by Nolon King
He smiled as he entered, but they didn’t smile back. Didn’t react with relief. Only wide eyes.
Frank pointed to Jennifer, but looked into Becka’s gaze. “Did you know it was her birthday yesterday?”
She shook her head, then turned to Jennifer. “Happy birthday for yesterday.”
Jennifer smiled, and her teeth chattered in another shiver. “Thank you.”
Frank slung his backpack up. Heavier with the guns. “I have to take this out, okay? I’ll be back.”
Jennifer lifted a shaking thumbs-up. Becka looked at it. Then she made the same gesture as if she’d just learned to do it.
Frank turned away before they could see him cry again. Took his time stowing the pack into the van and was panting by the time he got back upstairs. Curled over his side in pain.
He wanted to tell the girls a thousand things. Take them into his arms. Stroke their hair. Rock them until they fell asleep. But he couldn’t.
He wiped his eyes before stepping back in for the final time. They were still side by side, but now more of the protein bar and water were gone.
“That’s good. But there’s still one last thing, okay? I have to get the men out of here.”
Becka tipped her head, waiting for more, but Jennifer leaned forward. “Are you going to kill him too?”
Frank put a finger to his lip, but nodded with a smile. Jennifer did the same thing. Settled back against Becka. Pulled the towel higher on her shoulders.
“You’re such good girls,” Frank said.
He stepped backward into the hallway. Walked into the next room where he dropped down into a painful squat beside Hines. “I’m going to cut your feet loose because I’m not going to carry you. But I will shoot you without a thought after a second of trouble. In both knees. Then I’ll put the barrel up your ass. Fire off another round. How’s that sound?”
Hines nodded. Chuffed sound through the edges of the soaked tape keeping Jennifer’s panties in his mouth.
Frank used his multi-tool to cut the zip-ties around Hines’ ankles. Grabbed the man’s shoulders and heaved him up on his knees.
He stepped back and dropped the multi-tool in his pocket. Drew the pistol from behind his back. “Get up. Let’s get this over with.”
Hines nodded with his hanging head. Like a horse looking for the oat bag. Grunted as he climbed to his numb feet, swaying once he was standing.
Frank stepped into the hallway. Motioned for Hines to follow. Kept him at an easy distance all the way down the stairs and over to the side door.
Hines balked at the plastic, but Frank was ready. Drove into his back so Hines’ knees hit the lip of the step going into the van. He fell forward with a muffled shout.
Frank holstered the pistol. Jumped in to stand straddling Hines’ squirming body. Hooked his fingers under the back of his waistband and pulled him inside. Turned to drop down and sit across his kidneys. Got his ankles again, then pulled them up for a party with the zip-ties, fixing them to the seat pedestal.
Frank shut the door, climbed back over the center console, and sagged into the driver’s seat.
Hines struggled. Grumbled behind his gag. Frank ignored him as he started the van. Backed off the patio, then pulled into the alley leading to the street heading out of town.
He pictured the two little girls. Sitting in each other’s arms in the middle of a bloody floor. Watching the door. Waiting for him to come back.
Another promise broken.
He pulled into the Walmart. In the shadows under a tree as far from the doors as he could get. Pulled the journal onto his lap. Turned on the light. Lifted his old phone and called 911.
A soothing female voice answered.
He took a calming breath. “I’ve killed four cops in Rosa Alta.”
She tried to interrupt, but Frank talked over her. Telling her the address. Using the journal to deliver names for the dead policemen, then for the little girls those men had been abusing.
He told the dispatcher that they were good girls, and that they needed help.
She started to dig for more information, but he wouldn’t let her finish. “I only have one more thing to say.”
There was a moment of static-filled silence. “Go ahead, sir.”
Her voice was calm — almost emotionless — but he knew her brain must be screaming. He had been in similar situations. Pretending to not let a sick criminal’s confession get to him. Pretending that he didn’t want to reach across the table and choke him to death.
