by Nolon King
Frank nodded. “You should have put the tourniquet on Owens a little tighter.”
The guy laughed. “You’re not the only one that thinks so. Come on.”
Frank tried to pretend he was drunk, but there was little to his ruse. He was drunk. Stupid, selfish old man.
The other guy leaned over GG’s bed. “The fuck is wrong with this zombie head, anyway?”
GG’s hand shot up from his side. Clamped on the guy’s throat. The tendons stood out under his wrist.
Frank’s guy threw himself back with a shout while GG’s guy brought his gun down on the invalid’s forearm.
Frank remembered the shocking strength in those fingers. Knew the guy had no chance.
Frank’s guy brought his pistol around, and Frank jumped up from his chair with a cracking bellow. Hit the guy spread out to drive him back into the TV.
It tumbled back behind the dresser, and the sound of the plastic crashing to the floor was drowned out by the pistol firing into Frank’s hip.
Burning pain down his leg. Choking sounds behind him.
He had the guy’s wrist in both hands. Pushed the gun away from his body. A fist looped up into Frank’s face. Cracked off his scarred eyebrow. He felt it split open. Blood poured in to obscure his vision.
He kept his grip, but lifted his feet. Pulling on the guy’s arm with all his weight, then turning into the guy’s body to land on his elbow.
The bone snapped, and the guy’s arm folded under him as they landed.
The scream in Frank’s ear was a spike through his brain.
He let go of the guy’s useless wrist. Rolled up onto his head to drive both elbows down into his face. Until the blood flew up into the air, and the guy went limp.
Frank threw himself to the side, reaching for the guy’s gun.
Then he remembered the one at the small of his back. He reached behind him, but the room filled with another two cracks. The echoes were followed by a buzzing whine that drowned out every other noise.
Frank drew his gun and spun to face the bed.
The other guy was practically hanging from GG’s grip, his face bloated and red. Eyes bugging. Pistol dangling from his loose fingers.
Two ragged holes spread red across GG’s stomach. His teeth were bared. Good eye intent on his victim. With a scream of rage, he jerked his hand back, tearing the guy’s throat out to spatter his face with flesh and blood.
He sat back with a satisfied smile. Looked at Frank as his eyelids fluttered closed. “I don’t feel anything at all.”
Frank reeled back in horror. His sweet friend was dead, but he had no time to mourn. Footsteps pounding through the house. A loud question that sounded like it was shouted through a bale of wool. “You good, Holmes?”
Frank didn’t know which one was Holmes. The one drowning in his own blood, or the one waking up from a savage beating.
Didn’t matter. They were both about to be dead. Frank dropped down in front of the guy he wrestled.
“Talk to me, Holmes!” From somewhere … maybe near the living room?
Frank put his gun against the guy’s temple and pulled the trigger twice.
Pushed himself to his feet as the guy sagged to the floor. Limped to put himself behind the door. Watched through a crack between the hinges.
“Motherfucker!” A hissed whisper.
Blood dripped down Frank’s leg. Along the outside of his foot to soak his flip-flop.
The tip of a shotgun peeked through the doorway. A dark hand on the stock. A finger quivering on the trigger. The gunman’s panting breath coming in short gasps.
“What’s in there?” asked a voice from the kitchen.
The gunman only shook his head as he crept inside.
He disappeared from the crack, only to reappear on the other side of the door as he entered.
Frank threw himself against the door with a bellow of effort.
The gunman’s shotgun roared as the door made contact.
Frank drove it with his shoulder to shove his enemy into GG’s nightstand. Bending over to smash the lamp, moving his hand from the stock and planting it on GG’s bed to keep from sliding to the floor.
Frank slipped in his own blood and fell against the gunman’s side. Grabbed a handful of his jacket to stay on him and shoved the gun up under his chin.
Fired twice. Flinched away from the spray.
As Frank pulled the shotgun from his loosening fingers, the guy in the kitchen let loose.
He also liked shotguns.
