by Eli Constant
“There was a note pinned to Don’s coat, Tori.” Terrance paused. I wanted to tell him to cut the drama and get to the point. “Back off.”
“That seems pretty generic.” The fear is sliding away now. I pick up my pen to finish my notes for the Grayson funeral. “Am I in some sort of trouble, Terrance?”
“Yes, Tori. I think you’re in some sort of trouble. The note had your business card taped to it. I’ve already sent a car your way.”
“My business card?” The fear is back, fierce and choking. “Wait, who’s coming?”
“Steve. I thought he’d be your preference. Not that I really had a choice, he was the only one I could spare.”
“I’d have been fine with someone else,” I lie through my teeth.
Terrance snorts, his disbelief carrying clearly through the phone. “You can’t stand the other officers, Tori. And they call you Casper. Don’t try and make nice when I’m the only one listening.”
I chuckle, but it’s a nervous sound. I want to talk about anything other than someone wanting to hurt me. “Fine. I won’t pretend. I don’t think the other officers respect you the way they should.”
“They listen to me and that’s all I ask. They have to follow my orders; they don’t have to like me.”
“Terrance?” I say his name like a question, not sure of what direction I want to take. Or how much I want to know.
“Yeah?” He sounds distracted now, going into distant cop mode.
“How… scared should I be?” I suck in a breath of air; hold it in like somehow having it inside my lungs will keep me safe.
“I don’t know, Tori, but if you’d seen Don’s body… Shit, I’d just rather be safe than sorry.”
“You’re my friend aren’t you, Terrance?” It’s an odd thing to ask at the moment, but for some reason today the concept of having friends feels very, very important to me.
He doesn’t hesitate when answering. “Yes. I’m your friend. Be safe. Don’t go anywhere until Steve gets there, okay?” Terrance is concerned. I don’t like it when he’s concerned.
“Sure.” I’m about to hang up, when something else dawns on me. “Terrance, wait a second. If they know about my involvement, then they must know about Jim’s. Right?”
“Fuck.” Terrance breathes through the phone. It hadn’t occurred to him. See, I’m good for something. “You’re right.”
“His son picked him up from the hospital a little while ago. I’m sure they were heading straight home. Unless Jim threw a fit about needing to check on his bar.”
“I can’t spare anyone else.” Terrance is quiet for a moment, trying to figure out what to do.
“Terrance, send Steve to the bar first. I’ll meet him there.”
“No, I want you to—”
“I’ll be just as safe, probably safer if they know where I live. It’s a short drive. Steve will meet me and then we can make sure Jim and Kyle are okay too.”
“I don’t know, Tori. I’m not sure—”
I interrupt him a second time, which I know has to piss him off. “I’m not one of your officers, Terrance. I respect you, but I don’t have to follow your orders. I’m going. So you can divert Steve to the bar or send him here to an empty house.”
“I’ll radio Steve.” The chief sounds like a smoldering fire, but I don’t have time to worry about his anger at me for being stubborn.
“Thanks, Terrance.”
But he’s hung up. He does that sometimes, when he’s found me especially irritating or he’s more distracted than usual. I don’t care though. I just want to get in my car and make sure that Jim and Kyle are safe.
Stuffing my phone in my pocket, I only change my shoes before racing outside and firing up the Bronco and driving like a mad woman across town. The nude pumps I’d been wearing pinch at the toes. The black lace sneakers were infinitely more comfortable. And they were good for running, if it came down to that.
The buildings pass me in their normal stream of color, nothing unusual. It’s not raining at the moment, but the clouds look full and ready—like a mother waiting too long to nurse. It won’t be long before the droplets begin to fall again, slowly at first, and then so heavily it’ll make driving difficult. Let me get to the bar first and make sure everything’s fine. Then feel free to let loose a monsoon of Jumanji proportions. Not too much to ask. Only a few miles to go.
Mother Nature is a total bitch.
No sooner do I make the mental wish, then the clouds open up and send a waterfall to splash down against the Earth. Just. Perfect. And me without an umbrella.
