“You’re going to be fine,” Ashton assured her, rain water dripping from his nose and soaking his shirt. It beaded down through the window and splashed against her legs. “What’s your name, darling?”
She was too young for this. So was the dead black kid on the road’s shoulder for that matter. He had done what he had to. He had taken action. He tried to smile for the girl as he asked her for her name again, “Darling, what’s your name?”
“Ma… Mara,” she spoke in a slow stutter. She was looking up at him, but then she wasn’t, not really. She was already distant, like she was there and not there at the same time.
“Mara? Well, Mara, help is on its way,” he said. It was on its way, but it would be too late, of that he was certain. He reached through the shards of glass that used to constitute the windshield and took her hand, trying not to introduce any new pain. Her fingers where small, and cold. They felt fragile and soft in his grip. An image of his own teenage daughter, Kindred, superimposed itself in his mind. She was grinning happily. He was certain that Mara had done the same, often probably. The thought of his daughter in the same position as this poor child tore at his soul, but he held back a tear that threatened to break the surface.
“Da… D… Dad,” Mara spoke.
Deputy Keating grinned sadly, “No, Mara, I’m Deputy Keating. I’m here—“
“No…Dad. Dad is in dan…in danger. He nee… He needs help,” she slowly got out between stuttered breaths, “at home.”
“Your dad needs help at home?”
Mara nodded vigorously, fighting off the pain. Her vision blurred more. Suddenly her body convulsed and she coughed violently. Blood spurted between her lips. The deputy looked down at her caringly.
At least I’m not alone, Mara thought.
“Is he in danger? Just nod, you don’t have to talk.” Deputy Keating tried to understand without pressing her too hard.
Mara nodded, and swallowed. He could tell that it hurt her.
“Is there someone else there? Someone trying to hurt him?” Ashton tried one more question. He knew there was little time left for more.
She nodded weakly, “Hel… Help him.”
“I will,” he promised her.
Deputy Keating frowned as the girl’s thin fingers went limp in his hand. He squeezed tightly and watched as her eyes became distant, glassy.
“I promise.” He sighed to hold back the emotions building inside him. He looked away from the girl and tried to focus on what he had to do next. He needed to know where home was.
CHAPTER 21
Chase grinned, baring his healthy white teeth. Dalton had always expected something less pristine to reside within the jaws of a monster. He held the knife at waist level out in front, ready to strike.
"This isn't how I envisioned our little night ending, Dalton," Chase, Bullet, the boy who had lost everything at Dalton's hands jeered. "A fight to the death."
He chuckled like only someone with nothing to lose could. Dark, menacing. Almost demonic.
"No, I had envisioned you dying slowly and painfully," the boy continued as he got to his feet and moved in slow and carefully, blade at the ready. "Mmmm. I thought about it a lot. Stabbing you over and over and over again. Not fatally at first. Oh no, that would be too easy. First somewhere that would just hurt a lot. Maybe your thigh, your calf. Wouldn't want you die too quickly on me. Then of course I'd work my way up."
He closed his eyes in a demented fantasy, groaning. It was as good a moment as any other. Dalton dove forward and stabbed out at the boy's midriff. Chase moved to the side and sliced out, connecting with Dalton's shoulder.
Dalton yelped as the blade carved a shallow red path along his deltoid. Instinctively, he reached for the wound. The boy was fast. The boy reared backward, driving his elbow into Dalton's face. Spit and blood flew from a new split along Dalton's chin. He stumbled back, lost his footing and fell to the floor with a loud thud.
Chase dropped to his knees and flung his body over Dalton. He grabbed for Dalton's knife-wielding hand. "This isn't going to end well for you, Dalton," Chase growled as he wrapped his fingers around Dalton's wrist.
He gripped tight and pressed Dalton's hand to the ground. At the same time, he lifted his body up just enough to make his own knife useful. He raised the knife and jabbed down.
With his free hand, Dalton punched out. He connected with the boy's jaw, earning a dull thunk. He did not notice the pain throbbing in his fingers as the adrenaline began to kick in, unaccustomed to the brutal nature of fist fighting. Chase reeled back in pain and loosened his grip on Dalton's hand.
