He took another sip from the flask. Smacked his lips.
“Hey there, little bunny.” His gaze settled on Arielle before switching to Charlotte. “And my long-legged gazelle. Nice to see you picking flowers in the forest like good girls.”
Arielle dropped the flower she was holding into the basket. She brushed hair out of her face, the smell of her own sweat filling her nose.
That wasn’t the first time, Arielle sent. But that day was different…
“Hi, Paul,” Arielle said in a high-pitched voice, sounding weak and uncertain. The voice of a child.
Paul winked at her.
Charlotte watched him with the alertness of a guard dog. “You’re drunk.”
“What, are my brain waves scrambled or something?” He was grinning at her now, tilting a little like he was laughing deep inside his chest.
He spread his arms wide as if to catch her in a running jump. Charlotte stayed in place, arms by her sides. Arielle watched her, confused now.
“Go away,” Charlotte said. “Whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t. It’s almost lunchtime. We need to get back.”
“No, sweetheart, you don’t,” Paul slurred.
“Just go, Paul”
Arielle stiffened, aware of the strain in her bladder. She had to pee. If she stayed like this much longer, she was going to wet herself.
The flask slipped from Paul’s hand into the leaves with a sloshing thud. He made no motion to pick it up. There was a knife in his other hand now. Arielle hadn’t seen him move to get it.
Paul was studying Arielle now.
“You’re going to stay right where you are, little bunny. Me and your sister are gonna have us a talk. You scream or try to run away”—he sliced the air in front of him—“and I’ll make her scream. You got me?”
I can’t watch, Michael sent.
You have to. I need you to understand.
The memory went blurry as tears flooded Arielle’s eyes.
Charlotte was in the bushes now, the man over her. His pants were down to expose half his backside, the muscles clenching each time his body shifted.
A small voice in Arielle’s mind screamed, Help! Help her!
Soon, the sky and the forest darkened, but it was just the man—just Paul—looming over her, his tongue sliding over his lips, blocking her view of the sky.
It was Arielle’s turn now. First Charlotte and now her.
Then she saw it, jumping at her from between his legs, an offensive weapon he would use to hurt her. She screamed. Paul’s body landed on hers, thick and heavy and hot, a musky smell she would never forget.
A voice streamed through her head.
Go to sleep…go to sleep…go to sleep…go to sleep…go to sleep…
It was Charlotte, and her voice was soft, pervasive—consuming. Arielle’s vision dimmed, then darkened. The grunting of Paul’s lust began to fade.
Before she blacked out, the view changed. Dominic leapt toward her and Paul like a deer springing from the bushes, knife in hand, his face twisted with rage.
He made the blade disappear into Paul’s neck, and something wet sprayed Arielle in the face. It was the last thing she remembered from that day.
The taste of another person’s blood.
“Spite me,” Michael said, gasping for air.
He sat hunched over his knees, hands gripping the sides of his face. Arielle knelt beside him.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “Arielle, I’m so sorry that happened to you.”
“It didn’t happen to me, Michael. That’s what you need to understand. It happened to Charlotte.”
“And William—he was the result?”
“I wouldn’t call him a result. He was the one beautiful thing that came out of that horrible experience.”
“That time—what do you mean? Were there others?”
Sighing, she picked at her fingernail. “Paul was always touching us. But that was the first time he actually…you know.” She struggled to keep going. “He’d been molesting us, mostly Charlotte, for at least a year before then. We couldn’t stop him. Charlotte did what she could to keep him away from me, even though it meant having him abuse her instead. But it was always just touching, whispering… He never did it out in public, and someone would have noticed him creeping up to our bedroom. So he would wait for us to go flower picking or somewhere isolated.”
“Why didn’t someone do something? Why would Charlotte keep it a secret?”
A vacant expression entered Arielle’s eyes. When she spoke, there was a flatness in her voice that chilled Michael. “He was one of John Meacham’s best men. John protected him. He knew it was happening, and he let it. He knew if Louis or Midas found out, they’d go nuts and have Paul outcast immediately. So, one day, John Meacham drove to our house and picked Charlotte and me up in his truck. I’ll never forget it. He said he was taking us out for some fresh air. Nothing unusual—he often took kids out in his truck, but he never did anything inappropriate. I was fond of him back then. We called him Uncle John.
“But that day was different. He drove us into the mountains, at least a half hour outside of Gulch. Then he showed us a handgun he had in his glove compartment. He told us that he knew what Paul was doing. He said if we told anyone what was happening, he would shoot Paul in the head, then he would take me and Charlotte out into the mountains, far away from town, and he would make us live out there alone, with all the freaks and the scavengers and the bad men who made slaves out of little girls like us.
“When we asked why, he said things had to be that way. We let Paul do those things to us, so we were just as dirty as he was. We were just as wrong. Besides, no one would believe us anyway, because we were ment freaks who made up lies to deceive people, to mess with their heads. The town would outcast us because they would think we were making up lies.”
Michael tried to contain himself. He had balled his hands into fists, his muscles so tight they hurt, as if his rage had become a vicious form of arthritis spreading across his body, twisting him.
“How long before the rape happened did Meacham say that?”