“Sir?” the dispatcher said.
Frank smiled. “Just this. Tell Detective Bryan Owens I’m coming for him too.”
These calls were recorded. If his message didn’t get to Owens, it would get to someone who knew him. Or it would be kept from him. Frank didn’t care.
He ended the call. Powered off the phone. Opened the door and slid out of the driver’s seat to drop it on the ground. Then he kicked his phone under the back tire. Climbed back inside, and sat with his head tipped to the ceiling until the pain in his side finally eased enough for him to drive.
He rolled over the phone several times before pulling away. The sound of crunching under the tires was strangely satisfying.
Chapter Nineteen
It was days before the pain subsided to the point where he could sleep comfortably. Walking the Playa Dolor sand with a bottle of bourbon. Drinking it straight. Not even returning the cork between hits.
He parked back under the carport next to the small building where Stan had stored the van in case things went south. Hines was a whining, stinking mess by then.
The building was a small pump house. A maintenance shed for the management of the beach. Frank didn’t even know who maintained the place, but Stan had owned it, and a contractor came once a month to clean up the common areas.
The shed was clean and dry, though it smelled like rotten algae from the marshes. Frank pulled Hines out of the van. Let him fall on his face on the concrete.
Fresh blood worked under the edges of the tape, so Frank ripped it the rest of the way off. Hines rolled away as he cried out, and the soaked wad of Jennifer’s panties fell from his mouth ahead of several bloody teeth.
He put his bruised cheek against the cool ground and lay still. Panting dust into the air.
Frank grabbed his toiletry bag from the back of the van. A clean beach towel. While Hines composed himself — or felt sorry for himself — Frank used a short hose attached to a corroded spigot on the wall to shiver through a cold shower.
Halfway through, he noticed Hines had rolled over and was watching him. Frank made eye contact while making sure he was thorough with his cleaning. Then he turned the cold water on Hines and watched him gasp and roll away, but he had nowhere to go to escape the spray.
Frank got tired of the game. Stopped to dry off. Tried to get a good look at the weeping cut on top of his head. Did a decent job with a wide bandage. Mostly bald skin anyway, making for easy adherence.
Finally, he grabbed a folding camp chair. Set it up several feet from where Hines had finally stopped squirming. Took his time getting the cooler out from behind the rear seat. Set the lid in his lap and laid out a nice meal for himself.
Turkey and pepperoni with moonshine mustard and muenster cheese on whole wheat bread. He almost stopped after making the second one. Decided he was going to need a third. Finished adding it to the sack, then he opened a beer and leaned back.
Took a bite and rolled his eyes with pleasure. Washed it down with half of his first beer. Looked at Hines with a raised eyebrow. “Now, then.”
“Fuck you!”
Frank shook his head with reproach. Took another bite. Chewed slowly while Hines watched.
“What do you even want, man? The fuck are you?”
Frank wiped his mouth. Held up a finger while he took another drink. Smacked his lips. “I just want some confirmation.”
Hines tipped his chin up. “Can I have some of that?”
“Certainly.” Frank grinned. �
��Just answer my questions.”
“You ain’t fucking asked me anything yet!”
Frank sighed. Leaned back to finish his sandwich in silence. Then the beer. He dropped the empty back in the cooler. Fished out a fresh one. Belched as he popped the top with the bottle opener on his multi-tool.
Hines made a desperate hop toward the chair. “Okay, okay. Just … can I have a little? Please?”
He set the lid aside. Stood with his multi-tool held out in front of him. “Do you remember what I told you last time?”
Hines nodded frantically. “Yeah, you said you’d put it up my asshole. Pull the trigger, I get it.”
Frank nodded. Leaned over him to cut the tie holding his wrists and ankles together. Then he cut his hands free. Hines rolled over with a groan. Worked his hands in front of him. Looked down only to jerk back in horror. His fingers were swollen like inflated surgical gloves. Almost black. Blood wept from the shredded skin where the ties had been too tight. If there was such a thing.
