River Wild
Page 16
I pay for the stroller. River carries it out to his truck and puts it in the trunk.
We get in the truck, and he pulls out into traffic.
He seems to be in a world of his own. On edge even.
The drive home is masked in silence, filled only by the radio playing. I keep my face buried in my phone, playing a game on it. Feeling simultaneously annoyed, upset, and confused by his behavior.
River isn’t exactly a stranger to mood swings. But this mood swing came from out of nowhere.
He pulls up outside my house. He’s out of the truck and getting the stroller out of the trunk before I even have my seat belt off.
I head straight for my front door, unlocking it.
Buddy is there to greet me like always.
“Hey, Bud.” I blow him a kiss.
Bending down to pet him isn’t an option at the moment with the size of this belly I’m carrying around. I honestly don’t think I’d get back up again if I attempted to bend down.
“Where do you want this?” River’s gruff voice comes behind me.
I jolt at the sound of him after having his silence for the last hour.
“Olive’s room, please.”
I waddle to the sofa, lowering myself onto it, and kick off my shoes. Buddy hops up onto the sofa and snuggles in beside me. I start stroking his fur.
I hear the sound of River’s boots thumping down the hall. Even though he’s acting like an ass at the moment, we do have dinner together almost every night, and I am starving.
So, I ask, “Do you want to order in tonight or—”
The sound of my front door slamming shut has my words halting.
I spin my head around to the closed door.
Did he just leave?
I push up off the sofa, which takes some doing nowadays, and waddle over to the window just in time to see River’s truck turning in the street and peeling out of there.
River
I’m sitting in my truck across the street and a little way down from the house I’m watching.
Watching and waiting for its occupant to come home.
Taking my box of cigars from the center console, I take a cigar out, cut the end off using my cutter, and light up.
On a deep inhale, I drag the smoke into me.
My gran used to smoke cigars. Every night after dinner, she would sit on the porch out back, smoke a cigar, and have a glass of whiskey.
I love the smell of cigars. It reminds me of my gran. Of home. Of the one place where I knew I was safe.
That’s why I still live in that fucking house. Why I couldn’t bring myself to move after Gran died.
Because it’s the only place I’ve ever felt truly secure after that sick bastard of a stepdad killed every safe feeling I ever had.
He took everything from me.
Except for Gran. And that house.
He could never take that.
Sexual predators care for only one thing—themselves and their sick, fucked up wants.
They don’t care about the destruction they leave in their wake.
They’re fucking monsters.
And don’t ever be fooled into thinking you know what one of those sick fucks looks like.
They’re not the image of old, dirty, greasy, seedy-looking men that we once believed to be true.
They are men and women of any age, any look, and any job. They can be the server at your local deli or the man who fixes your car. They can be the doctor you’ve visited for years. The person you trust to educate your child. Your dentist. The kid who bags your groceries. Or the middle-aged woman you take that Zumba class with.
They can be your best friend, aunt, uncle, mom, dad, or fucking stepdad.
They are and can be anyone.
They look just like you and I do.
Monsters in plain clothing.
I always think of them like the characters from Roald Dahl’s book The Witches.
Regular-looking people until the masks come off.
The current sick fuck that I’m waiting on used to be a teacher. A kindergarten teacher.
But, you might say, surely, before hiring, the school does background checks with the Criminal Justice Information Services to ensure they have no criminal record.
Of course they do. But all that means is, they either haven’t offended yet or they haven’t been caught.
And that motherfucker was the latter.
Parents entrusted their children with this monster in plain clothes.
He took that trust and used it to his advantage to get what he wanted. In turn, ruining the lives of two young boys and their families.
He created more of me.
Boys who will grow into men with more pain and resentment than they know what to do with.
I hope those boys can move on. Live a full life. Love and be loved.
That’s not in the cards for me.
I’m a barely functioning human being.
This keeps me going. What I’m doing now, it gives me purpose. And, the glass art that Gran taught me to do, that helps keep my mind calm.
And Red. She’s a balm to the open wounds I have.
Something I didn’t even know I needed.
Just being around her brings a calming peace to me.
Even when we’re disagreeing.
Life without her now would be … hard.
She’s going to wonder why I just checked out on her.
I’ll go see her tomorrow morning. Make up some bullshit excuse. She doesn’t need to know about this. She doesn’t need to know anything more about me. Her knowing about my mom is more than I wanted her to know.
But, surprisingly, it didn’t change things.
Well, I did. I fucked it up for a while. And I’m lucky as hell that she gave me another chance.
I just … I like the way she looks at me. The way she treats me. Like I’m normal.
I don’t want anything to ever change that.
But, when I saw him in the store earlier … the store filled with kids and their parents … I wanted to walk over to him and rip his dead heart out of his chest.
The only reason I didn’t was because I was with Red.