The blast blew a half moon out of the door, and a burning chunk out of Frank’s shoulder. Sprayed him with wood shrapnel and steel shot.
The side of his face and neck burned as Frank landed hard on his back. Rolled half under the bed while racking another shell into the breach, only to be stopped when the gunman’s dead body flopped on top of him, pinning Frank to the metal rail and his shotgun to the floor.
The guy from the kitchen filled the doorway, shotgun sweeping back and forth in front of him. Frank could see him through a gap under the dead gunman’s still-dripping chin.
The new guy stepped in to put his foot right in front of Frank’s barrel.
He squeezed the trigger and his shot blew most of the guy’s ankle into burger.
The recoil tore the shotgun from Frank’s hand. The new guy’s leg folded, and he screamed, firing into the ceiling as he fell.
Frank struggled out from under the weight of the dead gunman. Sliding in his own blood. And someone else’s. Leaking brains.
The new gunman brought his shotgun around, his eyes widening in panic and agony. Frank didn’t bother knocking it aside. He hadn’t cocked a new shell in yet.
He got to his knees. Slid his shotgun out. Racked in a shell and put the barrel against the side of the guy’s neck.
He dropped his shotgun. Held both hands out to the side. His body shuddered with his sobs.
Frank spread the guy’s neck into a fan across the floor.
Then he used the shotgun as a cane to help him stand. Let it fall from his hands as he became steady. Frank’s pulse felt like somebody was punching him in the side of the neck. He couldn’t draw a deep enough breath. Had trouble feeling his fingers.
He leaned over the dead guy against the bed to reach out and touch GG’s face.
“I’ll remember you,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Frank walked through the house like he was already dead. His arms hanging at his side. Head swiveling back and forth, but not really seeing.
Nobody in any of the rooms. No voices. No nothing.
He made it all the way to the back bedroom. The master suite.
Looked out the back window to see light shining across the yard. The doors to the barn wide open. He had left them open, same as he usually did. But had he left the lights on?
Probably not. It was bright morning the last time he’d been there.
Maybe it was Owens out there.
He walked out of the bedroom to the side door. The RV would usually be parked right outside, but Mo and Gen were gone. He wondered where they were. They never said, and he didn’t want to know in case somebody asked. Waterboarding or torture or however people got people to talk.
He was still curious. Hoped they were near the water.
On the last step, his hip gave out, throwing him into the yard where he barely caught himself before smashing his face on the ground.
He wanted to lie there and catch his breath. Maybe just rest for a bit. His breath was loud in the grass. Probably scaring off the bugs.
He pushed himself up. Cocked his head to listen. It was quiet. Crickets in the distance, but not nearby. Spooked at his bumbling human noise.
No sirens either. Had nobody heard the gunfire? Had Owens called the response off?
Assuming Owens was even here.
Frank wanted to find out, so he got back to his feet. Staggered toward the barn.
He looked up at the light, but could only see the bright shape of the
open doorway. Blurry blobs of color inside. He squinted as he stepped through onto the concrete. Turned in a slow circle, but there was nobody there.
He looked down at his bloody footprints on the ground.
“We’re up here, Frank.”
He jerked his head toward the sound. Gasped at the pain shooting up his neck. Continued to look up until he saw Owens standing at the top of the stairs.
He seemed smaller. Not quite as broad. Arms slightly less thick. Getting stabbed in the neck probably wasn’t good for gains. Otherwise, the man was in much better shape than Frank.
Owens shook his head. “I am surprised as absolute shit up here, Frank. We had something very special planned for you, but it looks like things have changed.”
Frank swallowed. Nodded slowly. “Yeah. I killed them.”
“Fucking amazing. Still … come on up. We don’t have much time.”
Then he heard it. The distant wail of a siren. But who was responding? Somebody Owens controlled? One of Wilson’s men? Or somebody Frank could trust?
Frank waved him back. “Okay, I’m coming.”
