by Keri Lake
I don’t say a word, in spite of the agonizing pain in my arm, as I back myself around the corner, down the same hallway as his little hobby room.
“Nola was supposed to be my first true love. Special. And that flower was for her. My beautiful queen.”
“Looks like you’re shit out of luck,” I respond, as my eyes adjust in the darkness, and the shapes of objects begin to sharpen. “She already belongs to me.”
A bullet hits the wall beside me, steeling my muscles.
“No. You’re nothing but a mangey dog. Dirty and filthy. I plan to purify her with my nectar. To make her clean and virtuous again.”
Nectar? ‘The fuck is he talking about? “I already purified her.” I still can’t see shit, and the bullet in my arm is a reminder that I don’t want one lodged in my skull. Backing deeper into the hallway, I try to see past the darkness, but his black suit gives him an advantage. There isn’t enough light to catch the shine of it.
Another bullet strikes the wall beside me.
Come on, motherfucker, my thoughts implore. If I can get him to attack me, I can snap the little prick’s neck once he’s in my grasp.
“She tell you we fucked? I filled her so full of my cum, she’ll never be clean again,” I taunt.
An object flies out of the darkness hitting the wall beside me.
“No!” Another follows, crashing to the floor. Pots he picks up and throws at me in a fit of rage. Glass smashes in front of me. Something wet splashes against my knee and shoe, and the potent scent of pickles, or vinegar, hits the back of my throat like the stab of a knife. I bend forward, coughing at the gaseous odor overwhelming my senses. Dizziness strikes me with a vague awareness that I’m swaying, feeling like I’m trying to keep still on a rocking boat. Only a flash of light hits the darkness, before he tosses a lit rag that smacks my shoe and catches fire.
“Fuck!” I stomp my foot against the floor, using my non-flaming foot to try to stamp out the small blaze before it can climb my pants. A watering can sits nearby, and I douse the flame with the water inside of it, the flickering light dying down to darkness again. A barky cough fails to dislodge the burnt chemical scent sticking to my throat.
In the quiet that follows, his shaky breaths fill the black void, but I can’t see anything.
“She’s no use to me, anymore.” His voice is farther away this time, perhaps clear across the pole barn, colored in grays and darkness. Grim and hopeless. “I wanted to make her pure. I wanted to cleanse her. You destroyed my flower. You destroyed my girl. She’s beyond saving now. Nothing can be saved!”
Nola.
Bounding across the concrete on hands and knees toward them, I hear the clamor of more broken glass that stills my heart. The crazy bastard plans to burn everything.
No. No! I push to my feet, hustling blindly in the darkness to where Nola lies. A gunshot echoes inside my skull, followed by a sharp, piercing pain that hits the back of my thigh. Falling to my knees, I reach out, my finger just grazing the plastic sheath covering Nola, and I hear her gasping beneath. Ignoring the pain in my leg, I crawl toward her sounds of suffocation, over shards of broken glass that slice into my skin, and pat around for the tubing that was sticking out of her mouth before.
Cold metal hits the back of my skull.
“Give me your gun. Or the last thing you’ll see is the bits of your skull showering her.”
My mind spins with a number of scenarios: kicking his feet out from under him, reaching back for the gun, tearing his balls off with my bare hands. All it’d take is one stray bullet, though, and Nola would be dead.
Head bowed, I feel the sweat trickling over the back of my neck, dripping down my jaw onto the concrete below me, and that scent of pickles hits me again, before a glass jar shatters to the floor beside me. Formaldehyde, no doubt. It burns my eyes and nostrils, shooting up my sinuses, and I let out a cough, gripping my throat while the pungent odor invades my lungs. The burn intensifies, like small pockets of fire searing holes into my breathing passages and skin.
Every breath marks off the seconds. Seconds until she runs out of air. Seconds until he pulls the trigger. Seconds until he lights the flame that’ll burn this whole damn place and everyone in it alive.
I set the gun down on the floor beside me, only for Nola’s sake. Can’t risk it.
