They ate well that night, and shared some of their dinner with the family who owned the house. Their last name, according to the stack of mail Frank brought in from the porch, was Brenner. Donnie and Kim Brenner ate their chicken parmesan as if it was their last meal, but Stewart Brenner refused to take a single bite. He did drink some water, but had to be gagged immediately after when he began to thrash around and growl at the sight of his son being given a can of beer and another joint. It amused Frank to corrupt the boy in front of his father, especially since Don himself seemed to enjoy it. They were each given a brief turn in the bathroom and then were once again secured for the night. Dianne improved their outlook a great deal when she informed them that her and Frank would be leaving the next day and that they'd be free to resume their normal routine. It was still unclear how they'd be persuaded not to call the police, but there would be time to work that out later.
When they returned to the master bedroom, they were both very drunk. Frank slipped his gun beneath the mattress, his customary habit since acquiring the house.
“I'm going to miss this place,” he confessed, pulling Dianne toward him in the bed. “It just might be the nicest home I've ever had.”
“Me too,” she agreed. She reached beneath the sheets with one playful hand. “The company's not bad, either.”
* * *
They slept deeply and drunkenly for several hours. It was somewhere between 2:00 and 2:30 in the morning when an unfamiliar noise woke Dianne. She opened her eyes, her head thick with booze and sleep, and failed to hear anything further. She fell asleep again for two or three minutes and was just beginning to snore softly when the bedroom door swung open and a menacing figure entered the room.
The next thing she knew, someone was grabbing her arm and slipping a steel manacle over her wrist.
* * *
It took a moment for her mind to realize what was happening. When it did, she sat bolt upright in bed, her left arm handcuffed to the iron frame. She jerked on it, roughly, almost desperately as she began to panic. It was so totally unexpected she didn't know what else to do.
“Forget it,” a deep voice commanded from off to her left. “There's no getting out of them.”
Frank, who had been sleeping peacefully, woke up and realized with a start that something was seriously wrong. Before he could react, Douglas McKenzie grabbed him roughly by the hair and dragged him from the bed.
“Rise and shine, Frank. Your vacation is over.”
Frank staggered and almost fell over. McKenzie took hold of his arm and forced him upright, at the same time twisting the arm behind his back. Frank yelled out in pain and tried to fight him off, but to no avail.
“Jesus Christ, Frank. You're younger than me. See where your sedentary lifestyle has gotten you?”
“What the fuck do you want?” Frank spat. He was wearing only a pair of boxer shorts and was badly hungover. In fact, he was still half drunk. He thought to go for his gun, but it was well out of reach. “You've got nothing to gain by killing me.”
McKenzie tightened his grip and forced Frank's arm up even higher. “How would you know?” He led Frank closer to the doorway and away from the bed. McKenzie was dressed in his pastor's robe and in the dim light Frank thought he could see bloodstains on it. He thought he could see blood on McKenzie's hands and face, too. “We've got some things to discuss, Frank old boy. Surely you didn't think you were done with me.”
Dianne pulled forcefully at her restraints again, the steel cuff biting into her wrist. “Please don't hurt him,” she pleaded. She'd never felt so terrified and helpless, not even while being brutalized by Cliff. “Please! I'll do anything.”
McKenzie smiled at her in the near darkness. “I'll keep that in mind. You stay put for now. I have a few things to discuss with you, too, when Frank and I are finished.”
“Please!” she shouted, pulling again at the cuffs. She met Frank's eyes and saw a shadow of hopelessness there. It frightened her and angered her at the same time. Then she saw that McKenzie had a knife in his hand. As she watched, he jabbed Frank in the ribs with it, causing him to jump forward, his arm still twisted behind his back.
“Let's go, Frank. It's time for you to pay for your sins.” He led Frank out the door, the two of them disappearing into the darkness beyond.
Dianne stared after them, her heart pounding in her chest.