“About four months, I think. At that point, the worst thing Paul had done to Charlotte was make her take off her shirt in front of me, so I could watch as he fondled her and touched himself. The worst thing he had done to me was sit me on his lap and run his hand under my skirt, though he didn’t get far. I immediately burst out crying, and he got nervous. Charlotte taught me that, but I knew it was only a matter of time before even that wouldn’t work anymore.”
“Did he ever beat you?” Michael asked.
Arielle shook her head. “He slapped Charlotte once for saying she was going to tell. He used me to threaten her, said if she told, he would kill me.”
“And it happened because Meacham allowed it,” Michael said.
“Michael, calm down.” Arielle put her hand on his forearm, rubbing it soothingly. “You’re scaring me.”
He could feel his nostrils flaring with each hot breath. But it would serve no purpose to let the anger out now. He had to contain it, save it for later. He focused on his breathing—in, out, in out—as he pushed his emotions deep down and allowed his rational mind to dominate.
He was about to speak when Arielle closed her eyes and began rubbing the heel of one hand across her brow as if to soothe a growing headache. “I really need to lie down for a bit.”
“Of course.”
He helped her up. Together, they made their way to Silo Street, making small talk about issues around town, repairs that needed to be made, programs Arielle was working on to better educate the children.
Michael listened, but he took in little. A single idea had seized his mind.
John Meacham has to die.
The words filled Michael with a new purpose in life.
No matter what, he’s going to die…
And I’m going to kill him.
Chapter 13
“I’m t
alkin’ about murder in cold blood,” John Meacham said, leaning back in his chair while he slipped the wet end of the cigar between his lips.
Warren and Elkin sat before the man’s broad desk. There were three others standing around the room, including the man with a port-wine birthmark covering a quarter of his face; the new addition to their team. Warren didn’t fully trust the man, though he sensed a killer’s cold thoughts behind that nasty stain. Good enough.
“You’re saying the boys killed Joe and Gerry,” Warren said. “Why would they do that?”
Meacham leaned forward, resting one meaty arm on the desk and twisting the cigar between his lips. He blew out a burst of smoke before speaking.
“Because they could, or maybe Joe and Gerry got in the way.”
“But we have no proof, sir,” Elkin said in his nasally voice.
Warren winced. “We know that, you dumb shit. But they died in the Palace. Who else was there that night?”
“Oh.” Elkin sat back. “The ments was there that night.”
Warren rolled his eyes.
“Listen to me,” Meacham said. “Louis Blake and his bunch have to go. We can accuse them of crimes until we’re blue in the face, but as long as half the town supports that self-righteous prick, there’s not a whole hell of a lot I can do. They already brainwashed my son. My own goddamned son.”
“He was a lost cause,” Warren said. “Ments always stick together. You couldn’t have helped him.”
“Bullshit,” Meacham said, reclining again, his belly jutting over his thighs. He’d gained weight and was shaving less often than he used to, which had given him a grizzled appearance. “Blake isn’t his father. Those boys aren’t his brothers. They don’t even realize what he’s capable of. Goddamned ments. I’m sick to death of ‘em.”
“They’ll be gone soon, anyway,” Warren said. “The NDR’s recruiting telepaths now. It’s what Blake wants, to send them away. All we got to do is wait.”
“NDR my ass.” Meacham slammed his fist on the desk. Ash fell from the cigar, landing with a powdery burst. “You think they won’t come back here with a battalion of men? That’s what those NDR imperialists are after. One government to rule the Eastlands. That’s what Blake really wants. To take over my town.”
Warren gritted his teeth to keep from speaking. He didn’t buy it. Blake wasn’t after power; that much had been clear when he stepped down from his position as mayor to let John Meacham take control. But then, what did the old man want?
It didn’t matter. He was dying. Warren had seen him cough up blood in the town hall. Only a matter of time now.
If Meacham would just wait…
“Here’s the deal, boys”—John Meacham stood with a grunt—“we don’t wait for them to leave. Two of our ministers are dead, and I know those boys are responsible. We could never admit Joe and Gerry went to Praetoria, at least not with my knowledge, much less with the town’s money. And we can’t risk those boys or their sluts spreading the word about it, you understand? The boys have to die. There’s no other way.”
Warren shot up from his chair. “Those boys are trained killers.”
“And so are you.” Meacham glared, red patches standing out on his face and neck. He stood as if to face Warren in a fist fight. “Jesus, is that what you’ve been afraid of this whole time? This is our town, goddamn it. We call the shots, not them. Or did I recruit cowards onto my team?”
“No, sir,” Warren said, confidently.
“Absolutely not,” Elkin said. “No, sir.”
“That’s what I thought,” Meacham said, puffing on his cigar. He dropped heavily in his seat again.
“Then how do you suggest we do it?” Warren asked, resting his hand on the pistol hanging at his belt. If Meacham wasn’t going to wait, then hell with it. Warren wanted to shoot a ment in the brain box. Better now than later.
Seeing Warren’s hand on his gun, John Meacham let a sly smile inch across his face, like he knew something Warren didn’t and was eager to share. He reached down and eased open the middle drawer of his desk, then pulled something out with two fingers.