Dalton used the moment to push back against the hand that held him down while he sent another fist square into Chase's nose. A small shower of blood and a grunt were his reward. The boy's grip loosened from his wrist and Dalton reeled back. He lashed out aimlessly at whatever resided directly above him with the blade.
The boy let out a pained yell and wrenched back. The scream had been accompanied by the sickening sound of metal slashing through skin. Dalton punched out again and Chase tumbled onto the tile with another grunt. Dalton shuffled frantically up to a standing position as Chase worked to do the same. The boy cupped his stomach. The pitch black pigment in his t-shirt contrasted heavily against the pale white skin underneath where the shirt was sliced open. A thin line of red seeped slowly over his stomach.
Dalton didn't grin like Chase would have. Instead he grimaced, and tried to steel his nerves as his hands almost vibrated with adrenaline. Then out of the corner of his eye, he saw something off. A bright reflection of orange and yellow danced outside the windows. Then a tall flame breached the entrance where the lantern had been sitting earlier that night. Dammit!
"You'll have to do better than that, Dalton," Chase chided and abruptly jumped forward.
Dalton pulled himself from his trance just in time to sidestep the blade by a mere inch. He slashed out with his own massive curved blade. Its red-soaked edge glinted as it arched toward the boy's neck, the blade inches from its target, but Chase dipped down with cunning speed. He slipped his hand over Dalton's knife-wielding wrist and continued the motion down and around. He kept a tight grip as he wrenched Dalton's arms around and behind his back, rendering the blade useless in Dalton's hand. Dalton screamed and his fingers sprang open.
The knife clanked to the floor.
Expecting what was to come, Dalton tried to ignore the pain. As he expected, Chase brought his arm up from below, swinging wide, attempting to stab Dalton in the chest, gut him.
Dalton knew it was either his life or a bad cut. He chose a bad cut. He willed his body to move against the boy's grip, his shackled hand seared as he stepped to the side and brought his other arm around. With a shred of luck, Dalton managed to get his free hand pressed against Chase's incoming hand. He shoved away as hard as he could manage and closed his eyes. Pain bloomed up his upper arm.
"Ah! Dammit!" Dalton yelled between gritted teeth.
He opened his eyes to find the long blade pinning Chase's arm to his like a shish kabob. Not what I had planned!
"Argh!" Chase screamed louder than he had all night. He almost mimicked Dalton, mouth wide in pain, eyes crooked.
Before Dalton could react, Chase yanked the knife down and out. It stung like hell as the blade made a new path out, carving the old cut further. Crimson spewed on the carpet as the blade exited the skin and their arms separated. Dalton wanted to pull away from the boy and cradle his arm, comfort himself. Instead he reached out with his free arm while Chase still reeled from the pain and gripped the fresh wound on the boy's arm. He pressed his fingers into to ripe opening. He gritted his teeth and pushed back against his stomach as it went to churning.
Chase screamed. His body shuddered under the intense wave of pain that swept through him. Overtaken by the agony that coursed up his arm, his fingers fumbled their grip on the large knife. It plopped to the leather sofa, painting erratic streaks of iron-infused red as it clambered down to the floor.
"This ends now!" Dalton growled, then released the boy's arm and brought his fist around again, finding purchase just under Chase’s nose. The boy stumbled back.
In the seconds since Dalton had last saw the flames building at the front door, the hellish display of red, orange and yellow had ravaged a path into the foyer and kitchen. The heat from the fire now encompassed him, threatening to reach out and singe his skin. The cabinetry in the kitchen was ablaze and the grey fog was forming along the tall ceiling. He coughed as he inhaled a large breath of the dangerous smog.
Dalton jumped on Chase, tackling him to the ground well out of reach of his weapon. He was at a disadvantage, with or without a knife. The boy had clearly prepared for this moment. Dalton had sat in his comfy chair and took the elevator every chance he got.