The bar is dark when I arrive, the lot empty. I drive around the building to the back where Jim always parks and there it is—his four door, glossy black Thunderbird. I breathe a sigh of relief. No one else here, just Jim checking his bar with his son in tow. I’m glad I came here first, glad that I knew Jim well enough to know that he wouldn’t be able to go home and relax until he saw that his business was fine.
Parking beside the classic car, I hop out of the Bronco, close the door, and stuff my keys into my pocket. I don’t bother to lock it, there’s nothing inside worth stealing. I’ve even been an idiot and raced out of the house without my purse. Law breaker extraordinaire. Terrance wouldn’t be pleased if I was caught driving without a license. Oh well. Hopefully Steve didn’t inadvertently discover I was sans information and make me leave the Bronco at Jim’s.
It’s not until my right fist pounds against the back entrance that I realize I’ve left my knives in the Bronco. And something tells me I need them. I don’t like it when I need weapons, yet, I’m always leading myself into situations that necessitate them.
Fear, that snake that coils in my belly and makes me want to suck life from the world, rears its head.
I knock again, a dull thud. I’m not good at keeping a beat, so it’s not even rhythmic, like several people are taking turns hitting the door without any mind for keeping in sync with one another. I’m already soaked through and there’s not even the smallest overhead roof to keep me partially protected.
“Jim!” I wait. No answer. “Kyle!” Again, I wait. “Hey, anyone in there?” When I knock this time, it’s five rapid beats that match my heartbeat- which has suddenly gone into overdrive. Instinct tells me to pull out my phone and call Terrance, or at least get back in the Bronco and drive a bit away from the building until Steve shows up. I do neither. Why? Because I’m a damn idiot. “Guys, open the door. I’m getting soaked.”
I sigh in relief when I hear the interior latches opening. “Jeez, what took you so long? If I’d been in trouble I’d be dea—” The word dead catches in my throat. The person who’s answered is not Jim or Kyle. It’s a man I do not recognize.
A gigantic man with sausages for fingers.
Chapter Twenty.
The mountain of a man reaches toward me and grips my upper arms. His fingers are so strong, too strong. Even if I was in better shape, I couldn’t have broken away.
“Let me go.” It’s a little girl’s screech, a sound I haven’t made in a long, long time.
Because it’s been a long time since I was this scared. Years ago, when I got a little too close to the edge of Hellhole Bay.
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that.” A soft voice, deep and musical, comes from the interior shadows of Jim’s bar. It’s not one I recognize. And I can’t see the speaker.
I fight against the large man holding me, although I know it’s futile. He pulls me far enough into the building to shut the door. The surroundings are thrown into near darkness. The man does not release me once the door is closed. Instead, he grips me firmer around the arms, lifts me off the ground enough so that only the tips of my shoes drag against the floor, and he carries me out of the back hall, past Jim’s office, and store room, and into the main area.
“Put me down.” I twist and turn, trying to dislodge his hold. I gasp out loud when he finally drops me unceremoniously and close enough to a bar stool that I knock it over as I tumble down. “Sh
it!” I grunt, as my body makes impact. A sharp pain in my side has me clutching my waist. I’m in the fetal position. Dammit. I’m in the fucking fetal position.
This is why I have to get stronger. I don’t want to be vulnerable.
“Leave her alone.” It’s Jim’s voice, but it sounds muffled… yet wet. Like he’s speaking through a mask lined with honey.
I turn around, trying to find Jim’s face. He’s leaning against a partition that separates the entrance path from the first set of booths. He looks bad. Like a man that should be heading to the hospital rather than just getting out. His left eye is a knitted-together mass of enlarged flesh and bruises. It’s the kind of wound they’ll have to slice open before treating. He’s cradling his arm and it looks very unnatural, like it’s been bent backwards as far as humanly possible and then past that point, past that point until it cracked and broke.
Seeing it almost makes me hear how his scream must have sounded. If he screamed. Would Jim have screamed?
My eyes scan the space. No Kyle. Where’s Kyle?