* * *
The Brenner garage was so well equipped with tools and woodworking supplies that there was no room left over for a vehicle. Shelves of power tools lined two of the walls and there were three sawhorses set up in the center of the room with the beginnings of what appeared to be a homemade bureau arranged across them. There was also a large workbench complete with a drill press and a band saw. McKenzie led Frank to the workbench and produced another pair of handcuffs from the pocket of his robe. He had to clamp the knife between his teeth for a moment as he first slipped one end of the cuffs over Frank's wrist and the other over the support column of the drill press.
“That ought to hold you for now,” he remarked, removing the knife from his mouth and setting it aside.
Frank's mind was working furiously, trying to come up with some way out of this current mess. It still didn't make sense to him how McKenzie had managed to find him, or even why. “What do you hope to gain from this, Pastor? It seems to me to be a pointless endeavor.”
“Revenge is never pointless, Frank. You should know that.” He was looking around at all the power tools. “Boy, what a lot of options! How would you like to do this?”
“I wouldn't. What is the basis for your revenge? You painted yourself into a corner. I had nothing to do with it.”
“I requested your help in covering up my transgressions. You turned your back on me instead.”
“I left because you were missing. That's hardly cause to kill me.”
“I gave you a chance to return, Frank. In fact I ordered it. You blew me off.”
“I didn't. I told you --”
“Enough, Frank. You're nothing but a loose end now.”
“But the police already know who you are. Killing me won't --”
“Enough!” The Pastor was still scrutinizing the garage. “You know, I had planned to just slice you to ribbons like I did to Edgar. But all this equipment is giving me a few ideas.”
Frank began struggling against his restraint, although it quickly became obvious to him that it was pointless. He was stuck, and would remain stuck until the Pastor unlocked him. “How did you find Edgar, anyway? Or me, for that matter?”
“Easy. You're both stupid.”
“That doesn't answer the question.”
McKenzie looked at him, his eyes blazing with ill intentions. “Your cell phone. You should have ditched it, or at least kept it powered off.”
“Fuck!”
“Fuck indeed. Tell me, Frank. Have you ever been hog-tied?”
“I think we ought to discuss this. I can help you, you know.”
“How? You're a burned-out old relic, handcuffed to a drill press.” McKenzie lifted a long handled screwdriver and held it up, studying it.
“There are many things I could do. I could talk to the police. I could --”
“Do you remember little Timmy Patterson?”
The question caught Frank off guard. “Timmy...?” He seemed to vaguely recall a boy by that name from years past. A small, dark haired boy whose parents took him to St. Paul's.
“Ah, little Timmy,” the Pastor said fondly. His eyes lightened and a cruel smile slowly spread across his face. “You should have seen him near the end. He'd lost his legs, did you know that, Frank? His arms, too, the poor boy.”
Frank already felt sick, but now he felt his knees grow weak and his stomach lurch. He tried desperately to think of some course of action that would save him.
“I was surprised by how long he lived without his limbs,” the Pastor continued. “Days and days. Eleven, if I remember correct
ly. But he wasn't the same. Gosh did he cry a lot! For some reason you remind me of him, Frank. Do you think you'll cry?”
Frank remained silent. He wanted a drink very badly.
“That's alright, Frank. You don't have to answer. Anyway, Timmy and I had a great deal of fun together. Maybe not him, so much, but I certainly did. So much fun! Do you know how he finally died?”
No comment from Frank.
McKenzie grimaced in the sickly yellow glow of the single bulb, which hung naked from the ceiling alongside a thin chain. “I chewed his throat open. I didn't even think about what I was doing; it was pure impulse. Call it the will of god.”
Frank only stared. He knew any further display of weakness on his part would only encourage the Pastor. He resolved himself not to plead for his life again, no matter what happened.
McKenzie set down the screwdriver. “His death came as a great relief to him, I'm sure, despite the screaming. I'm thinking yours will soon be a similar relief.”
“As will yours, Pastor.”
