by Jon Athan
Frank staggered to his feet. Like a trained boxer, he pummeled his prisoner with a barrage of hooks and jabs – left, right, left, right. Dazed by the blows, Bruce spat blood and tilted his head back. He was blinded by the light above – a beacon dawning onto him from heaven, calling his name in a soothing tone.
Frank grabbed Bruce's limp leg, situating the limb on his knee and away from the chair. He held the coping saw behind Bruce's ankle, gripping the tool by the handle and the vibrant red frame. He breathed deeply, mentally preparing himself for the inevitable pain and blood. He was unnerved before he could even commit the heinous action.
As he stared at the saw, Frank whispered, “I'm sorry...”
Frank gritted his teeth as he slowly sawed Bruce's right Achilles tendon, pulling the coping saw left and right. Bruce gasped from the excruciating pain, wheezing as he struggled to breathe. His body tightened, then he violently writhed in agony on the chair. Frank quietly whimpered as he slowly sliced through the fibrous tissue. Blood spurted from the wound, gushing out like a blowout of crude oil.
Frank pulled the saw out of Bruce's mutilated ankle, then he tossed the tool aside. He teetered as he stood, sickened by the horrific sight. His stomach turned and his eyes swelled with tears. His facade was sinking, he could no longer play the role of a heartless monster. He was a caring man pushed to a corner – nothing more, nothing less.
Teary-eyed, Frank said, “Just tell me where you put her and we can stop this.”
Bruce did not respond. He stared at the vibrant bulb above him, lost in his pain and thoughts. His leg trembled from the insufferable agony. To his utter dismay, each shudder only caused more pain, further aggravating the grisly wound. He couldn't help it, though. The pain only caused him to tremble more.
Frank strolled towards the table, wiping his bloodied hands on his filthy apron. He grabbed a dirty rag, then he dabbed the tears streaming down his cheeks. He was flustered by the event, but he refused to quit. He had gone too far to return to the beginning. A minute, he thought, I only need a minute to compose myself.
As the minute passed at a snail's pace, Frank pulled the rusty scissors from his apron pocket. He grabbed a pair of white rubber gloves from a box hidden inside the laundry machine. The gloves snapped on his wrists, one-by-one. His physical preparations were complete, but he still had to vault over his mental obstacles.
As he stared at the daunting tool, the cornered father said, “The most sensitive parts of the body are the... the genitals. It's a very sensitive region of the human body. Just thinking about it can make you feel pain. When it comes to rapists and pedophiles, I think most of the world agrees when I say: castration should be the punishment for people like you.”
Between his heavy breaths, Bruce said, “I'm... I'm not who you think I am. I'm not a bad man. You're wrong...”
“No, you're wrong. You should have said something. If you confessed, none of this would have happened. I wouldn't have even called the cops. I'd pretend like this was all a nightmare and watch my daughter sleep in her bedroom. All you had to do was tell the truth.”
“Don't... Don't do this.”
Frank sighed, then he said, “There's no turning back, Bruce.”
Frank bit his bottom lip as he walked towards his severely injured prisoner. Bruce was ravaged by the savage attacks, doused in blood like if he had emerged from a pool of red liquid. The restraints and his injuries kept him immobile. There was no escape.
Frank gritted his teeth as he unbuttoned and unzipped his captive's pants. Tears streaming from his eyes, he tugged on his gray boxer briefs to no avail. He wiped his tears with his forearm, then he pulled Bruce's penis out through the fly on his underwear.
Wheezing, Bruce stuttered, “Wha–What the hell... What are you doing?!” He squirmed on the chair, but to no avail. He shouted, “Help me! Help!”
Frank placed the opened scissors on the shaft of Bruce's penis. He tightly shut his eyes and carefully placed pressure on the handles. The blades pierced into the skin, millimeter-by-millimeter. Blood oozed from the shaft, plopping on the young man's pants and coursing towards the anchored chair.
Before he could cut his captive's penis off, Frank was disrupted by a thunderous gunshot. The gunfire echoed through the woodland, seeping into the dreary dungeon. Wide-eyed, Frank glanced over his shoulder.