“Shut up, old man.” The sausage fingered man skulks over to Jim, his body so heavy that his movement shakes the glasses hanging above the liquor shelves. When he gets close enough, he lifts his tree trunk of a leg and slams his foot down against Jim’s knees, which are pressed together. A perfect ‘two birds with one stone’ strike.
Jim grunts, his undamaged eye closes. He doesn’t scream and now I know that he would not have screamed before, when they’d broken his arm. I would have screamed. Sausage Fingers kicks Jim, his at least size thirteen boots digging into ribs. A crack echoes through the bar. Jim slides away from the wall, his body going terribly still against the wood floor. I want to run to him, but a voice stops me.
“Jesus, he just got out of the hospital. What the fuck is wrong with you?” I shouted. I would have shouted louder but my side was hurting too damn much. Probably not as bad as Jim’s were hurting though. God, he had to have broken ribs.
My eyes are trained on Sausage Fingers. He turns to look at me, a cold emptiness in his eyes that sends shivers racing across my skin. “What the fuck is wrong with you, bitch.” He speaks slowly, as if it takes some effort for him to string the words together.
“Now, now, William. Let’s not speak to a lady that way.” It’s the man with the low, melodious voice. He leaves the shadows now, coming to stand under the full light of one of the hanging lamps. The stained glass shade swings slowly, creating an effect almost like a disco light across the man’s body. He walks over to Sausage Fingers, pats him on the shoulder, and then he turns his full attention on me.
“Yes, Mr. Blackthorn. I’m sorry.” The giant hangs his head a little. Blackthorn… Thorn… Mr. Thorn. I struggle to stand, despite the pain. This is the man that hurt Lilly. It has to be him. Moving makes the aches go full force and my vision starts to swim. Bet you wish you’d taken those self-defense courses now, idiot.
“It’s alright, William. All is forgiven.” Blackthorn moves away from William—although I decide Sausage Fingers suits the man better—so that he is in front of the light he once stood beneath. His shadow reaches across the floor, coming so close that it nearly touches the line of my body. I feel the desire to flinch away, even though I know that a shadow cannot hurt me. At least not this kind of shadow.
Blackthorn tilts his head to look down at me. “Not to worry, Ms. Cage. He’ll live. He was only the facilitator after all.” He’s small, very small for a man, with silvery hair that catches the light. His eyes are black pools within his face, intense and somehow sad. “We have some business, you and I. Business that I would like to finish tonight and then we’ll be moving on. Different town, different girls.” He says it so matter-of-factly and with a small sigh because of the inconvenience of it all. As if he’s dealing in tires and not people’s lives. He makes me sick to my stomach.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I stumble over the words, fear choking me.
“Oh, I think you do, Ms. Cage.” Blackthorn comes closer to me. Sausage Fingers is stood off to the side, a good soldier. “It took me a long time to set up a network in Bonneau at the behest of my employer. To deliver someone to blame so that we could move without fear of capture. We were only going to take six, maybe seven girls. The police in this area are so… blind. We pick our territories carefully you see; we stake them out for months to make sure. And then you come along to help the police. Which makes absolutely no sense,” he says his last sentence musically, the words flowing from his tongue like gossamer. But the way he looks at me, his eyes narrowing and his gaze full of suspicion, makes me realize how truly angry I’ve made him for ruining what he had set up.
Oops…
“It’s not the first time I’ve helped the police. Maybe you should have done your homework better,” I spit out the words without thinking. I do that too often. Silly me.
“Yes, well, a detail that my scouts apparently missed. A mistake that they’ll answer for.” Blackthorn’s close enough now that I can smell his breath; cigars and french-fries, an odd combination. He lifts one hand and brushes a length of hair from where it hangs in front of my face. I’m sweating and the strands feel like mop threads, soaked with water, swiping across my forehead. “You’re a pretty one actually. A little old and thick for our normal clientele, but pretty.” He turns to Sausage Fingers. “I think we’ve stumbled across the perfect solution here, William.”
William. I’ve always liked that name. After this though, I’m pretty sure it’ll join my least favorite names of all time—right up there with Gabe, Britney, Eric, and Allyssa. All long damn stories as to why I can’t stand the names. Suffice to say, the shit was bad enough that every time I hear one of those names, I get instantly pissed.