Frank grabbed a handful of Hines’ shirt at each shoulder. Pulled him up and dragged his body back to lean against the far wall. Walked back to the cooler. Opened a beer and walked back to set it on the ground next to Hines’ knees.
“Be careful,” he warned.
Hines nodded. Sniffed up a trail of snot. Wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He got the bottle between his puffy palms. Smiled in triumph as he pulled it up to suck on it noisily. As much spilled down his chin that went down his throat, but he seemed satisfied when letting the empty drop into his lap.
Frank sat back down. Rubbed the ache in his side. Aggravated when he yanked on Hines, but it still didn’t seem as bad as he initially thought.
Hines rested his head back, eyes closed while Frank finished the other two sandwiches. Another beer for each of them. Then he cleaned up. Sat back in his chair with his journal.
“Now, then …”
Hines cracked open one eye. Leaned forward to look down at his lap. “Go ahead.”
Frank took out his pen. Put it next to the last name on his new Pedophile Junction list. “There was supposed to be a sixth man yesterday. What happened to him?”
Hines looked up. “Wilson?”
Frank looked at the name next to his pen. Lieutenant Carl Wilson. He nodded in confirmation. “That’s right. Wilson.”
Hines shrugged. “He got called in over lunch. Some bitch found a body in the restroom at the Golden Corral. Stabbed with one of the buffet knives.”
“I see. But he would have been there otherwise?”
Hines gave a weak chuckle. “Oh yeah. He’s a stickler for punctuality. Man of his word and all that. If Wilson says he’s gonna do something, it’s half done already. He’s a freak about routines, too.”
“Really?”
Hines’ gaze flickered to the cooler next to Frank’s chair. “Hey, can I have one of them sandwiches? You don’t even have to make it for me, just … a piece of cheese or something? I’m starving.”
“As soon as we’re done. You said Wilson is a man of routine?”
Hines sighed. Looked away. “Yeah.” A ghost of a smile wrinkled the corners of his eyes before fading back into boredom. “He takes a shit the same time every day on his way to work. At the Home Depot in Enola. You could set your fucking watch by it. He must eat a lot of fiber.”
Frank made a note. Home Depot in Enola. “And if I wanted to set my watch by it?”
Hines looked up in confusion. “Huh?”
“What time does he do this every day?”
“Oh. Two o’clock. Just before his shift at two-thirty.”
Frank noted the new information. Closed the journal. “Thank you. Now we’re through.”
Hines’ eyes narrowed in suspicion at Frank as he stood. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Frank loaded the cooler back into the van. Bagged up the dirty clothes and trash. Bundled everything inside.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hines repeated with a shout.
Frank came back for his chair. “How did you pick her?”
“What? Who?”
“Jennifer.”
“The fuck is that?”
Frank stood with the folded chair held against his waist. “You don’t even know the name of the girl you were torturing?”
“That was her name? I never asked. Besides, she was Wilson’s. I bet he was pissed when he got that call.”
Frank clenched his teeth hard enough to shatter a molar.
He dropped the chair and Hines jumped in fear.
Frank walked over without a word. Hines flinched back again when Frank reached for him, but he only grabbed the bottle from Hines’ lap. Pulled it up, turned it over in his hand, then smashed the glass onto the Hines’ crown.
An empty THUNK followed by a squeal.
Again and again, until the bottle finally shattered.
Blood poured down in a crimson mask. Hines’ pleading whine made bubbles form as it spilled across his lips.
Frank looked down at the jagged remains in his hand. He thought of driving it into the predator’s neck, but he didn’t want the mess. Plenty of blood was already staining the concrete in a pool underneath all the glittering broken glass.
Frank put the remains into the trash bag in the back. Pulled the duct tape out of his backpack.
