such a velocity that he glanced a vehicle by the chicken coop. Then, he had to hit the brakes and turn the pickup sharply to stop himself from plowing into the farmhouse.
He felt his wheels leave the ground and, for one cold second, thought the whole vehicle might turn over. Instead, it juddered sideways for a moment before crashing into the side of the rai
sed porch. He knocked his head against the glass and heard wood splinter, but the porch didn’t crash down. It did seal off his exit though, and he’d have to go through the passenger side.
He stole a glance at the porch, and his breath caught in his throat. At the front door. Flesh and blood. He was too late.
There was an almighty crash, and the windshield exploded. Peter felt as if he’d just hit a brick wall at full speed. “Jesus …”
Brady Davis was twisted up on the car’s hood. His contorted face was turned toward Peter through the wreckage of the windshield. The poor boy wheezed, and blood oozed from the sides of his mouth.
Peter reached out and touched his cheek. “Just lie still.”
Brady’s wheezing became a gargle, which quickly faded to nothing, then his eyes rolled back.
Peter watched the boy’s bloody twitching arm that hung in the vehicle. Peter leaned forward and looked upward to see the window Brady had been thrown through hung loose.
Mason stood there, looking down, holding his weapon.
Then the shooting began.
After Liam had unloaded his clip into Peter’s pickup, he paused to look in the bathroom mirror and examine the pellet wound in the corner of his eye. The boy hadn’t been lying! He was a good shot. A millimeter to the right and he could have lost an eye.
He headed down the hallway and the stairs, noticing a light spring in his step. And why not? This had been the first time he’d been at the center of a massacre after all! He stepped over the mute boy he’d smashed into pieces and walked to the porch so he could draw level with the driver’s side of the vehicle. He raised his gun as he approached. He’d pumped it with a lot of lead, but it was better to be cautious.