Chapter Fifteen
With A Vengeance
Frank wiped his hands on a filthy rag as he ran up the stairs, leaving Bruce to whimper in his misery and anguish. He ascended into the kitchen, then he shut the door behind him. His eyes were sharp, his mind was focused. He stared at the archway to his left, glaring at the front door as he pondered the possibilities.
Frank whispered, “What the hell was that?”
From the archway to Frank's right, Sylvia said, “It came from outside. It sounded like a gun.”
Frank strolled past Sylvia, walking with hurried steps towards a wooden console table in the living room. Wide-eyed, he browsed through a drawer, shoving small boxes and stacks of paper aside. The drawer was as cluttered as his mind.
Frank said, “Okay, I want you to call your dad and tell him what's happening. Tell Detective Washington to get back here now.”
Sylvia nodded and said, “Okay, okay...”
“Then, take Julia and head to our bedroom. Lock the door and don't come out until I tell you to, okay? Try to take her mind off of this. Don't let her imagination get the better of her. You know how she gets when she starts–”
“She's... She's not back yet,” Sylvia interrupted.
Frank glared at the young woman, frightened and baffled by the revelation. Julia had been absent since she departed with Robin. He was enthralled with the violent torture to the point of forgetting about his wife and her well-being. His mind wandered to the darkest corners of his imagination, sending him through a vision of madness.
Frank shook his head and said, “Okay... Well, just call her and find out what she's doing. If she doesn't answer, call Wayne and–”
Another sonorous gunshot echoed through the forest, reverberating through the home. Frank crouched, hiding behind the console table and peering towards the front door down the hall. Sylvia fell to her buttocks with her arms wrapped around her head. To their utter relief, there was no ensuing damage or follow-up shot.
Frank retrieved a black .410 revolver from the drawer. He carefully opened the cylinder to check the ammunition. He was not an experienced gunslinger, so he worked slowly and diligently. The revolver was loaded with six shot-shells – enough to kill any malicious man or woman prowling in the woods. His aim wouldn't be perfect, but he felt safe with the firearm.
Frank leaned on the adjacent wall and said, “Go to my bedroom and call Julia. Go.”
As Sylvia ran towards the room, Frank marched towards the front door. The sturdy door swung open and the distraught father strode onto the front porch. The luminous moonlight and stars washed the dark forest with a milky glow. The towering trees swayed with the breeze. Crickets chirped with the peaceful night, keeping the tranquil aura afloat.
From the porch, Frank shouted, “If you're out here, you need to leave! This is private property! You understand me?! No trespassers! No media! No one is allowed here, damn it!” He breathed heavily as he tried to compose himself, waiting for a response. Frank muttered, “What the hell is going on out here? What do you want from us?”
Frank lifted the revolver and glanced towards his left as a car approached. He furrowed his brow and slowly lowered his weapon, keeping his eyes locked on the vehicle. He recognized the unmarked sedan – Wayne and Nathan. The pair parked in front of the house, then they hopped out of the vehicle.
As he gazed into the woods, Wayne asked, “Did you hear any gunshots up here?”
Frank walked down the creaky porch steps and responded, “Yeah. We heard two.”
Wayne pushed his long coat aside and drew his sleek black handgun. He protruded his arms forward, keeping his gun low but prepared. H
e was afraid to shoot at shadows, frightened to attack figments of his imagination or, worst of all, innocent people. When it came to police, society deemed accidents as inexcusable.
Sylvia peeked out from the front door and asked, “Dad, are you okay?”
Nathan waved at his daughter and said, “Everything's fine. Stay inside.”
As Sylvia retreated, Frank stepped to Wayne's side and shouted, “Is anyone out here?!” There was no response. Frank swallowed loudly, then he yelled, “If you're still out here, you better leave! We have guns and we have rights! This is private property! Don't make me tell you again!”
Once again, there was no response. Only the natural racket dominated the woodland. Before another word could be uttered, a rumbling gunshot echoed through the forest. The gunfire flashed from between the trees directly ahead. Wayne and Frank lurched forward, then they hunched behind the closest trees near the road. Nathan staggered to his knees behind the sedan, his arms wrapped around his head.