“When I cut out her eyeballs, I’ll be sure to keep her alive.” His voice is muffled, and I’ve no doubt his face is covered to avoid him breathing in the strong scent. The steel pushes my head forward until I’m staring down at blackness where the floor should be. “Pity I can’t say the same for you. Tell me, Voss, if given the choice, would you rather watch her suffocate, or burn alive?”
She continues to gasp behind the plastic, the fervent squeaking of latex giving sound to her panic.
“She’s going to die,” I grit out through clenched teeth, and wheeze.
“She is. And I’ll have her, either way. But I’ll enjoy her so much more while watching everything burn. Fucking in the flames. Doesn’t get any more divine than that.” The shaky quality of his voice, laced with a small bit of amusement, tells me he’s lost his mind. “Now, answer the question. You want to see this?”
The sounds of Nola’s screams and her nails scratching at the latex have me grinding my jaw, fists curled, ready to strike out and take my chances with wherever the bullet hits.
The taunting click of a lighter’s flint wheel trying to flick to life halts my retaliation. “Did you know formaldehyde vapors are explosive when exposed to a flame?” he asks.
For a split second, I’m a teenager again, staring down at a young girl about to be burned alive by my sadistic uncle. In my thoughts, her struggle mirrors Nola’s, as the two of them wreak havoc inside my head.
Another waft of formaldehyde assaults my nose, watering my eyes, reminding me there is nothing worse than burning alive.
I’m a trained killer. A merciless torturer. Yet, I knew this day would come. I dreaded it. The day when a woman would turn me weak. When my instincts would give way to caution. When I’d sooner die than watch her suffer.
“I’ll take your silence as a ye—” His words cut abruptly, followed by the sound of deadweight, like a heavy sack hitting the floor. Metal clangs against the concrete beside me. The lighter bounces to my side, mocking the fluids pooled around me.
“Voss?”
The lights flip on.
Blowing out a shaky breath, I can just barely make out a smaller form, like a kid’s, standing beside the crumpled, black mass on the floor. “Oliver?”
“I m-m-made him pass out with that trick? The one y-y-y-you taught me.” A cough and wheezing follows.
Nola gasps again.
“Cover … your mouth with something.” I pull my jacket over my face to block out the odor.
Half blind, I pat around the edge of the frame on which Nola remains bound, and direct Oliver to disconnect the clips from the head of the vacuum bed, while I unroll the aluminum rod, letting the air back in. Nola scrambles out from inside the bed as soon as she’s able, in a bra and underwear, still gasping for breath. I tear a small bit of my shirt to cover her face. Not a second later, she darts forward, straight for Oliver.
Crashing into her son, she peppers him with kisses in between performing a quick check over him. “Are you okay? You’re not hurt?” A barky cough follows, and she lifts the back of her arm to shield her nose.
I take a moment to rinse the residual formaldehyde from my skin in the utility sink next to the broken shelves, then limp toward them. The hot flare of my leg’s bullet wound settles into an intense ache, like it was whacked with a baseball bat. “Move toward the door,” I say, herding the duo with a wave of my hand, while still covering my face.
When we reach the door at the opposite side of the pole barn, I nudge it open a bit. The fresh air soothes the burning, and I stand in the doorway, breathing it in to cool my scorched lungs.
“Did he hurt you?” Nola asks again.
Shak
ing his head, Oliver offers a slight smile, while she holds out his arms, examining every inch of them. “Oli? He didn’t …. He didn’t touch you, did he?”
He frowns and shakes his head. “I’m okay, M-M-M-Mom.”
She lifts two trembling hands to his face on the short staccato breaths of a sob, and rests her forehead against his. “I never thought … I’d hear that voice again.”
I remove my coat and wrap it around her. Black leather swallowing her, she spins around and snakes her arms around my neck, her whole body quaking against me. Short pants of breath are the beginnings of a sob that she cuts short when she squeezes me tighter, burying her face in my neck.
Damn the relief pounding through my muscles as I crush her against me, the intense pain in my arm and leg, somehow forgotten. Seventeen years, I’ve paid to keep women at a distance, and this one, I can’t keep close enough.
“I knew you’d come after me. I knew you’d find me,” she whispers in a shaky voice. “Thank you.”
