by Sam Sisavath
He went in for the kill.
“I remember her. She was beautiful. One of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. Just the loveliest thing on two feet. And my God, she was so much fun. We had a great day together, and she tasted so sweet before, during, and after. I didn’t want to let her go, but as they say, all good things must end.”
Her eyes burned, threatening to consume him.
He wallowed in her reaction, his grin growing wider.
“In the end I had to throw her back, like all the others. She was beautiful, but she was just another girl. Another victim. Oh, don’t get me wrong. She was something. The first time I had her, I practically died with ecstasy—”
She lunged at him, and before Beckard could pull back, his nose exploded and he was toppling backward.
Jesus Christ. It felt like someone had smashed his face in with a sledgehammer.
No, not a sledgehammer. Just her forehead. Her fucking forehead.
He didn’t know what was happening—the pain was blinding and he might have been screaming—but he wasn’t bound and gagged like her, and he managed to stumble up to his feet even as blood poured like a river from his shattered nose.
The cabin’s dirty floorboards were covered in blood—his blood—and he grabbed at his face with both hands and let out a wild howl that surprised even him.
She was rolling around, trying to get away, and it took him a full second to realize she was going for the shotgun in the kitchen. How the hell she expected to grab it and use it with both hands and ankles bound together with duct tape, and the inability to stand up, was beyond him.
And he didn’t care, either.
He stalked her. He thought about coming up with something clever to say. Something punchy (Ha!).
But he couldn’t think of anything, and instead he just started kicking her.
First, in the side. She doubled forward from the pain and must have screamed into the duct tape. He kicked her again and felt his boot’s steel toe connecting with a ribcage that time. Tears welled up in both her eyes, but he was beyond caring.
He kicked her again, and again, and again.
He didn’t stop until she ceased moving completely and his leg was too sore to keep going.
His entire face was burning. Burning.
Beckard staggered the short distance to the kitchen and went to the sink. He turned on the faucet and splashed cold water over his face and saw how red the water flowing off him and into the stainless steel bowl was.
Red. So red.
It took him a while to stop the bleeding. He needed a couple of rags for that. He walked around Donnie again, then around Allie on his way to the bathroom. Wade and Rachel, their faces frozen in horror, watched him pass, the girl doing her best not to stare.
He turned on the bathroom lights and ignored Sabrina’s body on the floor, where he had left her. Like her boyfriend, Sabrina had bled plenty afterward. He grabbed the first aid kit and opened it, then took a moment to look at his reflection in the mirror.
Well, he had certainly looked better, that was for sure.
That thought, for some reason, made him laugh out loud, even if every expelling of breath sent tremors across his face and added to the excruciating pain.
Chapter 11
The trick to dealing with pain wasn’t to fight it. That only made things worse. Instead, the best approach was to accept it, to let it wash over you without resistance. Like a river, it was pointless to battle the current. It was easier to lie still and let the tide wash over you until, eventually, it dried up or, more likely, faded into the background.
Of course, learning what to do was different from actually putting that knowledge to use. As much as she tried to let the suffocating pain run its course without rising to defend against it, her instincts told her to battle back, to not let it have dominion over her. That only made things worse, and she grimaced with every jolt, every throbbing that seemed to pulse through her body like living electricity.
One of her ribs was broken. Or possibly two. But at least one; she knew that much because just breathing hurt. She could barely move before with the duct tape binding her wrists and ankles, and she had no chance of that now. Just thinking about moving an inch or two in any direction led her body to punish her further.
She was likely going to choke on her own blood pretty soon anyway, which meant all of this had been for nothing. Wouldn’t Carmen be disappointed when she learned how her big sister had screwed everything up and couldn’t even avenge her death? Hell, big sister was going to die at the hands of the same man who had killed her.
The irony. Or was that tragedy?
Probably a little of both. Or a lot of both.
A shadow fell over her as Beckard returned and crouched. She managed to turn her head just far enough—which wasn’t very far at all—to look up at him as he reached down and pulled the duct tape off her mouth with one merciless ripping motion.
She would have screamed if she had the strength. Instead, she just coughed up gobs of thick dark-red blood onto the floorboards.
“Wouldn’t want you to choke on your own blood and die too quickly,” Beckard said. His words were slightly slurred by the bloodied rag pressed against his broken nose. “You and I aren’t going to say good-bye just yet, missy. That’s one thing you’ll be able to brag about after this: That I spent more time with you than I did with your little sister; hell, than all my other girls.”
She coughed and spat out another thick stream of blood. Allie had to jerk her head back slightly to keep from lying in the collected pool. It didn’t even look like something that had come out of her. It had the appearance of brown chocolate pudding left out in the sun. She almost gagged at the smell.
Beckard tore off a fresh piece of duct tape and slapped it over her mouth. Then he stood up and walked off.
“You, on the other hand,” Beckard was saying.
Despite the rippling pain, Allie managed to roll over onto her other side so she could see Beckard crouching in front of Wade and Rachel. Though he only had eyes for the girl.