Frank leaned on the tree and peered towards the mysterious assailant. He shouted, “Please, stop shooting! We're not trying to hurt you! Walk away! Please, just walk away and we won't have to shoot!”
Wayne barked, “Put your gun down and your hands up! Now! I am an officer of the law!”
Indistinct murmurs emerged from the forest, echoing from the origin of the gunfire. The discussion was faint. One voice was quiet, the other was muffled. The conversation was indecipherable from afar, the voices were unrecognizable. Frank and Wayne nodded at each other – inaudible reassurance.
The pair crouched away from their respective trees, aiming their firearms into the woods. As the pair slowly stepped forward, a figure emerged from the dense foliage and staggered towards the duo. The person's outline could be seen through the darkness, teetering left-and-right. From afar, the pair could see a long, narrow object in the figure's hands.
Wayne whispered, “Shit. I think he has a rifle. Get back... Get back.”
Before Frank and Wayne could retreat, the ominous figure groaned and lurched forward. In a panic, Frank fired three consecutive shots. Nathan fired five rounds. The orchestra of crepitations ended as soon as it began. The pair stood in solidarity as the figure tumbled to the ground.
Awed by the shooting, Wayne whispered, “We have to check on him...”
***
Frank and Wayne sauntered towards the downed person, walking with heavy, calculated steps. The person squirmed on the ground like a worm in mud, writhing from the pain only ten meters away. Grunts and groans of agony echoed through the forest. The whimpers were soft and tender – a woman's cry.
Frank's eyes widened as he approached the mysterious person. The suspected shooter had a head of long dark blonde hair. She donned a blue patio dress. The garment was riddled with five bullet holes and drenched in blood. A large branch was taped to her hands – wood disguised as a rifle by the shadows and devious manipulation.
Frank staggered to his knees in front of the woman and whispered, “Julia... Julia...”
Wayne furrowed his brow and repeated in a dubious tone, “Julia?”
Frank sobbed as he flipped the body over. He gently shoved the hair aside and revealed Julia's tender face. Her eyes were barely open and her mouth was covered by a thick strip of silver duct tape. She shuddered as she rested in her husband's arms, frightened as she approached the doorstep of death. Frank carefully pulled the tape from her mouth.
Eyes brimming with tears, he said, “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I should have been there with you. I shouldn't have pulled the trigger. I shouldn't have done any of this. I got scared. It's... It's all my fault. I'm sorry.”
With each raspy breath, Julia whispered, “Kat... Katherine... I... I love...”
“I'll find her. I'll find her and I'll bring her home. I'll... I'll let all of this go. I won't cause anymore pain. I'm sorry for dragging you into this. Please, forgive me. Don't die like this, Julia. Don't go. Don't leave me.”
With a faint smile, Julia stared at her husband with glimmering eyes – shining from the tears and her love. She panted, then she shut her eyes. In the arms of her eternal lover, Julia passed away. She felt immense pain, but she found some comfort and reassurance in Frank's arms. She found some solace in death.
Wayne bit his bottom lip, then he looked away. Anger and sorrow blended in his body, mixing to create a wicked concoction. Nathan sauntered towards the poignant commotion. From afar, he could see there was a significant miscalculation.
As he whimpered, Frank asked, “Who did this to you? Who set you up like this? Huh? Who wanted to hurt you, sweetheart?” He gritted his teeth as he scanned the area for the true culprit. Scowling, he said, “It must have... It must have been that damn girl! I had her and I told you to leave. I told you to leave with her! I sent you to your death! Damn it! Why did I do that? Why?”
Trembling from the devastating experience, Wayne narrowed his eyes and asked, “What girl? Who are you talking about, Frank?”
As he stroked Julia's hair, Frank explained, “A girl... A damn girl. She came here asking for Bruce. She was looking for money. I thought she was one of his victims. I thought I could sweep it under the rug while I finished the interrogation. I fucked up.”
Standing by an adjacent tree, Nathan whispered, “Robin...”
Wayne nodded and said, “Yeah. She might still be around here. Someone should head back to her apartment and wait for her, though. She might try to run. Either way, we're going to have to have a little word with her. She's not going to get away with this.”