I want to kiss the shit out of her, but not with the kid watching. Instead, I grip her shoulders, breaking the embrace, and plant a kiss to her forehead. “Stay with Oliver for a minute. That formaldehyde will act like smelling salts.”
As the two of them reunite, I drag Simon awkwardly on my gimp leg, onto the bed, roll the aluminum rod back into place and reconnect the vacuum. He wakes just as the latex is sealing his arms tight at his side, and he’s immobile before he can reach up to turn it off. Holding his face, I reattach the tubing and stare down at him.
The sounds of his groans through the breathing tube bring a smile to my face.
As I push to a stand and disconnect the vacuum, Nola comes up from behind, her face buried in my coat, and hammers her foot in what I imagine would be his ribcage if I could see clearer. Over the last few minutes, though, my sight has slowly begun to sharpen more and more, as the effects of the pepper spray and formaldehyde fumes begin to dissipate.
“Sick bastard! You rotten piece of shit!” Over and over, she kicks him, as he remains locked inside the latex, until one last slam of her foot into his face knocks the breathing tube right out of his mouth. He shakes his head in what little movement he can muster, the black tube wriggling about.
I pull her into me and kiss her forehead. “We’re not going to report this one right away, got it?”
“What if he gets out?”
“He can try, I suppose.”
“Promise me this bastard will never see the light of day again, and I promise you I won’t report it to Jonah, yet.”
“That I can promise you.” I nudge him with my shoe and set the breathing tube back to his mouth. I don’t want him dead. Yet.
Oliver issues one more stomp to his genitals, and Simon grunts beneath the plastic, his body jerking in obvious pain. “T-T-Take that, asshole.”
Shifting her attention from Simon to Oliver, Nola shakes her head, a slight smile stretching her lips, and ruffles her son’s hair. “Let’s get out of here before I decide to kick his breathing tube loose again.” Arm wrapped around Oli, Nola guides her son out of the pole barn. “When did this happen? Your talking.”
“F-F-Few times. I p-p-p-practiced in my r-r-r-room.”
“Well, keep practicing.” She leans in to kiss him on the forehead. “Because I’ve really missed that sound.”
Crouching once more, I stare down at Simon, who’s hardly discernible through the thick latex. “When I cut your eyeballs out, I’ll be sure to keep you alive,” I say, smiling as his muffled cries carry up through the breathing tube. “Sweet dreams.”
I limp after Nola and Oliver, out of the pole barn, the flare in my side a reminder that I have yet more wounds to sew tonight. Flipping off the lights, I hear the rubbing together of latex in the darkness, and I close the door behind me.
24
Nola
Six weeks later …
“Mom! Uncle Jonah’s here!” Oliver calls from inside the house.
“Coming!” I answer back, twisting the sand-glazed bowl to study the shiny golden lines sealing the cracks, before setting it down atop my workbench.
After giving a quick wash to my hands at the sink inside my studio, I wipe them dry against my apron and make my way into the house, depositing the apron on a hook along the way.
Decked out in winter boots and a coat, Oliver stands at the front door, his bags already packed and ready to go.
Arms crossed, Jonah tips his head, eyes narrowed as he studies my face. “You’re absolutely, positively certain you don’t mind him ice-fishing?”
“I’m as … certain … as Mom was, when you went ice fishing with Dad. Just be careful, okay?” A nervous laugh slips out unintentionally. “I’m going to try not to think about it too much.
“I’ll be fine, Mom.”
My face softens at that and I grab him by the crown, tugging him in for a quick kiss. “I know you will.”
“You’re welcome to come with us. Diane might be willing to give up the baby for … two, maybe three, minutes to let you hold her.”
“I wish. I have a show next weekend. Just trying to build up my inventory again.” Leaning against the staircase bannister, I cross my arms and smile. “How is baby Nora, by the way? Sleeping through the nights, now?”
“Mostly. Diane and I take turns feeding her.”
“It’s only temporary. Take it from me, someday you’re going to miss those moments.”