Rachel was still trying in vain to disappear behind Wade, refusing to look or even acknowledge Beckard’s presence. He didn’t seem to mind or care. With the rag covering half his mouth, he looked like a shy woman hiding behind a veil. It would have been almost comical if it wasn’t going to end so badly for all of them within the next few hours.
How much time did she have? The rest of the night, at least, and maybe part of the early morning. Beckard was indicating that he was going to take his time with her, but maybe that wasn’t up to him. Sooner or later, someone was going to find their vehicles next to the highway. That would mean calls to the local authorities, maybe the same state troopers that Beckard claimed to be a part of.
She looked at his uniform again. The khaki shirt, the brown pants, and the silver star on his chest. Were those real? Was he really a state trooper? In all the research she had done on the man who had murdered her sister, she never once thought he could be a cop. He had hidden his identity that well. Her only comfort in having missed that very important detail was that the entire state police, along with the federal authorities that had swooped in to assist them, had also failed to uncover it.
Of course, that was small comfort now.
It made sense if she thought about it. It would explain how he had managed to elude the cops for so long. If he was one of them, he would know how they operated. But more importantly, he would have a front row seat on the investigation and would know if they were getting close to him and adapt.
He really is a cop, after all.
If he noticed her staring, he didn’t acknowledge it. But then, he only had eyes for Rachel at the moment.
“Is it true what they say?” he was asking the girl. “Scars give a guy character?” He took away the rag to show off his broken nose and the layer of not-quite-drying blood around his mouth, like some grotesque clown’s makeup. “I must have double the character after this, huh?”
See no evil, hear no evil, right, Rachel?
Beckard was chuckling. He was so satisfied with himself that he almost (almost!) didn’t react in time when Wade lunged at him. Apparently Wade had taken a cue from Allie and was trying to deliver a second headbutt to Beckard’s face. Allie could only imagine how effective it would have been had it landed. The young man might have even ended it right then and there.
Except Beckard had shut up and stumbled back just fast enough, his jerking motion more an exercise of self-preservation than anything remotely elegant. He sat down on his ass a few feet back while Wade flopped to the floor on his cheek in front of him with a loud oomph. The young man attempted to right himself, but it was difficult (Allie knew all about that) and he only managed to turn over onto his side.
Beckard picked himself up and brushed his hands on his pants. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…well, you know how it goes.” He glanced over and gave her an accusing look. “See what you did? I blame this on you. Kids always repeat what they see the adults do.”
He walked back to the kitchen where he picked up another fresh rag. He soaked it under the sink faucet for a moment, wrung out most of the water, then dabbed it against his nose. He flinched once or twice, then picked up the shotgun and returned. She thought he might have been humming to himself the whole time. Some stupid pop song she had heard on the radio once or twice.
“I want to look good for her,” he said, winking at Allie. “It’s the least a man can do.”
Rachel was staring, horrified, as Beckard walked back to her. Then she looked over at her boyfriend, still struggling to right himself. Not exactly the most heroic pose to a girl who had always depended on her boyfriend to hide behind, Allie guessed.
Beckard crouched next to Wade and pressed the barrel of the Remington against the young man’s cheek. Wade went very still, as if afraid any sudden movement—or even breathing—might cause an accidental discharge. Rachel was crying, tears streaming down her face with the duct tape muffling any sounds she might have been making.
“I won’t kill him,” Beckard said to Rachel. “But I will, if you make me.” He pulled back the shotgun and laid it across his knees. Wade’s entire body sagged with relief. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t. It’s up to you. Do you want me to put him out of his misery right now and get it over with?”
Rachel shook her head with urgency.
“Good; so we understand each other. Don’t make me, and I won’t. You won’t make me, will you?”
Rachel seemed to consider the question. Maybe she didn’t really understand it. Or maybe she did and wasn’t sure about her answer.
“Well?” Beckard prompted. “Do we understand each other, missy?”
The girl finally nodded. That small movement seemed to take a lot out of her, and her body went slack afterward. Except for her eyes. They went to Wade, whose painfully constricted face said everything he couldn’t.
Beckard looked satisfied and stood back up before holding out a hand toward Rachel.
Rachel looked as if she was about to vomit as she hesitantly lifted both bound arms toward him. He grabbed her by one wrist and, with a grin, pulled her up from the floor.
“That’s a good girl,” Beckard said. “Don’t worry. I’ll be nice. I’m always nice.”
Until he’s done with you. Then he’s not so nice anymore.
I’m sorry, Rachel. I’m so sorry.
Rachel obviously didn’t believe him either, because her entire body was trembling.
Beckard caressed one of her tear-streaked cheeks with two of his knuckles. He looked almost sympathetic, but she knew that was a lie. Sympathy was a human emotion, and there was nothing human about Beckard.
“Don’t cry,” Beckard cooed. “You’re going to ruin those perfect cheekbones if you keep crying. We don’t want that, do we? Let’s be nice to each other—”
The sound of a barking dog shut him up.