McKenzie grinned at that. “Very good, Frank. Now you just be patient for a little while, alright? I really have become inspired by all these miraculous supplies.”
Frank watched from his place near the workbench as the Pastor began gathering 2x4's from a stack in the corner.
26. Trapped
After Frank had been led from the bedroom, Dianne spent a few minutes experimenting with the handcuffs that were now holding her prisoner in the same house she was holding the Brenners prisoner. They were steel cuffs, and the bed frame was iron. There was no way she was going to break either of them, and there was also no way her hand was going to slide through the tight confines of the bracelet. The old pedophile hadn't locked them as tightly as he could have, but he didn't leave them loose, either. She tried manipulating her hand in every possible way in order to slip free of them. When she folded her thumb up into the palm of her hand and contracted it as much as the bones and muscles would allow, it gave her the sense it could be done, but the steel still bit deep into her flesh, rendering escape impossible.
There was a keyhole, she noticed; one in each cuff. She glanced around on the nightstand, searching for a paperclip or a bobby pin or anything she might use to try and pick the lock. There was nothing. She moaned in despair and rolled over, trying to assess whether or not she'd be able to retrieve the gun from beneath the other side of the mattress. She thought that if she could obtain the gun she might be able to blast through the chain. It was a king-sized bed, however, and her arms were only so long. There was no way she was going to reach it.
“Shit!” She pulled at the chain again, her wrist now raw and beginning to bleed. This wasn't part of her plan. Feeling trapped, and useless, and almost completely hopeless, she lowered her head and began to cry.
* * *
Dianne wasn't sure how long she sat there crying. It couldn't have been more than a few minutes. She might very well have gone on weeping and feeling sorry for herself all day, but a series of disconcerting noises coming from somewhere else in the house cut a furrow through her gloom and she sat up, once more focusing on her dilemma. Someone was hammering. Frank was probably in mortal danger. She had to do something now, before it was too late.
She pulled again at the cuffs. The pain in her wrist now burned like fire. Her skin was bright red and slick with blood. She thought excitedly for a second that the blood might lubricate her wrist enough to be able to forcibly slide her hand through. The thought passed as quickly as it had come; the bracelet was far too tight to permit such an uncomplicated escape.
She let out a wail of frustration as the dull sound of hammering filled the house. What the hell was going on out there? She began searching around again, her eyes scanning the room with renewed desperation. Her bottle of rum was there, on the nightstand. She grabbed it without thinking, twisting on the bed to reach it. She used her teeth to remove the cap and let it fall to the floor. Then she filled her mouth with the amber fluid and swallowed, her throat burning and her eyes watering. It hit her head and her stomach simultaneously and she came close to vomiting. Closing her eyes, she gave things a moment to settle. When the nausea passed she took another, smaller gulp. This time it went down easier and her head buzzed with a moderate sickness. She set the bottle down on the nightstand and yanked open the top drawer.
She didn't know what she was looking for. If there was anything in the drawer that could be used to get the handcuffs off her wrist, she didn't see it. It appeared that this side of the bed belonged to Kim; the drawer was filled with snack cakes, puzzle books and tissues. There was also a diary there, with a built-in lock. She shoved everything aside, digging through the mess in search of anything that might aid her. If there was a key to the diary, it wasn't in the drawer. She emptied it out, item by item, being as meticulous as possible.
From elsewhere in the house, the hammering went persisted. The sound was like a warning to her, and when she'd succeeded in emptying the top drawer she pulled it out and checked the bottom and sides. No key. She threw it aside and opened the larger, bottom drawer. There was nothing in it but a collection of nightgowns and an extra set of bed sheets.
Dianne cursed aloud, jerking on the chain again. If she kept it up, she thought she might end up breaking her wrist.
The thought gave her an idea.
She reached for the rum bottle again, her mind now racing as quickly as her heart.