He sighs and shakes his head. “I’ll take your word for it.” Stepping toward me, he pulls me in for a hug. “Remember to lock the doors, okay? And if you need anything, I’m just a phone call away. Grim’s going to do his usual drive by tonight.”
“Still haven’t caught him, huh?”
Lips pressed to a hard line, he shakes his head. Jonah’s department has worked tirelessly to find The Sandman, who they now know is Simon Jeffries—that much I offered. “I’m not going to lie, Nola. He could be anywhere, at this point. At least now, we have a name and a face, and it’s been blasted all over the news. Hasn’t been a girl missing in weeks. My guess is, he’s probably trying to lay low. Maybe even moved on to a different city by now.”
“Maybe. I hope you’re right.”
“There was one curious bit of evidence noted by the investigator who checked out that pole barn, though.” He glances to Oliver and back to me, as if Oliver might give something away. “Shoe prints found just outside the door seemed fresh, the day police were called. Same size as Voss’s, which he noted alongside what was determined to be yours and Oliver’s. Different sole pattern, though. And the depth of the impression was slightly off from the others.”
“Which implies …”
“Two things, actually. A lag in the time the crime was reported, and the fact that someone might’ve carried something out of that pole barn on a different day. Wearing different shoes.”
“That is interesting.”
Jonah bites his lower lip—he probably doesn’t realize I know he does this when he thinks someone is lying to him. Must be a sort of comfort thing to keep from punching the other person. “Of course, I had to remind the investigator of the possibility that members of the Devil’s Disciples may have tracked through there before our arrival. The brother of one of the men found at the garage, where you say you were initially held, seemed pretty hellbent on knowing who killed his kin.”
“Is that a possibility? The shoe prints belonging to one of them, I mean?”
“Perhaps.” The way Jonah looks at me reminds me of the time when we were kids, and he asked me if I’d swiped cash from his piggy bank. “Doesn’t seem likely that you would have waited to call the police.”
“I wouldn’t have. I wanted that bastard locked away more than anyone.”
“Or dead, I’d imagine.” He’s definitely onto me, but I’m not going to crack on this one, because Simon Jeffries mutilated innocent people. He doesn’t deserve to simply rot in a jail cell, or risk being set free. “You heard from Voss?”
I shake
my head, setting my hands on my hips. “Not much. He’s been in New York, the last couple weeks.”
“Well, I’m guessing we’ve got all we’re going to get out of him. But I’m still keeping my eyes on him.”
“What for?”
“Because you’re my sister. He might be innocent of the murders, but that doesn’t remove him from my shit-list.”
Frowning, I cross my arms. “Did Denny ever make your shit-list?”
“Denny was never off my shit-list. From the beginning.”
“Well, that’s encouraging, at least.”
Even if he’s my brother, when it comes to his work, there is no going easy on me. If he thought, for one second, he could help track Simon down by interrogating me, he wouldn’t hesitate, I’m certain. While I appreciate that, I’ve also come to appreciate he’s not always right.
Sometimes, it’s best to put predators into the hands of other predators and leave it alone.
Jonah’s face snaps out of business, setting my stomach at ease again, and hikes a thumb over his shoulder. “We’re gonna hit the road. It’s an hour’s drive to the cabin, and we’d like to get there before Nora’s next feeding.”
“Gotcha. Take care.” I give one more kiss to Oliver, and another hug to Jonah. “Give Diane and Nora my love and kisses. Lots of kisses.”
“Will do.”
Oliver follows Jonah out the door, but pauses to look over his shoulder. He gives me a wink and a smile, setting his hand to the knob. “Stay out of trouble.”
“You, too.” I wink and smile back, just before he closes the door behind him.
* * *
Hours pass, and by nine o’clock, night has long since set in. I sit on the couch in my robe and fuzzy slippers, having already taken an hour-long bath, flipping through channels on TV. At a flash of light outside the window, I peer through the curtain, to see a patrol car crawl past my house.
Half-smiling, I wave at what I assume is Grim conducting his usual drive-by, and sink back onto the couch. With a yawn, I flick the TV off, momentarily creeped out by the surrounding darkness, and head up the staircase. As I reach the top of the stairs, a sound draws my attention toward my bedroom.