He didn’t see me though.
But he will very soon.
I made my presence known to him when he got out of jail two months ago.
He’d only served a sickening two years before he was put back out on the streets.
And that was where I came in.
I approached him and told him I’d be keeping tabs on him. Warned him to keep his nose clean.
Clearly, he didn’t take heed.
Stupid cunt.
So, I’m back here to remind him what will happen if I ever see him near kids.
I can feel anger coursing through my veins. I take a long pull on my cigar, curling my fingers into the palm of my other hand, digging my nails into the skin until I feel it break. The little trickle of blood calms me some.
The burner cell I keep in my truck rings.
I know who it is. Marcus. The only person who has this number.
I’m part of a group called The Avengers of Injustice.
Marcus is the head of the group. He founded it. He’s also a Marvel nerd, hence the group name.
When I was nineteen, I discovered them purely by chance while browsing social media.
They’re what some might call a vigilante group.
To me, we’re the antitoxin before the disease.
Watching the videos they had posted, showing them entrapping and catching sexual predators before they even got a chance to hurt anyone, gave me a feeling that I’d never felt before … like, if I could do this, then I could make a difference. I could stop bad things from happening.
I remember how my hand shook as I typed out a message to the group via the social media page.
An hour later, a man called Marcus North wrote me back.
He asked how I would like to help. I told them entrapment wasn’t something I was interested in doing.
Neither was being videoed while confronting these sick fuckers and putting it out on social media. But helping them was. Stopping the problem before more started was.
Marcus asked if we could talk offline.
Curious, I agreed.
I called the number he had given me.
That was when Marcus told me that there was a job that I could do for them.
But it was an off-the-books kind of job. Then, he explained it.
Without hesitation, I told him I was in.
And my life finally had meaning.
I had purpose.
So, I became an enforcer.
I keep down those who won’t stop.
Those who won’t listen.
I make sure they listen.
I do what needs to be done.
I’m a big man. I can be a scary motherfucker when needed. But, if you asked Red, she’d say I was nice. I’m not nice. Only to her.
I know what it’s like to be a terrified kid subjected to horrific things at the hands of one of those sick fucks.
I’m the right kind of man for the job.
The social media aspect of the group, they do the bait-trapping—posing as children online to trap the predators, arranging a meetup, and then turning up with their cameras and filming them before posting it online. And the namers and shamers post the details on local predators in their areas. They have no clue about the enforcers.
Not everyone would agree with what I do. We currently have thirty enforcers across the country. None of us know who the others are. It’s better that way. But more will join and become enforcers. Because of sick fuckers like my stepdad and the men and women we keep track of, there are more people like me in the world than I care to think about.
Marcus knows who I am.
But we never use our real names.
I’m Enforcer Nine. Or E9, as Marcus refers to me as.
Marcus has recruited twenty-one more enforcers since I joined them.
Twenty-one more fucked up people just like me because of sick fuckers like the one I’m waiting on.
I snatch up my cell from the passenger seat, answering it.
“Has he shown yet?” Marcus’s gravelly voice travels down the line.
I called him straight after I got Red home safely to let him know what I was doing. I always check in with Marcus when I’m onto one of these sick fuckers.
Marcus North is in his mid-thirties. Unmarried. No kids. And he’s as messed up as I am. He started the group when he was in his early twenties. A coping mechanism, I would guess. Not that he’s ever spoken of his past to me. Like I never have to him.
But it’s easy enough to recognize a person carrying the same weight as you.
I see it in Red, too. And that scares the fucking shit out of me.
“No,” I tell him, stubbing out my cigar on my cigar box. I put it back in the box to finish later.
“You’re definitely sure it was him?”
“One hundred percent.”
I don’t forget their faces. Every one of these sick fuckers’ faces is burned into my mind. Just like my stepfather is and always will be.
Marcus sighs. “He’s going to be a problem; you know that.”
“I know.”
A shadowy figure approaches the house, hands stuffed in his pockets.
“He’s here. Gotta go.”
“Do what’s necessary. Check back in when it’s done.”
I toss my cell onto the passenger seat. Grab my ball cap, pull it low over my eyes. Then, I pause, looking at my cigar cutter. I pick it up and slip it into my pocket.
I get out of my truck and cross the street, walking quickly, blending into the shadows. My large strides easily eating up the space between me and him.
My heart pounds in my chest. Adrenaline coursing through my veins. Ready. So fucking ready for this.
I move around the house. Slipping down the side, I let myself into the garden through the back gate.
I tread soundlessly over the pathway leading around to the back door.
The kitchen is in darkness.
I try the door. Locked.
It takes me less than thirty seconds to have it open.
I soundlessly slip inside the house, closing the door behind me.
I can hear the television on in the adjacent living room.
I hear the toilet flush. He’s in the downstairs bathroom.