He took another swing, driving his fist into Chase's abdomen. He was rewarded with the sound of air rushing from the boy's mouth. Chase lashed out with his good arm, hooking it harshly against Dalton's temple. Dalton's world fuzzed out and then back in. When his vision cleared again, the boy was in his face, and he found a surge of heavy pain break through his stomach as the boy upper-cutted him. Dalton grunted with each blow.
"Just. Give. Up!" Chase yelled after each blow.
"No," Dalton grunted between gritted teeth.
The flame reached closer. The temperature was blooming, becoming unbearable. Sweat trickled down Dalton's body from both exhaustion and the heat building up around them. The blaze had already consumed the kitchen, the foyer and was now encroaching fast on the living room where Dalton was making his last stand. Smoke billowed around them, making it hard to see. A fist he had not expected smacked him under the nose. His head jarred upward, more blood sprinkling the floor.
Dalton groaned and returned the blow aimlessly. He found his mark, his fist connecting with the boy's waist. He coughed hard after swallowing another lung full of smoke. Chase did the same in the middle of a swing that ended abruptly as his body shook from the cough.
With only a moment to spare, Dalton stole a quick glance around the room. There was only one clear exit that didn't involve jumping through a searing wall of flames. The door leading onto the back deck with the view of the lake. As he searched, his eyes hit another door. A small closet next to a heavy curio covered in glass. It was framed in black walnut and held an assortment of Lenore's china and other knick-knacks. Lenore's.
In the corner of his vision he saw one of the knives just a foot or so to his right and then Chase rearing back for another swing. Dalton ducked and the fist careened over him by an inch in a long arch. The boy's momentum carried past Dalton, his swings becoming erratic. Dalton shoved past and scooped up the blade. He spun around and jousted forward as Chase turned around.
He met Chase's stunned gaze as the blade pierced into his soft skin just above his waist and below his stomach. The boy groaned and blinked in confusion. He gasped and then snarled his lips angrily.
"It's not going to end...like this," Chase told him, fighting off the pain. Dalton gritted his teeth, hating every second that the blade remained grafted into the boy's body.
But he had wanted this. He had wanted to watch the boy die, watch him pay for what he had done. Yet, now that he had the opportunity, now that he had the ability to pull out the knife and strike again, he suddenly didn't want to. His body shivered, anger fighting with the thought of ending another person's life. Then his wife's face replaced Chase's. He stared into those empty green eyes, dead and gone. Then it was Aiden, his eyes glassy and cold. Dalton gritted his teeth again as a rage built inside his chest. His gaze shot to the closet.
The closet.
Dalton shoved the knife hard against Chase's skin and wrenched him to the side. He threw his injured arm around Chase and held on as best he could, ignoring the pain the surged up his limb. Chase must have been in shock. He didn't punch out or fight. Dalton shoved him toward the closet door. Only two more feet. The flames seemed to lick at his body now. Sweat poured and the smoke choked.
He reached for the door and turned the knob. Pain surged up his arm as the torn muscle flexed. He grunted and started to push Chase toward the opening. Suddenly, Chase was lucid again. He saw what was happening and lashed out. Dalton's head jerked back as a fist haphazardly made contact with his skull. Then another feeble blow. Dalton yanked the blade out of the boy's body and seared his eyes into the boy's black pits.
"Fuck you!" Then he put his entire body behind the knife and thrust it back into Chase's stomach. The roar of the flames drowned out the sound of the metal blade slicing through soft flesh. It covered his garbled scream. He lashed out aimlessly.
The monster that had plagued him with high words and demented games. The boy who had commanded the brutalization of his daughter and had slaughtered his son and wife. The freak behind a simple mask, that hurt teenager, now whimpered and groaned, gasped as the knife moved in his stomach. Dalton grinded his teeth and then pushed Chase fully into the large closet. He yanked the knife from the boy's stomach, stepped back and slammed the door shut.
Screams echoed from behind the door, quickly followed by panicked thumping on the wooden slab. Dalton coughed as the smoke took up most the room in his lungs. He lunged to the side and put all his strength into pushing the massive curio cabinet. It began to lift, but came back to the floor. He heaved again and the cabinet toppled over and crashed onto the floor. Glass shattered all over the tile floor reflecting the red and orange of the approaching flames about the dark room. Dalton leaned his back into the cabinet and shoved it against the wall just as Chase got his wits to use the handle. The door slammed shut in his face.