He headed to the stairs, barely getting his feet to drag over the debris left by the broken railing. Passing the bench, Frank pulled his phone off the charger. Dropped it in his pocket so he could call 911 later. Stopped in confusion when he remembered the sirens.
He shrugged to himself as he reached the stairs. Gritted his teeth in pain with every step. Leaning against the wall along with his ascent.
At the top, Frank turned to find Owens sitting on the edge of his bed. His gasping breath turned into a grieving wail at the sight of Jennifer sitting beside him.
Frank fell to his knees, and Owens looked at him with a wide grin.
“This was what we had planned. We were going to rape this sweet … innocent little girl. Right in front of you. In your bed. They would have found you dead on top of her cooling body. Overdosed on heroin. Everybody would have been right about you.”
Jennifer looked at Frank with the wide staring eyes he remembered from the upper floor. No emotion except for a curious waiting. An empty expectation.
He could see the bruising creeping up past the collar of her shirt. Down her arms. The raised welts that had wept blood.
The burns around her wrists where she had been tied up.
“Where’s Becka?” Frank asked.
Owens grunted. “She’s gone. Dead like all the girls you didn’t save. But not before we had our fun.”
Frank remembered her on the table. How much more fun could they have had?
His mind recoiled at the question, and he curled forward, unable to keep straight under the weight of his guilt.
The sirens were much closer. What would they see when they got here?
Frank sat back on his heels, realizing exactly what was happening here. Owens would kill Jennifer, then Frank. With the support of the monsters that had been propping him up this whole time, Owens would be a hero. And Frank would finally be framed for the rape and murder of the only girl that really meant anything to Owens. The one he had raped and murdered. The one he had failed to pin on Frank. The one that had almost led to an entire sex trafficking ring being destroyed, bringing his network of contacts and enslavers along with it.
Jenny Grimm.
The other girls Owens could pin on Frank were a bonus.
Owens put his arm around Jennifer’s shoulders. Pulled her in toward him. When she resisted, he grabbed her throat and jerked her close, but his soft smile remained. “Too bad there’s no time to have a little fun, though. I would tear this little bitch in half. Like what I did to your daughter, Frank. I’m telling you, she was exquisite.”
Frank looked into her panicked eyes. Widening as she began to fight for air. A plea for help. A silent scream.
Frank heard his daughter’s voice. Crying. Begging. Pleading for help. Shouting it for anybody to hear, but nobody came. She died wondering why her daddy didn’t save her.
Frank drove his fists into his thighs. One dug in painfully. The other one was stopped by something in his pocket that tore into his knuckles. He pulled his hand away to see the blood streaming down his fingers. Looked up at Jennifer holding onto Owens’ powerful forearm.
Frank stood and pulled the butterfly from his pocket. Took a step toward Owens as he opened it. No flourish. No whipping the knife into an artistic blur like in a movie. He just let it fall open. Wrapped his fingers around it. And claimed another step.
Owens opened his hand. Jennifer fell back with a coughing sob. Put her hands to her throat and turned to cough violently into the comforter.
“Stay back!” Owens shouted.
Frank remembered the bleachers. Heard GG’s shout of encouragement. Rose up onto his toes and pushed into a sprint.
“Hey!” Owens shouted again, this time reaching into his jacket.
Frank held the knife in front of him. Opened his mouth in a scream.
Owens drew a revolver from his shoulder holster. Rose from the bed into a crouch. Aimed and fired, too late.
Heat blossomed across Frank’s chest as the knife entered Owens’ left eye. Searing pain that silenced his scream as another shot rang out.
The blade went through muscle and bone. Deep into the skull. Frank crashed into Owens’ outstretched hand. Carried through into his body, and they fell back onto the floor in a heap.
Was he hearing sirens or screams? It didn’t matter. Frank struggled up onto all fours so he could look down at Owens’ face. Slack with death. Half covered in blood.
His vision dimmed. He shook his head, and blood trickled from his mouth. It felt like he was trying to pull air through a stack of pillows.