Pulling myself out of my mental musings, I notice that Sausage Fingers is appraising me. He looks me up and down or rather end to end since I’m still on the floor. It’s icky. I know for a fact that he’s undressing me. Unzipping the peplum top, unbuttoning the jean trousers. It’s dirty enough that I feel like I should take off Grandmother Sophia’s cross.
“Stop looking at me, you giant pervert,” I spit. I want to sound fierce. Shit. I just sound scared.
“She won’t bring as much as the little girl would have.” Again, it sounds like Sausage Fingers has to think about every syllable, push the words off his tongue and force them into existence. Lilly, the little girl… I want to scream. I want to scream and rage and kill them both.
“Yes, that was unfortunate, William,” Blackthorn’s voice is a soft whisper. He’s not mad, exactly. He sounds resigned, accepting.
Sausage Fingers suddenly looks like a lost puppy dog. His eyes fill with tears and despite his gigantic size, he looks small. “I’m sorry, Mr. Blackthorn.” It’s the way a child speaks to a parent after a fragile lamp has met its maker via a misdirected soccer ball. It almost makes me feel something like pity towards the large, obviously mentally challenged, man. Almost.
“William, William. All is forgiven. You should never have been left in charge of the girls. It was an accident.” Blackthorn abandons his position over me and moves to the large man, who is hanging his head. The resignation has been replaced with a comforting tone. “It’s all right, my William. Pull yourself out of this darkness. You didn’t mean to hurt the child.” Blackthorn wraps his arms around Sausage Fingers, pulling their bodies into a tight hug. “Banish this darkness, William. Banish it.”
They are quiet, hugging one another.
I take advantage of their very, very strange embrace and I crawl towards the bar. I want to get my hands on the shotgun there, the one Jim keeps mounted below the cash register. Just like in the movies.
Blackthorn’s voice comes alive again. “Now, let’s get on with this dirty business, William. I am tired.”
“Yes, Mr. Blackthorn. I’ll get her, Mr. Blackthorn.” Sausage mumbles the words like stones dropping into a viscous solution. He has to make an effort to drop each little rock exactly whe
re he wants it else it won’t sink to the bottom of the liquid.
I’m behind the bar now and I know the exact moment that both of them realize that I have moved. There’s a shuffle of movement, big lumbering steps shaking the glasses again. Sausage Fingers is on the march. My fingers grip the shotgun and I pray that it’s loaded.
Let’s make one thing clear. I know jack and shit about guns. So if it’s not loaded, safety off, and dummy proof, I’m fucking screwed. I really do need to take those self-defense and firearm courses…
Laying on my back, gun in hand, I pretend like I know the weight of an unloaded gun and I decide to fake it to make it. I’m staring up the barrel of the gun, waiting. Everything is slowed now—the ticking of Jim’s large clock mounted above the wine glasses, my heavy breathing going in and out of my body.
Slow motion.
My pointer finger, splayed out across the trigger guard, feels a little button sticking up. I play with it, feeling the cold metal. And then I push it in. It’s the safety. Right? So… did I just lock or unlock it?
Sausage Finger’s bulbous head leans over the bar. I pull the trigger.
I’ve seen crime scene photos, but I’ve never seen a really, really brutal body in person.
When a large gauge shotgun shell enters a person’s head it’s like… like someone put an overpowered firecracker inside a person’s brain and watched as the fuse reached its endpoint. A Russian roulette of where the explosion would exit. It is a geyser of fluid and grey matter. Off-color pasta noodles splashing out against everything it can reach.
I watch as Sausage Finger’s body falls, slumping lifelessly against the countertop. There is no life inside his eyes now, cold or warm. His jaw is ruined, a gaping hole where his mouth once was. I wait for the shimmering, for his soul to exit his body, but nothing comes.
A shriek sounds from inside the bar. It isn’t human. It’s guttural and bestial. It’s the sound of something that wants to kill me. I stagger upwards, my shoes slipping and sliding in the pool of blood that’s formed on the floor.