The monster tried again to open the door, but it wouldn't budge, held tight by the heavy cabinet. Dalton coughed again, his head feeling light from the smoke. He turned to run out the back door but his feet were slow, heavy. Flames burst around him. The couch and recliner became a blazing wildfire. The ceiling above was coated in what appeared to be liquid as the hues of orange, blue and red consumed the room.
Dalton stumbled forward. The back door was within reach, only another three yards from where he stood. The distance seemed to elongate as his vision narrowed and his head began to spin. He stepped forward and lost his balance. He squinted, trying to clear his vision, trying to peer through the heavy smoke. Ahead, the world seemed to stretch out. He reached out with his good arm and lifted his chest from the floor. He started to crawl.
Smoke billowed around him. A horrid noise pierced through the roar of the flames. Something crashed behind him. He didn't care, he had to get out. He had to live for Mara. Then a shrill but muffled scream rose above the howl of the flame. Then there was another and another. Dalton tried to bury the noise as he pushed forward, but it dug into his skull. He coughed again, this time over and over again. The flames were only feet behind him. His vision blurred as his head began to spin. Then his world faded away.
The vendor hall was a buzz of activity. Suits and conservative skirts danced from one booth to the next in search of that next business contact or art purchase. Dalton had his eyes set on one piece of art in particular. She was beautiful, slender but not too so, long legs, soft brown hair with just a little wave that hung inches below her shoulders. She used her hand to push a stray lock back behind her shoulder. Perfect pink lips and beautiful sea green eyes, so intelligent and unwittingly seductive.
Dalton stood across the aisle watching her talk to some kid, probably a college intern for some Ivy League school from the looks of his suit. They were eagerly discussing her newest book. Dalton's chest was thumping, his breathing coming harder than usual. Her name was Lenore and he was about to ask her out on a date.
With a sudden gasp, Dalton jerked upright. His left arm tore back from its ill-chosen perch on the sodden grass. It protested against the strain on his fresh open wound. Pellets of cold liquid peppered his exposed skin. It felt good against his overheated body. Beyond the droplets, the sky was dark and the cold air bristled against his skin. H
e reached around his body toward the bloody mass on his other arm.
"Careful now," a man's voice urged him. A strong hand helped him sit up and stayed against his back to support him. "Take it easy."
Dalton squinted in the rain and found the man knelt beside him. An officer, his entire uniform was sodden, his face soaked, water beading off his chin and down to the ground. An officer. The sight of the lawman sent a small calm over his body. Finally, Dalton could not hold back his surprise. He was alive.
"I'm Deputy Ashton Keating. Is there anyone left in the house?" Deputy Keating asked.
Dalton didn't answer right away. He managed to angle his face toward the burning structure. Even a generous fifteen yards away, he could still feel the heat beating off the mammoth flames. They rose up toward the midnight sky, daring Mother Nature to try to quench its raw power.
No.
"No," Dalton said. He had no way of knowing whether Chase, or Bullet, was still among the living or a charred mass of melting flesh. He had trapped the boy in the closet. For a brief moment he felt a twinge of guilt before the rain washed it away. The calm of his next words chilled him. "No. They’re all dead."
Suddenly, his mind spun around on him.
"Mara!" Dalton flung his eyes back toward the deputy. "Mara! Did you find Mara?"
It was an unlikely chance, but he had to ask. He needed to know if she was all right. She had to be all right. Had to be. He needed her to be all right.
"Are you Dalton Summers?" Deputy Keating asked, trying to maintain a professional detachment.
Dalton nodded, "Yes. I'm her dad. Is she okay? Is she with you?"
For a moment, the only sounds came from the growing deluge and the dwindling blaze as it fought against the rain. The two men looked at each other for a horrible moment. Ashton shot his eyes down and then back up to Dalton, and swallowed.
To Watch You Bleed Page 22