Beckard spun around, suddenly forgetting that Rachel was there. Without Beckard to hold her up, the girl struggled in place for a moment before falling back down to the floor with a loud thoomp!
Outside the cabin, the barking was getting louder…because it was getting closer.
Chapter 12
He should have been pissed, but he wasn’t. How could he be? The continued throbbing across the entire length and width of his face notwithstanding, things were still going better than he could have imagined given how the night had started out.
He should have been dead, but he wasn’t.
Or arrested, but he wasn’t.
A lot of things should have happened tonight, most of it not in his favor.
All things considered, it was still a pretty darn good night.
No, Beckard wasn’t angry. He was a bit annoyed, though, but that quickly turned to curiosity as he stalked across the room and slid against the wall next to the window and peered out at the two figures approaching the front yard. A dog, mostly white with patches of brown fur, walked in front of them, barking up a storm. The animal looked like a shorter, skinnier version of a cow, one with long floppy ears. Its nose was pointed straight at the same window that Beckard was peering out of at the moment.
Both men wore camouflage hunting clothes, which made him wonder what they were doing out here at this time of the night. They both carried bolt-action rifles, and one was holding the dog by a leash and keeping the animal from bolting forward. Beckard guessed the little bastard could either smell him or had seen him peeking.
He glanced over at Allie. She was staring back at him, as if wondering what he was going to do next—and probably hoping it would lead to his death, no doubt. Rachel was still lying on the floor on her side, looking equally expectant. Wade had somehow managed to roll over to Rachel.
He turned back to the window.
The dog was still barking, though all three figures had stopped in the middle of the yard next to the minivan. The hunter with the cap was trying to look through the vehicle’s tinted windows, the same way Beckard had earlier.
“Hello in there!” the man with the dog called out. He was a few inches shorter than his buddy but looked a few grizzled years older. They were both wearing dirt-caked boots to complete their hunting ensemble. “We found your vehicles near the highway!” the man continued. “Wanted to see if anyone was hurt and needed assistance!”
A good Samaritan. Just my luck.
Beckard leaned away from the window and didn’t answer.
He looked over at Donnie’s corpse in the kitchen, half-visible behind the counter. Over to his right were Allie and the lovebirds, bound and gagged. Yup. There was no way he could let the hunters into the cabin. Maybe if he flashed his badge…and then what? They had come from the highway. They had seen the vehicles. And chances were they had tracked him by his blood, the same way Allie had.
So what did they know? Probably not much.
What did they suspect? Probably a lot.
The big question was: Why hadn’t they called the police yet?
“Hello?” the man called out again. “We can see the lights. We know someone’s inside.”
Beckard moved alongside the wall toward the front door. There was a peephole, and he used it now.
The older hunter was still in the front yard with his dog. The animal had ceased its barking and now sat obediently on its haunches, waiting for orders. Beckard couldn’t locate the second man, and that immediately set off alarms in his head.
Where’d you go, buddy?
Beckard changed his angle and spotted the minivan’s hood to the right of the hunter and his dog. He still couldn’t locate the second man. Where did the guy go? Was he trying to circle around the cabin? Maybe looking for a back way in? Was there a back way in? It wasn’t as if Beckard had checked. It had never seemed especially important because he had already achieved tota
l control of the building.
Shit. There better not be a back door.
“Hello!” the hunter shouted again. It sounded as if he was starting to lose his patience.
Tough nuts, buddy.
“Look, I know someone’s in there,” the man continued. “I saw you moving next to the window.”
Beckard peered through the peephole again, looking left, then right, as far as the small opening would allow him. There was still just the wide-open yard and the man standing in the middle of it with his dog.
Where did the second guy go?
“I’m just looking to help!” the man shouted. “We have a phone. If you need it, we can call the cops for you.” He paused, then, “We’re not leaving until someone comes outside and talks to us.”
The problem was the door. It wasn’t locked. There was a chain lock, but it had broken when Allie busted inside like John Wayne earlier. If the guy really wanted to come in, he was going to come in.
Where the hell is the second guy?
Beckard ducked and went on his hands and knees and crawled back across the room, staying under the windowsill. He glanced over and saw Allie looking after him, and he couldn’t be sure, but she looked almost…amused?
He finished crawling to the other side of the window. He stood up—too fast—and winced at the pain from his side. He had to put one hand against the wall to support himself until the sensation passed. It took its time, too. With the broken nose and the pain spread liberally across his face, he had forgotten all about his side. For a while there, anyway.
“I’m calling the cops!” the man shouted from outside. “If no one’s coming out to talk to me, I’m going to let them sort this mess out.”
The man hadn’t finished saying the word “out” when Beckard heard the very clear sounds of boots moving on the floorboards behind him. He turned around and lifted the shotgun just as the tall, lanky hunter with the cap appeared out of the back hallway, his eyes shifting automatically to the three bound people on the floor in front of him. The sight was clearly something he hadn’t expected, and the man stared for exactly two seconds.