Hines was desperate, lifting his hands in an attempt to ward him off, but Frank slapped them away. Pulled a strip away from the roll. Smashed it over his mouth. Pulled and pressed more and more of the tape to cover his face. Around and around his head. Layers and layers as Hines batted at his hands.
Frank finally stood, and Hines dragged his bloated fingers across the wet edges of tape. He sucked small gusts of air through the gaps. His eyes rolled in panic as he struggled to breathe.
Frank grabbed the bit of pant leg sticking out past the zip-tie around his ankle. Dragged his struggling body out of the pump house. Past the van into the gravel. Watched Hines work at the tape without progress. Glanced behind him to see where he was going.
The sun was starting to rise, spreading a pink glow to burn behind the clouds. A sight that would have made him pause a long time ago. Back when he’d been a different man.
He dragged Hines to the edge of some thorny bushes where the ground grew soggy. The reeking of marsh was strong and biting.
Hines tried to wriggle away, but Frank moved to his side. Dropped into a squat. Put his hands on Hines’ hip and pushed his body like a rolled-up carpet.
There was a moment of resistance, then Hines made it over the rise of the mud and weeds to flop down the concealed bank of an inlet feeding the pump house. With his feet bound and seven feet of tape wrapped around his head, Hines would drown in a couple inches of water.
The splash sounded deeper than Frank had expected.
And soon, the sounds of his struggles ceased. Frank turned away as the sun came out from behind the clouds. Like the sky was smiling on what he had just done.
Then a fresh cloud darkened the sky, and he was left with only his own smile.
It stayed there all the way back to the pump house until Frank looked down and realized he’d have to take another shower.
Chapter Twenty
Except for the nightmares, his time on the beach did him good. The sweating regret he woke up with every night at odds with the light joy that had settled over his mind by day.
He couldn’t listen to music through his Bluetooth adapter since destroying his phone on the trip back, so he listened to regular FM. When a commercial came on for a local store’s big Halloween sale, he nearly swerved into oncoming traffic.
He had been so far out of reality, he didn’t even know what month it was. Shocked that it was almost the end of October.
Freya had gotten out of school in early June.
He had lived entire lives in less than six months.
He wanted to pull over and count the days. Open an old paper calendar and tick them off one by one. This is when my house burned down. This
is when my other house burned down.
Everything since Jenny had died — the collapse of his marriage, Sarah’s suicide, getting out from under Mallory Black’s vendetta, killing Patrick Dahl … all a blur.
It felt like twenty years ago since he had last seen his daughter’s face.
He couldn’t help smiling. A lightness was lifting him an inch from the seat.
The same satisfaction that had filled him when he killed before. Then the heat of guilt — not at the murders, but at feeling good about them.
And still he smiled.
He imagined Jennifer and Becka. In the arms of family. Or in the custody of a caring official organization. Then a cold shiver when his mind flashed on the memory of the ropes holding their hands behind their backs. The men and their cruelty. Another cop on the scene like them. Getting to the girls ahead of the paramedics.
The motion was suddenly nauseating.
His heart pounded. Pain lanced up under the left side of his jaw. His vision narrowed until all he could see was a bouncing dot of color in the center of his field of view.
A feeling of dread left a film of sweat across his forehead. With each exhalation, his voice was a keening fall.
He took his foot off the gas. Hit his flashers and drifted over to the side of the road.
A horn blasted as it passed. Then another as he drifted to a stop. Threw the shifter into park.
He was as bad as the men that had preyed on those girls. On any girls. What had he become?
He wasn’t an avenger. A protector. He was a cold-blooded murderer. A vigilante that had damned his soul nearly six months ago.
His anxiety faded in breathless relief. Like a coach doused with Gatorade on the sidelines.
Jennifer and Becka were not fine. He had saved them in the moment, but there were years of trauma ahead of them. But still, there was a chance, because of him. In this case, a chance was all he could ask for.
His daughter no longer had one, but there was a chance he could still find her killer. Exact his revenge on her behalf, whether she would want it or not.