* * *
In the garage, Douglas McKenzie set the hammer down and stepped back, regarding his little woodworking project. It was rudimentary at best, made with nothing but 2x4's, but it was good solid construction. It was functional, and that's what mattered.
“What do you think, Frank? Do you like it?”
Frank stared at it from across the room, saying nothing. He felt dead inside, and knew with a hollow certainty that he wouldn't live to see another day. This was it. If he'd known he was going to die at the hands of Pastor McKenzie, he would have murdered the man years ago.
“What's the matter, Frank? Would you rather I just slit your throat?”
“Yes.”
“Too bad.” McKenzie lifted the crucifix and carried it closer to where Frank was chained to the drill press. It was very tall, almost tall enough to reach the ceiling, and he was forced to tilt it at an angle to avoid bumping it into the rafters. “I think it's rather appropriate. Don't you?”
“No.”
McKenzie leaned it against the workbench. It was eight feet tall. “This is going to be a bit awkward, I'm afraid.”
“We don't need to do this, Pastor.”
“I'm afraid we do.” He went back to retrieve his hammer and a handful of long nails. “I'm sure you're already familiar with the horrors of death by crucifixion. It's a very slow, agonizing experience. It will give you plenty of time to reflect on your sins.”
Frank was staring at the crucifix. “How do you intend to get me up there? Surely you don't think I'm going to hold still while you hammer in the nails?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Good luck with that, Pastor.”
“Like I said, it's going to be a little bit awkward. At least initially. Why don't you go ahead and put your free hand up there, Frank? You know where it goes.”
Frank stared blankly. “I don't think so.”
“Please, Frank? Do it for the old days. For the good times we shared together.”
“Go fuck yourself, Pastor.”
McKenzie hoisted the hammer. It was solid steel, with a rubber grip. “Put your hand up there, Frank. Otherwise I'm going to go pay your girlfriend a little visit. When I come back, I'll have one of her breasts with me.”
A deep, consuming hatred spread through Frank. It was shot through with fear for Dianne's life. He couldn't allow such a thing to happen to her.
“If a breast doesn't convince you, old boy, I'll put in additional visits to her. I'll bring her in here piece by piece if I have to.
”
The thought of this sadistic butcher dismembering Dianne was too much for him. He didn't need proof, either; he knew without question that McKenzie would do exactly as he had threatened. Frank lifted his hand.
“Good boy, Frank.”
“Just promise me one thing.”
“You're in no position to negotiate.”
Frank lowered his hand.
“Frank...”
“One thing, Pastor.”
“What?”
“Just promise me you'll let her go when you're finished with me. I know your promise is nothing but shit, but promise me anyway.”
McKenzie smiled. “I have no reason to harm her. She's nothing but a bargaining chip. Put your hand up there and I promise no harm will come to her.”
“You think I believe you?”
“I don't care whether you believe me or not. Put your hand up there or I'm going to go in there right now and cut off my first piece of her. Last chance, Frank.”
Feeling sick with rage, his teeth gnashing together with such force that bits of them were beginning to break loose, Frank lifted his hand and set it in place.
Smiling, McKenzie held up a nail and pressed it against the soft underside of Frank's wrist.
27. Abominations
Dianne was staring at her hand. It was a pretty hand; beautiful, even. She liked it a great deal. The last thing she wanted to do was destroy it.
She took another big gulp of rum, the bottle nearly empty now. She'd never gotten drunk so quickly in her life. It wasn't a good drunk, either. It was a sickly, putrefying drunk. She grimaced and drained the last of the booze from the bottle. It was going to be critical to do this quickly, or she was going to lose her nerve.
“Fucking shit,” she muttered. She pictured Douglas McKenzie in her mind. She'd only met him briefly, but she thought she hated him more than anyone she'd ever come across, except maybe for Cliff. If I get out of this alive, she thought. It occurred to her that the Brenners were probably thinking the exact same thing about her. She tried to shut her mind off and focus on her dilemma.
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