He managed to stand, only to fall backward onto the bed, hands lifeless between his knees, and toes pointed in opposite directions.
The sirens were very loud now.
As the bed rocked under Jennifer’s weight, Frank smiled. He had reached down inside himself. Found something of worth. A virtue he had hidden even from himself … and Jenny was alive. He turned to look at her face. The sweet face he remembered.
Frank smiled, taking her into his arms. Soothed her by rubbing her back like he used to do. Cried as he took in a sip of air that smelled like her hair.
He needed to tell Stan about this moment. Shifted Jenny’s weight to his other thigh so he could get his phone out. Struggled to see as he typed in his message. The screen kept blurring.
Finally satisfied, Frank sent the message, then threw the phone out into the air where it fell out of sight and shattered on the concrete below.
He held Jenny against his chest. Realized he could no longer hear the sirens. Only his heartbeat, bursting with joy.
Then soon, that too faded.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Stan bent over his knee to inspect the scar over the stump halfway down his shin. Red and twisted, it was soft and pliable. Painless as he ran his fingers over it. Healing nicely.
Music from the kitchen made him smile. Earth, Wind & Fire. Very tasty. It was Ronnie’s favorite, and she would usually be dancing whenever it was on.
He leaned back so he could see through the doorway, and he wasn’t disappointed.
She wore an apron and nothing else, and his vantage point from the edge of the bed let him see everything that was shaking to the music. Dark brown skin glistening with sweat. Hair pulled back in a tight bun. She danced with abandon in front of the stove. A potholder in one hand. A wooden spoon in the other. The aroma was almost as enticing as the view.
She had made sure he stayed in bed. Active recovery she called it. And lots of nutrition. They had known each other for a long time, and she was familiar with his appetites. They’d had plenty of hard years together. Both of them needing the kind of help that the other wasn’t capable of providing.
Stan couldn’t forgive himself, and she couldn’t love herself.
For him, it was his failure in Afghanistan. For her, it was the mask of scar tissue that made her face look like a
streaked pumpkin.
She couldn’t believe that anybody could find her beautiful. But he could. Because she was.
Stan had to look away before her sensuous hips stirred something up. They’d been in bed for hours. Making sure he got his prescribed amount of exercise. Midnight had found them ready for a break, and Ronnie suggested pasta. She knew he loved the carbs. Eating it by the pot. And he had lost so much weight fighting the infection from the alligator’s bite. Dealing with the pain of the surgery. All the rehab.
Thank God for her. How lucky was he that she had taken him back so readily? That she herself had thought she was the lucky one?
He slipped the sock over his stump. Fitted the prosthetic leg over it. Pumped down until it seated. Leaned back to extend both legs. The weight was so even, Stan could barely tell them apart. If he focused, he could almost feel the missing toes wiggle.
The replacement foot was a mechanical lump of flexible plastic and aluminum. Lots of little screws and adjustments he could tweak — though most felt useless. Or like placebos. The crosswalk button that didn’t actually change the timing of the traffic lights.
Standing was much like it had been. A simple matter of where he put his weight. Anatomical leverage and a build-up of new muscles. Stan needed all the practice he could get. Frank had opened up a mess, and he was keen on opening it even wider.
Ronnie had agreed. While they were lying next to each other. As he was tracing tiny circles around her nipple, she had told him that he was going to do it, and that was that.
He would find evil men that were preying on women, and if he couldn’t bring them to justice, he would kill them. He had so much to pay for, and only his own life to give. Maybe he could augment that fee with the souls of others.
Sweeten the pot.
Stan got to his feet. Just a pinching pressure, but no pain. He was getting so close to full recovery. Better than ever.
He glanced into the kitchen. Almost got mesmerized by watching her hips again when he heard his phone vibrate from the corner table. He walked over to get it, wanting to ask her how long it was going to be. He wasn’t really hungry. He just needed to eat. That old compulsion to fill his belly.