Frank gently placed Julia's head on the muddy ground, taking care of her body with diligence. He staggered to his feet and asked, “You know the woman responsible for this?”
Wayne responded, “I think we have a good idea. A girl named 'Robin Morris.' She might be dating Bruce and they might be sharing an apartment over on–”
Wayne was interrupted by a loud bang and a thud echoing from the home. The sound of furniture falling and scuffing the hardwood floor reverberated towards the scene of the unfortunate accident. The trio of men turned towards the house, baffled by the ruckus.
Bouncing from wall-to-wall in the entrance hall, Sylvia lurched towards the porch. She croaked and groaned as she tightly gripped her throat. Blood oozed from the slits between her fingers, cascading down her throat like rain on a windshield.
Bug-eyed, Nathan rushed towards the home, slipping and sliding across the dirt road. His bloodied daughter fell into his arms, limp and injured. She could not utter a word. She stared at her father with glowing eyes, communicating through the windows to her soul. She was somber and frightened, afraid to die.
Nathan coddled his daughter, falling to his knees. He carefully rested her head on his lap. Overwrought, he removed his cardigan, then he ripped the sleeve from the garment. He used the garment as a makeshift plug to stop the gushing blood. The laceration was grisly, but it was not immediately fatal. He was not a professional, but he found some hope.
Nathan glanced at Wayne and Frank. He shouted, “She's still alive! Call 911! Please, Wayne, call an ambulance!”
Wayne and Frank jogged towards the father-daughter duo. Wayne pulled out his cellphone and said, “Okay. Keep pressure on the wound. Hold her up a little higher, too. Don't let her choke on her blood.”
As Wayne called for a wagon, Frank examined the grotesque wound on Sylvia's neck. He could see the anguish coursing through her body. Like the death of his wife, the young woman's grisly wound haunted him. He understood the game, though. Sylvia could have easily been murdered, but she was used as bait instead. The ruse was clear and Frank did not mind playing the game. He sought vengeance for the dead and wounded anyway.
As he glowered at his infiltrated home, Frank said, “I don't want to hurt you anymore, I don't want to hurt anyone, but you keep pushing me. You shouldn't have hurt them like this. They never hurt anyone. They were innocent...”
***
Frank shook his head and marched
towards the house. He breathed deeply through his nose, trying his best to keep his composure. Tightly gripping the revolver in his right hand, he entered the home with a hunched back. As far as he knew, the home was infiltrated by a dangerous miscreant and he was walking into a potential trap.
Frank examined the hallway, gliding his eyes across every corner. The walls were smeared with Sylvia's blood. He could see the living room down the hall. The lights were off, but there was no one else in sight. With the firearm leveled with his shoulders, he entered the kitchen. The cooking and dining areas were clear. The basement door was still sealed. There was nothing out of the ordinary.
Frank muttered, “Where are you hiding?”
The distraught father strolled through the kitchen and exited through the other archway. He walked into the living room, aiming his gun every which way. His eyes widened as he felt a cold breeze on his back – danger caressing the nape of his neck. He turned towards the draft, his finger twitching on the trigger.
To his utter disappointment, an open window was responsible for the breeze. The devil was not breathing down his shoulder, vengeance was not in his grasps. Yet, he felt some comfort knowing the trespasser's entrance and potential exit.
As he glanced around the room, Frank shouted, “Get out here! Come out here and show yourself!” There was no response, only a flurry of wind pummeled the home. As he slowly nodded, Frank said, “So, you were the whore helping this bastard, right? You're sick like him, aren't you? You damn pervert... I think you might be worse than him, though. You're a violent killer and a sick pedophile. It doesn't matter, does it? I have some bad news for you. You're going to suffer like him, but it's going to be much worse for you.”
From the impenetrable darkness, Robin responded, “You're wrong.”
Wide-eyed, Frank turned towards the voice, swinging his revolver as swiftly as possible. As his eyesight adjusted to the darkness, he spotted Robin hiding in plain sight. She sat in the farthest corner of the room, hidden beneath a bookshelf and wedged beside a desk. The petite woman blended with the shadows, her dark hair and clothing covered most of her white skin.