“When you’re up against a gun, you wear bulletproof armor.”
He held up a tiny bottle filled with a clear liquid that glinted in the light from the crackling fireplace.
“But when you’re up against a ment…”
He shook the bottle. A smile spread across Warren’s face.
“How did you…?”
Meacham’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Are you questioning my ability to get whatever weapon I need, when I need it? Have you seen my barns?”
Warren stood, moving to hunch over the desk and get a better look at the bottle. Greedily, Meacham pulled it back.
“One dose of this,” Meacham said, “and everything Louis and his pretentious little brats have spent their entire lives learning is for nothing.”
“Bulletproof armor for the mind,” Warren said, awe sending him down in his seat with a thump. “I hear that stuff is hard to get.”
Meacham grinned. “Not when you’re a man like me.” He tapped his forehead. “This is what’s going to count from here on out, you hear me? Guns and bullets are nice, sure, but if we’re going to win this, we need to plan every move, think like they think. And with this baby right here…” He tossed the bottle into the air. Caught it. “With this, they’ll never be able to get inside my head again, you understand me? Then we can wage war on my terms—and believe me when I tell you, war is coming to Gulch.”
Chapter 14
“Wake up, Dietrich.”
A man’s voice, familiar and so like the voice of a father that it made him feel like an infant.
Dietrich Werner opened his eyes to blurry patches of light, some brighter than others. Fluorescent strip lighting…he hadn’t seen that in years. A machine beeped nearby. Silhouettes stood at the outskirts of his vision—faceless, shadowy forms bending to study him, making the lights flash dim and bright, dim and bright.
He blinked, trying to roll away from them. As he moved, pain flashed over various parts of his body, inside and out. He felt like an injured bird, fragile and weak. His mouth was bone dry and tasted terrible. A medicinal smell hung in the air, one that burned his throat when he breathed in. All of this was too ugly, too clinical, to be any sort of afterlife. Unless he was in hell.
“You’re a very lucky man,” Harris Kole said.
Dietrich blinked until he could make out the features of his boss, a man he had never actually met. Kole looked different in person—smaller, more frazzled, and not like a god at all. His hair wasn’t as neat as it always was in the pictures, and the skin around his face was droopier than it appeared on TV. But his eyes had that same piercing quality from the posters. The exact same.
“What happened, sir?” Dietrich said.
“You were shot in the chest three times.”
“How did I get out, sir?”
“Another agent embedded in the Legion, one just like you. He pulled you out of there.”
“Sp-spying on me?”
Harris Kole chuckled, the sound wheezing from high up in his nose, almost a titter. “You know better than to ask that question.”
“Who was he?”
“I want you to guess. Of all the people you encountered during your time in Praetoria, which one would’ve been the most difficult to turn?”
Kole’s face beamed with pride. Dietrich knew his response would have to be a careful one. Kole didn’t ask these sorts of questions to fool around; he would inevitably judge Dietrich’s loyalty based on whatever he said next. It had to be someone who would’ve been nearly impossible to turn, someone who was—or at least appeared to be—completely loyal to Roman.
Or…
“It was Roman,” Dietrich said. “He’s one of yours.”
Harris Kole let out a guffaw of laughter. He clapped his hands once. The other men standing in the room—some in the white shirts of doctors, others in military uniforms—smiled and chuckled al
ong with him. Their eyes remained flat and humorless as they made sure to mirror the One President’s gestures without overdoing it.
“Can you believe it?” Kole said. “All I had to do was threaten him with a nuclear bomb. People in the Eastlands are so scared of that. And can you blame them?”
Dietrich coughed. The pain in his chest was so great he saw stars in his field of vision.
“There now,” Kole said, patting him on the shoulder. “A few more weeks with my doctors and you’ll be good as new. We have the best in the world, remember that.”
Dietrich warmed at the thought of being in one of Kole’s private hospitals. The doctors, though technically state employees like everyone else, were well compensated and highly trained. And, of course, the fact he was here meant he was not being punished for some infraction he might have committed out in the Eastlands. He was being pampered like any other senior Party member.
“Put him out,” Kole said, nodding at one of the doctors. At Dietrich, he smiled that smile of paternal affection. “You need your rest. Once your wounds close, I have a mission for you. One you’re going to like. A chance to get revenge against the boy who put you in this hospital bed.”
A doctor stuck Dietrich with a tiny syringe. Dietrich used his last moments of consciousness to confirm what he already knew.
“If I bring him back…”
Kole bent until his and Dietrich’s faces were only inches apart. His fatherly smile had disappeared. Now, there was only pure, humorless conviction.
“I will make you the wealthiest man in this nation, under only those who bear the Kole surname. You’ll be the most powerful member in the One Party, second only to me. Anyone who ever disagrees with you or speaks ill of you behind your back—anyone who even looks at you funny—will immediately be arrested and thrown into my deepest, darkest hellhole of a labor camp for the rest of his natural life. Believe me when I tell you, this is the mission of your lifetime. If you succeed, you’ll live like a king for the rest of your life.”
Bloodcrier: The Complete Two-Book Series Page 32