I head in that direction on silent feet. For a big man, I can move quietly when I want to.
Years of trying to be invisible in the house around my stepdad when I was a kid.
Not that it ever made a difference.
I know the basic layout of this prick’s house. Marcus sent me the floor plan via email while I was sitting outside, waiting.
The bathroom door is open.
He’s standing in front of the sink, washing his hands. His head is down.
I can see myself in the mirror above his head.
I try not to look at myself.
I wait for him to lift his eyes and see me.
His head rises, and he blanches.
“Remember me?” I smile evilly at him in the mirror.
He moves quickly, grabbing the door to shut it.
I’m quicker.
I force the door back open.
He stumbles back against the counter. “I haven’t done anything!” he cries.
I cock my head to the side. “You sure about that?”
“I haven’t! I swear!”
I recite the store name where I saw him.
Fear fills his face.
Righteousness covers mine.
“Told you I’d be watching.” I turn and close the bathroom door behind me, locking it. “And you didn’t listen. So, it’s time for you and I to have the second part of our little chat.”
“No! No!” the weak, pathetic, sick little fucker chants, sliding along the counter. “Yes, I was in there! But I didn’t do anything. I promise! I was only looking. I didn’t touch anyone, I swear!”
Only looking.
“It’s your fault, River. You make me do this. You’re so beautiful. I can’t help myself. Be quiet now. It will only hurt for a minute.”
I squeezed my eyes shut tight.
I’m not here. I’m somewhere else. Someplace safe.
Just don’t look, River. Don’t open your eyes. It’ll be over soon.
Bile rises in my throat. I swallow it down.
I grab the sick bastard by his fat, meaty hand, dragging him to me.
He’s crying now.
And I feel nothing.
I bend down to his height, lowering my face to his. He’s crying harder now. His face is white with fear.
Fucking pussy.
He can give it, but he can’t take it.
I smile. It’s a twisted kind of smile. I’d like to say it was an act. But it’s not. Because I know I’m going to enjoy this.
“Don’t worry,” I tell him, getting the cigar cutter from my pocket. I tighten my hold on his hand, singling out his little fat finger. “This will only hurt for a minute.”
Unlike the lifetime of pain that you gave to those two boys, I think as I slide the cutter over the tip of his finger.
Carrie
I can’t sleep. I’m all weirded out by River’s behavior earlier. And, honestly, I’m worried about him. I even tried calling his cell to check on him, but of course, he didn’t answer, and I didn’t bother to leave a message.
Plus, Olive doesn’t seem to be in the mood to sleep either. She’s restless. Constantly on the move tonight.
And, now, even I’m calling Olive a she now. It’s all River’s fault.
I’m just sitting on the sofa with Buddy lying fast asleep beside me, snoring. I’m staring at the TV without really watching it, my mind elsewhere—on River.
Not even the sight of David Boreanaz in the Buffy the Vampire Slayer rerun I’m watching can take my mind off of River.
It’s frustrating. And annoying.
I’
m not even thinking about the fact that I have to be in the diner for the breakfast shift in six hours.
Sigh.
I hear the low roar of a car driving past my house.
River.
I clamber up off the sofa, and for the second time this evening, I’m looking out the window for him.
I see his truck pulling into his driveway and him climbing out and heading inside his house.
Well, he’s alive at least.
Although he might not be when I’m finished with him.
Usually, I never question River on anything to do with his life because I don’t want him prying into my life, but for some reason tonight, I’m sick of the secrets.
I want to know what happened in the store tonight.
I want to know why he dumped me off here and drove off like his ass was on fire.
I want to know where he’s been for all these hours.
And I want to know these things because I care about him.
I’m pulling my cardigan on over my pajama top and sliding my feet into my sneakers before I can change my mind about going over there.
“Back soon,” I tell Buddy when he lifts his head from the sofa to see where I’m going.
I let myself out of my front door and walk the short distance over to River’s house.
I don’t even bother to knock. I just walk straight in. I’m that fired up.
He’s not in the living room. I see the light on in the kitchen, so I head in there.
I see him standing at the sink, his back to me.
“You forget how to knock, Red?”
He heard me come in. Well, I wasn’t exactly being quiet.
“Oh, give me a break,” I fire back, in no mood to spar with him right now. “You never knock at my house anymore. You just walk straight in if the door’s unlocked. And, if you don’t want me coming in your house, then lock the fudging door.”
He glances back at me over his shoulder.
The look on his face jolts me. His eyes look … darkly primitive. Almost sexual. His face looks flushed. His skin is glowing, like he’s just done some physical exertion. And his hair is disheveled, like he’s been repeatedly running his hands through it.
Or maybe someone else has.
I add up all the aspects of his appearance and don’t like the outcome that I come up with.
Has he been with a woman?